TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "O" and "P")

photo by Alex Lear

-O-

 

 

         THE FORTS AND CASTLES OF GHANA.

 

            In the absence of any physical landmarks of this historical journey into chaos, other communities of African people may seek refuge in collective amnesia as a natural defence against the unbearable trauma of the savageries of the slave trade. But for the people of Ghana, there can be no escape from a historical reality as palpable as the slave castle. Ultimately, Ghana's Pan African consciousness reaches far into a fractured, deeply wounded collective unconscious that insists on being uncovered so that it may be healed back to wholeness. The slave forts and castles are the most immediate though confusing gateway into the collective unconscious. To contemplate and, above all, to penetrate the puzzling, even frightening mystery of these mouments of enslavement is to come to terms with our history of fragmentation, the basis of Pan African consciousness and struggle.            

 —Excerpt from Slave Castle, African Historical Mindscape & Literary Imagination by Kofi Anyidoho, University of Ghana.

 

***

 

            Elmina - 1482. Built by the Portuguese, is the first of the slave castles. I ask questions. The more I try to find out, the less I learn. There is broad confusion as to how many castles there are in Ghana. In West Africa.

             Castles. These military forts which served as administrative centers for colonial government and the administration of the gold and slave trade, including the temporary housing of items of trade: guns, beads, alcohol, cloth from Europe and, sine qua non, gold and human flesh from Africa's interior.

            In Elmina I find one small book, Forts and Castles of Ghana by Albert van Dantzig, and one small pamphlet, The Castles Of Elmina by Tony Hyland of the Department of Architecture, University of Science & Technology, Kumasi.

            In her prescient manner, Nia somehow strikes up a conversation with Albert van Dantzig who just happens to be passing through at that time. I am upstairs in the little gift shop, feeling prideful because I have purchased these two writings and a few other books about Ghana. When I descend the steps clutching my catch, Nia introduces me to Mr. Dantzig. He is seventy some years old, from Holland, now living in Ghana. We talk briefly. He autographs his book for us.

            Danzig's book focuses on a chronological summary of the construction and administration of the 50 forts and castles of Ghana. Danzig suggests "To our knowledge the following list of castles, forts and lodges -- from west to east -- could be regarded as complete." Complete? Can there ever be a complete history of the slave trade and all of the institutions it engendered? For me Dantzig's book is a beginning, a point of departure, an indication, a partial map, the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

            Tradeposts, fortified or not, have been built in various parts of the world, but nowhere in such great numbers along such a relatively short stretch of coast. At various places, such as Accra, Komenda and Sekondi, forts were actually built within gun-range of each other. Within three centuries more than sixty castles, forts and lodges were built along a stretch of coast less than 300 miles (500 km) long. Many of these buildings are still in existence at the present, and if some of them could be regarded as important individual monuments, the whole chain of buildings, whether intact, runined or merely known as sites, could be seen as a collective historical monument unique in the world: the ancient 'shopping street' of West Africa. The 'shops' varied greatly in size and importance. If some could be  compared with department stores, others were hardly more than village stores. (P. vii)

             ...

            The essential purpose of all these buildings was to serve as store-houses for goods brought from Europe and bought on the Coast, and as living quarters for a permanent commercial and military staff. If the earliest of these buildings were mainly fortified on the land-side against enemies expected from that side, soon the real danger appeared to come rather from the side of the sea, in the form of European competitors. During the sixteenth century a growing number of French and English ships came to trade in what was supposed to be a Portuguese monopoly area. An even more serious threat to Portuguese supremacy on the Coast came from the Dutch, who had arrived in large numbers on the coast by the end of that century...(P. xii)

            ...

            It should be pointed out that the Europeans did not have any territorial jurisdiction beyond the walls of their forts; the very land on which they were built was only rented. Each European nation tried to reserve exclusive trading rights for itself with the local rulers. It is therefore not surprising that political disintegration set in all along the coast, and consequently the tradeposts had to be armed not only to drive competitors away, but also to protect the traders inside the forts or the people on whose territory they were built against attacks by neighboring African states.

            It was also for geographical reasons that all this European commercial activity concentrated in this relatively small area: first of all there is the obvious fact that Ghana is the only area where there are substantial gold deposits comparatively near to the coast. But Ghana's coast is also suitable for building forts because it is rocky, thus providing building material and strong natural foundations, and access from the interior to the sea is not, as in neighboring areas, interrupted by lagoons and mangrove swamps... (P. xiii)           

             The 96 page book has only eight indexed references to slavery, and most of those are cursory.

 

***

 

            Since 1876, down through the current administration, Christiansborg Castle has served as the seat of government.

            Some castles are used as prisons.

            Others as administrative offices, post offices and the like.

            Others are museums and national monuments.

            Some are in total disrepair.

            Some are merely decaying archeological sites.

            Elmina has been recently painted and remodeled. Ironically painted bright white. Whitewashed. Inside there is a photo exhibit with a narrative. The exhibit was created by the French. Plaques have been placed. Some original plaques have been preserved. A few new ones have been added. There is a sign listing the admission prices.

            All kinds of subterranean rumblings bash the stones of Elmina. Something, I can never get the straight of the story to say exactly what the "thing" was, but something about slavery was put up and then taken down. Taken down allegedly because the Ghanaians didn't want to offend whites.

            Didn't want to offend. Whites.

            Diaspora Africans living in Ghana are rightfully incensed by the vacillations.

            Outside Elmina there is a beach party.

            Butts shaking on sacred ground.

            Dr. Robert Lee who went to Ghana during Nkrumah's days. Whose son and wife died in Ghana. Dr. Lee who has spent over thirty years of his life in Ghana. Who operated a clinic for the poor of Ghana. Dr. Lee's pocket was picked during the solemn commemorative program at the castle.

             A brass band played. People danced. The procession was not so solemn.

            There was no written program. There were no informative speeches. No story telling. No rituals of remembrance.

            Frankly, this whole recognition effort is just now seriously getting underway and Ghana is not quite sure how to do it.

            I am told: If anything substantial is to happen with respect to the castles you people will have to make it happen. It will not be given to you. You will have to take it.

            They took the old door down. They painted everything pretty and new.

            When will the truth be told?

 

***

 

            Within the stones of the castle our ancestral spirits are entombed. They silently await excavation. Await our detailed investigation.

            A sankofa seed is planted. I want to return to Ghana and do a collaborative work with a Ghana scholar. I want to focus on the impact of the slave trade on Africans, both continental and diaspora. Towards the end of our trip, as the idea becomes clearer, I approach Kwadwo Tgyemang. He eagerly accepts.

            It's on. There is no concise, point of origin history of the slave trade, not to mention no afrocentric assessment of the impact of slavery. Let's look at the real history, who played what role. Let's investigate and meditate, confront and come to grips with the positives and negatives of our history.

            As significant as the castles are and as many of them as there are in Ghana, there is a paucity of documentation. This lack is a clear manifestation of Ghana's historic amnesia. But also a clear manifestation of diasporan ignorance. Yet what goes around, comes around.

            We were cast out. We shall return. Like a stone flung at the sun. Like a boomerang. Like a child separated from its mother.

 

***

 

            The history of people is movement. I can sense in the diaspora a slow turning. A serious seeking for alternative. In conversations throughout our stay in Ghana invariably the thoughts we expressed amongst ourselves pivoted on the notion of moving. Africa, in general, and Ghana, in particular, is a magnet.

            No news here, but certainly relevance. The communal implosion and resultant disintegration of social life in the United States will invariably fling individuals away from that center toward the peripheries where other realities exist.

            For practical reasons: life and development. For historical reasons: birth and essence. For cultural reasons: temperament and lifestyle. For the love of self and Blackness -- Africa. Africa, in all its contradictions, in all its weaknesses, revulsions, convulsions, repulsions, internal chaos and material un(der)development. Africa, remains a pulsing heart attracting her blood, her brood, back to herself.

            Most of us will not voluntarily go -- but more of us will return than have ever thought about it since the fifties. A significant number, providing leadership by example, will begin the pilgrimage back into ourselves. Of that number, some will remain and others won't, but life will go on. America will continue downward and Africa will keep struggling upward. This is not theory but the inexorable march of the life force.

            After maturity there is decline and death. Before maturity there is the opportunity for growth and development. Who is in a period of "decline after maturity" and who is struggling to develop? The distinction is plain. Especially when we look at the African world collectively, who we are, where we are, and what we have to live for.

 

***

 

            The forts are brute manifestations of penetration. Male movement into fecund  earth. Testimony to the mauling of Africa by marauders and by co-conspiratorial African merchants and mercenaries.

            Facing a fort, I feel my foreigness, my estrangement from this birth earth, but also I feel my essence, my connections. Both rupture and reproachment, as well as reentry and embracement.

            As an individual, I was born in a nation of immigrants, movement is my history -- and yet everyday, folk in America give you 57 arguments, 997 facts as to why going back to Africa is unrealistic. Just five hundred years ago the American migration started in earnest and now these conquering nomads argue that migration is an exercise in futility. The majority of Whites are less than five generations on American soil. Most came not speaking English and with only as much possessions as they could carry. When nomads consul that it is foolish to migrate, who should listen?

            Why are these forts here if moving here is so undesirable?

            There is more than gold in them there hills of Ghana.

            The old itinerant preachers and blues bards used to forcefully sing: "You got to move / When God get ready / You got to move!"

            Could it be that those castles, the last we saw of Africa, those prisons where we were held, could it be, that those symbols of slavery will become beacons, lighthouses, guiding us back into ourselves?

            Moreover, we are each other's completion.

            Africa may need the diaspora more than the diaspora needs Africa because Africa can never be whole until the diaspora is embraced.

            On purely a material level, our skills and resources are needed. On a social level, because we are without specific ethnic interest, we may be the only Africans capable of helping Africa transcend the limitations of tribalism. On a psychological level, we may be the lever to force Africa to turn over the rocks of colonialism and examine what has been hidden beneath. We may be the epiphany that sparks the memory, that shatters the amnesia, that cleanses the wound of slavery, that immense maiming that arrested the continent and continues to unbraid every developmental effort that does not confront this awfulness.

            If and when the diaspora returns, the returning will force the host to deal with a historic reality which, for so long, too long, has been ignored. Perhaps it's a larger plan than individuals in the diaspora returning home "to drink water from an ancient well" in hopes of quenching a thirst for completion that no other liquid can satisfy. Suppose that's only the romance.

            Suppose the real deal is that Africa can not rise without us. Suppose Africa needs us far more than any of us have yet admitted. Far more than any of us have ever imagined or thought about.

            Suppose we are the seed that must be planted in fertile soil, the only stone upon which the future can be built. I do not mean this as self flattery but rather as a reflecting on a most terrible reality: what continent can stand the removal of millions and millions and millions of its strongest and still develop?

            In some ironic manner befitting the convolutions of what it means to be African, the diaspora is the Africa that the continent is struggling to become. The Africa concerned with the whole of itself rather than self-defeatingly focused on specific and antagonist ethnicities and nationalities.

            I don't know. Fathomming this is more than my brain can contain. All I know is that I want to know more. I want to return and learn what I left, I want to return and understand the origin of what I brought over with me. I want to return. I am seeking myself.

            Rummaging through the history of a fort. Sitting next to a centuries old cannon. Standing in an empty storeroom, perhaps in the very spot a not too distance ancestor stood.

Everything I know is nothing compared to the immensity of what this fort teaches me I do not know. And the fort also teaches me an even more brutal reckoning: as ignorant as I am, I still know more about what happened then do the majority of Africans on the continent. As ignorant as I am, I am more aware of my Africaness precisely because I have no African nationality, no African ethnicity. I have no one tribe or nation. I have all of them, and in having all I transcend each one.

Both my consciousness and my ignorance are deep. Deep knowing. Deep ignorance. But that's no news; I'm African.


-P-

 

 

         STONE SONGS.

 

            #1

            the silent stone so

            full of voices, the spirit

            sound your insides feel

 

 

            #2

            i am tempted to

            go to the wall and tongue lick

            stone in search of words

 

 

            #3

            i want to piss on

            dungeon floor, spit on dungeon

            door, eye break stone down

 

 

            #4

            stone stand, stand stone, stone

            cold dead  at the auction stand

            stand  stone cold dead  still

 

 —kalamu ya salaam

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "M" and "N")

photo by Alex Lear

-M-

 

 

         ALWAYS DON'T LAST.

 

            At the colloquium on the first day I heard a paper by Kwadwo Opoku Agyemang from the University of Cape Coast. "Culture Under Siege: The Making Of Africa's Heart Of Darkness" addressed the issue of how the slave trade affected those who were left behind. 

            A society that lives under a real and constant threat of enslavement consists of potential slaves; and a society of potential slaves will experience a psychological development peculiar to the environment. The culture of the besieged society will acquire certain characteristics and tendencies in order to fight, adapt to or in some way survive the catastrophe. When a society is so placed and must bend all its strengths to preserve its collective life and cannot grow beyond shrill survival, then its culture will fold into itself; it becomes a grim and conservative society, its people huddle together, furtive and afraid, in a state of shock and suffering traumata, a wounding. 

            He spoke about the phobias resulting from this trauma. He talked about moral breakdown. Moral stories that were told to children. In these stories the thief doesn't get caught nor punished.

            Kwadwo suggests that the point of the story was to teach children not to trust people. Why? Because, during the period of the slave trade, the people you trust just might be the ones to sell you into slavery.

            Some of the responses took exception. They offered no disproving evidence. They didn't even offer alternate theories. They just didn't want to accept that slavery had affected those left behind to that extent.

            Many Ghanaians are very, very proud of their traditions. But suppose a lot of what was created, was created in reaction and relation to the slave trade? Suppose significant aspects of one's proud culture wasn't really self-determined traditions but rather reactions to the slave trade? Suppose negatively reacting to the slave trade was a major part of one's cultural tradition?.

            Kwadwo talked about scarification. A concept almost indelibly identified with traditional Africa. Kwadwo searched for the beginning of scarification. He found periods where there was no sacrification. He found slave documents suggesting that slave traders avoided slaves with unsightly scars. He talked about "a little gem of a short story by the Senegalese writer and filmmaker, Sembene Ousmane," called "Tribal Scars or the Voltaique" in which a father brutally scars his little girl's face and body to protect her from slavery. He talks about the absence of scarification in the New World. He talked about how scarification was a survival tactic.

            During the question and answer period, I shared information I had read in The Bush Rebels, A Personal Account Of Black Revolt In Africa by Barbara Cornwall, a freelance, American journalist who walked through the bush with Frelimo in Mozambique and PAIGC in Portuguese Guinea. 

            Fortunately we were met by a Land Rover along the route and were soon rolling to a halt at the edge of a clearing where long columns of barefooted Mozambican civilians had set down their loads for barter. They were Makondes from a tribe in Cabo Delgado, a purportedly fierce people who at puberty carve geometrical designs across their faces and then rub charcoal into the fresh wounds. The scarring is done during a ceremony for both boys and girls and the final result on their dark skins is quite impressive. More startling at first encounter are two additional operations, both optional, during which a metal peg is driven into the initiate's upper lip and secured on each side by an iron disc, then the teeth are filed to points. The entire practice of maiming is a custom dating from the slave trade era when the Makondes hoped, often justifiably, that slavers would pass them over because of their grisly appearance. Their market price would not have covered the cost of their transport because few buyers would bid on a fanged slave when more presentable ones were available. (P. 20) 

            Kwadwo Opoku Tgyemany stated that when it came to analyzing the beginnings  and origins of some social practices, many, many Africans have an amnesia surrounding the slave trade. They simply say "that's the way things were always done."

            Kwadwo Opoku Tgyemany made me understand that "always" is only five hundred years long. Always is really not that long.

            Besides always is a Eurocentric concept used to justify their dominance. Nothing that is material or social is eternal. Everything must change. That law of life is our greatest hope. Always don't last forever.

 

 


-N-

 

 

         UNDER SIEGE TOO

 

            On 6 December 1994, the day Nia and I left for Ghana, New Orleans, the murder capital of the United States had reached 393 murders for the year. By the time we get back on 20 December 1994, the murder rate will surely be over 400. The overwhelming majority of these murders are "Black on Black."

 

***

 

            At first the major barter item was the gun. Guns came to Africa from Europe. Once in the hands of African mercenaries, then the slave trade began in earnest. Those who were without guns were preyed upon by those who had them.

            Soon guns were everywhere, even though everyone did not have a gun, and there was a complete breakdown of social order in the face of constant marauding, constant murdering and constant enslaving. The proliferation of guns historically has resulted in social chaos.

 

***

 

            The gun make you feel funny, feel like you different, almost invincible. Don't have to take nothing off nobody. Can do whatever you want.

            Gun culture is aggression and instantaneous obliteration of whomever troubles you.

            In a moment of anger, if you got a gun, you pull the trigger. Had it been a fist fight it would have been different. You may even have knocked the man down, kicked him once or twice, but rarely actually beat him to death with your hands. But with a gun, umh. Let that fellow look at you wrong, and, boy, he dead for sure. You fire him up.

            And the stuff happens so fast, so fast.

            Gun culture is swift death even before you have time to think about what you are doing. Put a gun in the hands of a man who feels less of a man than "the man" and the armed creature stiffens like an aroused prick.

            I watch the soldiers with guns in Ghana. You don't see them often. Around the President, at some official function when there are big people to protect. But wherever you see them, the hard stance is the same. Gun eyes look at you. Daring you to do something untoward, not to mention flat out wrong.

            Man with gun always speaks in bullets.

            Gun culture. The gun. You walk around with a perpetual hard-on, always ready to fuck someone.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "K" and "L")

photo by Alex Lear

 

-K-

 

 

         PICK YOUR FAVORITE.

 

            Since 1918 there have been fortyeight Tarzan movies. Fortyeight. 40 + 8.

 

            1918   Tarzan of the Apes      

                        Elmo Lincoln

 

            1918   Romance of Tarzan

                        Elmo Lincoln

 

            1920   The Revenge of Tarzan

                        (unk.)

 

            1920   The Return of Tarzan

                        Gene Pollar

 

            1921   The Son of Tarzan

                        P. Dempsey Tabler

 

            1921   The Adventures of Tarzan

                        Elmo Lincoln

 

            1927   Tarzan and the Golden Lion

                        James Pierce or Frederick Peters

 

            1928   The Mighty Tarzan

                        Frank Merrill

 

            1929   The Tiger Tarzan

                        Frank Merrill

 

            1932   Tarzan, The Ape Man

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1933   Tarzan The Fearless

                        Buster Crabbe

 

            1934   Tarzan and His Mater

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1935   The New Adventures of Tarzan

                        Bruce Bennett

 

            1936   Tarzan Escapes

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1938   Tarzan and the Green Goddess

            `           Bruce Bennett

 

            1938   Tarzan's Revenge

                        Glenn Morris

 

            1939   Tarzan Finds a Son

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1941   Tarzan's Secret Treasure

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1942   Tarzan's New York Adventure

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1943   Tarzan's Desert Mystery

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1943   Tarzan Triumphs

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1945   Tarzan and the Amazons

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1946   Tarzan and the Leopard Woman

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1947   Tarzan and the Huntress

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1948   Tarzan and the Mermaids

                        Johnny Weissmuller

 

            1949   Tarzan's Magic Fountain

                        Lex Barker

 

            1950   Tarzan and the Slave Girl

                        aka Tarzan and the Jungle Queen

                        Lex Barker

 

            1951   Tarzan's Peril

                        aka Tarzan and the Jungle Queen

                        Lex Barker

 

            1952   Tarzan's Savage Fury

                        Lex Barker

 

            1953   Tarzan and the She-Devil

                        Lex Barker

 

            1954   Tarzan's Hidden Jungle

                        Gordon Scott

 

            1957   Tarzan and the Lost Safari

                        Gordon Scott

 

            1958   Tarzan and the Trappers

                        Gordon Scott

 

            1958   Tarzan's Fight For Life

                        Gordon Scott

 

            1959   Tarzan the Ape Man

                        Denny Miller

 

            1959   Tarzan's Greatest Adventure

                        Gordon Scott

 

            1960   Tarzan the Magnificent

                        Gordon Scott

 

            1962   Tarzan Goes to India

                        Jock Mahoney

 

            1963   Tarzan's Three Challenges

                        Jock Mahoney

 

            1964   Tarzan and Jane Regained... Sor of

                        Taylor Mead

 

            1966   Tarzan and the Valley of Gold

                        Mike Henry

 

            1967   Tarzan and the Great River

                        Mike Henry

 

            1968   Tarzan and the Jungle Boy

                        Mike Henry

 

            1970   Tarzan's Deadly Silence

                        Ron Ely

           

            1970   Tarzan's Jungle Rebellion

                        Ron Ely

 

            1981   Gummi Tarzan

                        aka Rubber Tarzan

                        Soren Sjogreen

 

            1981   Tarzan, The Ape Man

                        Miles O'Keeffe

 

            1984   Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes

                        Christopher Lambert

 

 

            Fortyeight!

 

            Isn't the reoccurence a bit redundant?

 

            No. Not really. Not unless you think colonialism is redundant.

 

***

            I wish I heard more drums in the night. In Africa. Meaning the natives are restless. I would feel better if we were restless. Much more restless.

            The real Africa is life without western morality clouding the issues. Without the eternal heaven hanging over our heads. Without the eternal hell burning our feet. How is it we are always -- in all and every way: physically, mentally, spiritually, realistically, and, above all, imaginatively -- we are always closer to hell than to heaven?

            Does god want us in heaven? Why make heaven so hard to enter and so far away from our reality if god really wants us there?

            I can not imagine heaven.

            I can not imagine anything eternal.

            To be is to change. That which is unchanging does not exist. The very definition of what something is is what something isn't. In that sense in order for Christians to believe in heaven, they must believe in hell. Now, did god create heaven and hell or did man?

            Africa is hallcinatory.

            "You can say that again, old chap."

            You again.

            "Shall we finish our fifty questions?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer. "What is an African?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer. "That's a man who has gone through hell and believes in dying to get to heaven. Isn't that something?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer. "What is a heathen?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer. "That's a bloke who refuses to go through hell, would even commit suicide rather than submit, but at the same time he's not dying to get to heaven. Isn't that something?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer. "What's a bloody revolutionary?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer. "That's a guy who's living in hell, is willing to kill you to get out, and doesn't believe in heaven? Which one are you?" Tarzan does not wait for me to answer.

            Back in the States it's hard not to believe in White people. They're everywhere. They do everything. They have great luck. Like -- this is the absolute last part of the book to be written; everything else is complete except this little section, and yesterday this airforce pilot who was shot down in Bosnia walks out the forest essentially unharmed. This is the kind of shit that makes you think White people are invincible. They trumpet it in all the media. Thanks to CNN we have instant pictures. They start talking about survival training. His radio. His rations. His gun. And above all his belief in God and country. How he never gave up on western civilization. Wow. I wonder if this guy could have survived slavery. Wow. That's a "wow". Surviving slavery. But nine generations later, we are not feted, we are laughed at. And we are also confused. Too confused to answer fifty questions from Tarzan.

            And it's hard to believe in Black people.

            "I believe in Blacks. That's why I made so many movies. I know your potential better than you do."

            "You know us better than we know ourselves?"

            "As long as we're talking about the you that I created, of course, I do. But the rub, old chap, is that it's not about you. Tarzan is not about you, even though you may believe in Tarzan. Tarzan is about me."

            He sees I don't believe him, no, that I don't understand him. I believe him. If I didn't believe him, he couldn't appear as Tarzan. His naked truths wouldn't be clothed in myths.

            "Do you realize that most Tarzan movies are American creations. Yet, you blokes didn't have any African colonies even though you had one of the largest and most influential populations of Africans on the face of the earth. Besides my movies are philosophical. They're about desire and fantasy, and framing reality to conform to said drives. Whites were my audience more than you guys. You guys were... oh what's that term you use in Louisiana for something extra, lagging, napping, oh it's one of those French words?"

            "Langniappe."

            "Yes, that's it. Langniappe! That you guys believed in me was langniappe. Each of my movies was really designed to justify my need to bugger you. My need not just to conqueror you but to desire you. Me, Tarzan. My movies are the only place where it is respectible to 'go native'. Sure, I'm the king of the jungle, but the point is not only do I own the jungle, I also desire the jungle. The jungle is not my home but I desire the jungle." Tarzan falls suddenly silent. His face clouds.

            "Is that why there have been more Tarzan movies than any other single character? I don't think Jesus has had as many features."

            "Jesus would never have made it without me."

            "What do you mean?"

            "It's rather elementary, old chap. You wouldn't, indeed you couldn't believe in Jesus except that I conquerored you. My gun. My bible. My language. My morality. Those are the real drugs." Tarzan holds up the brandy sniffer. Quickly throws back the entire contents. "Besides, don't you understand that Tarzan means one thing to you and another thing to me." Pause. Tarzan looks at the brandy bottle. Pauses. His face brightens. "Enough. It's not good to get drunk in the presence of one's lessers."

            Tarzan walks off into the night. He has left a sign on his chair: "The Never Ending Saga -- Coming Soon To Theaters Everywhere. EVERYWHERE!"

           

 


-L-

 

 

         WHAT TIME IS IT?

 

            On our third day in Ghana we traveled to Cape Coast for a week long colloquium which opened with a special candlelight procession to the castle. Because we were so late, after checking into the guest house, we drove straight to the castle and arrived before the program began.

            Time is just another means of oppression. Tarzan introduces the concept of schedules, a clock that must constantly be adjusted to the sun, and a calendar that is always falling behind. Every four years they add a day trying to catch up. If we counted like that in traditional society, they would call us stupid. Since they are not stupid, they just say "leap year."

            Calendars and clocks are conveniences of government, necessitated by the need to time the arrival of troops, of ships, of supplies.

            "Tributes must be paid on..."

            "Taxes are due on..." 

            "You may apply for your license to sell the things you have made between..."

            "The plane arrives at..."

            "The ship leaves on..."

            Show me a government with an army and I guarantee they will have a calendar and clocks.

            Calendars and clocks are a hold over from creating a culture in a climate that would kill you if you did not plant at a certain time of the year.

            Calendars and clocks are not needed near the equator where the weather is roughly the same year round. You can plant yesterday, today and tomorrow. So, here we are imitating Tarzan with our pieces of paper. Putting numbers next to everything we want to do. A time for this. A date for that. And when we fail to be on time we blame ourselves. But we set ourselves up for our own fall.

            Because Tarzan is everywhere, calendars and clocks are everywhere. And everywhere we use Tarzan's calendar and Tarzan's clock, even if we already had one of our own. Even if people keep going the way they did for centuries, rising with the sun  and resting with the moon. We can not escape the tick tick tick of Tarzan's time whip. As long as we have to conform to Tarzan's time, we are not free.

 

***

 

            Ghana teaches you the wisdom of patience, of moving on a human scale, of taking conditions into consideration, of being inclusive. That's what the elastic time concept is about: embracing.

            Embracing everyone. Africans know time should be made to fit people rather than people forced to fit time.

            When we get to the airport to leave Ghana, we are informed that the outbound flight is delayed four hours. Instead of round midnight, estimated time of departure is now 4:00 a.m. in the morning -- emphasis on "estimated." It seems the plane had to go to London and was delayed in London which meant that it will get to Ghana late, which means that it will leave Ghana late.

            And what is wrong with that? What is wrong with dealing with changing conditions. Industrialism was the rule of the assembly line, the time clock, the schedule, and there was nothing human about it. We bent to it, conformed, fought, resisted, submitted, tied our stomachs in knots, made Excedrin rich. Headaches became the order of the day, and we keel over at forty-five, victims of Type A heart attacks and strokes.

            At the end of your life, a clock will not be the measurement of your contribution so why let a mechanical object determine how you move about and interrelate with others?

            I have never forgotten Malcolm X's admonition to organizers to respect people's time and to try always to be on time in keeping one's word. But I doubt Malcolm would mechanically apply that dictum, especially to the point of being impatient when people exhibit a non-Western sensibility.  

            Working in cultural production in the Caribbean throughout the '80s taught me to appreciate that the hustle and bustle characteristic of the business world in the USA just doesn't cut it in many places outside of the tyranny of computerized time keeping. My rule of thumb for doing business in the developing world is to plan no more than two appointments a day -- one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and to count myself lucky if I accomplish both.

            I know there are those who think I'm simply making excuses for people who would be better off joining the industrial world and learning to be punctual. I know there are those for whom the maxim "time is money" is gospel. But what is time to poor people, people who don't have a chance in the world of making a million dollars in their lifetime? Regardless of what being in the West might teach us, time is not money. Time is simply a measurement of change. Where change is slow moving. Where change is routine, grinding relentlessly the same, day after day after day. Where indigenously determined order is constantly subverted by external authority. In those places, time is, relatively speaking, expendable.

            Once immersed into the Third World, time, as both a thing and a concept, becomes subordinate to people. Life ceases to be measured by the ticking of a clock or the speed by which things are made.

            Making widgets on time is not living. Relating to others is living.

            Loving one's neighbor -- do we even know who our neighbors are? Rearing children. Dancing with friends. Sharing conversation and music. Traveling with a soul mate. Eating fresh food. Learning what one doesn't know. That's living.

            In Cape Coast at night we would sit out under the tree and talk. The art of conversation as the main source of adult "entertainment" is passÇ in the contemporary West, and I realized just how unfortunate that was as we sat exchanging ideas, drinking tea, water, juice, and getting to know one another in ways that don't happen at meetings and conferences, or at panel sessions and at formal banquets.

            Making quiet love in the morning, aroused by the continuance of a conversation that started yesterday is living. Being artificially aroused to sexual activity by subliminal advertising, or by explicit equations of random copulating with happiness and satisfaction is not living. That's being sexually manipulated.

            Once away from the constant stimulus of violence and sex which is the social ambiance of America, after awhile the body adjusts. I could actually hold a conversation with a woman without wondering how it would be to be in bed with her.

            We are under an unrelenting mindfuck in the USA, behavior modification so severe that it twists our every perception of what the nature of social relationships ought to be.  Because we go through life looking only for what we have been told to look for -- at 9:00 a.m. a meeting with..., at 7:30 p.m. we'll meet for dinner at..., at whatever "tick-tick-tick" time we will whatever... -- we are lost. We find ourselves unable to reach out, unable to communicate with others.

            Our ability to see what is in front of us becomes very, very myopic because we spend most of our time looking for the scheduled that is not there rather than appreciating the unscheduled that is always there.

            We had gone for a performance at the National Theatre in Accra. When we got there we found that it was really an upscale, Eurocentric oriented, US$50 per person fashion show with music performances interspersed. Rather than waste money, we decided to get something to eat in the adjoining cafe. After eating, Nia and I were sitting and talking. A fellow passed. I said he looked like he was from Trinidad. Something told me to speak to him. I spoke up, but he was already well pass me. He didn't hear me. I hadn't spoken very loudly. Then he came back and sat at the next table from us, talking with some people he obviously knew.

            I looked at Nia. I decided to try again. I reached over, "Excuse me. Are you from Trinidad." He was. "How did you know?" One thing led to another. We introduce ourselves and Bob Ramdhanie, Administrative Director of Black Voices, an acapella, female singing group from England, joins our table. We talk. Delightful coincidences abound. I have played selections by Black Voices on my radio program in New Orleans. Bob also knows Marta Vega of the Caribbean Cultural Center. Plus, he was a participant in one of the England based regional meetings of the Global Network for Cultural Equity. I am representing the Global Network at PANAFEST. We begin talking about people we both know in England. Before the night is over, Bob introduces us to F. Nii-Yartey, the Artistic Director of the National Dance Company of Ghana, who in turn invites us to see a children's dance program which we otherwise would not have checked out.

            The next evening, Nia and I attend Nii's program which focuses on the world of the children who basically live on the streets of Africa.

            The dancing was exuberant, some of it on a par level with any of the professional  companies we have seen at PANAFEST. There was a strong element of Western pop dance incorporated into many of the moves. I could not help but smile because what is generally identified as Western or American pop, is actually African American.

            Even though much of our culture is presented under the general rubric of "Western" and even though the "star" performers are often Whites, the fact is, at its core, Western musical culture is African.

            Part of Nii's praxis of choreography was the stylization of everyday movements. Children as young as five and six years old were performing as though they were professionals. At some point the dance floor was filled with at least forty children creating scenes of chaos, brutality, caring, anger, love. All with a minimum of dialogue. It was smoking.

            Suppose I hadn't reached out to Trinidad? My tendency is to remain aloof, but everywhere we went in Africa, people were there, people who, to an extraordinarily large degree, shared our interest in Africa and development. In the West we ride through our lives encased in shells and don't routinely reach out to others.

            In the West we are living under threat of a slave culture, a culture which enslaves and arrests the human spirit. We don't trust each other. The person we talk to might turn around and rob us. Kill us. Steal our dreams.

            It's not about rejecting Euro-centric concepts of time in an abstract sense but rather about making the embracing of other humans the primary consideration of our living. Choosing to elevate the creation of community rather than the manufacture of things. The patient embracing of each other, in all our contradictory and sometimes inspiring, sometimes disappointing humanity, rather than the artificial adherence to a schedule which forces us to flagellate ourselves with the Western whip of time until our social backs are bloody.

            How can we be free if we have neither the time nor the temperament to love and relate to each other?

—kalamu ya salaam

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "I" and "J")

photo by Alex Lear

 

-I-

 

 

CAPE COAST CASTLE.

 

            We were early. Or, I should say we arrived before the procession got to the castle. We had paid attention to the schedule rather than to the reality of the people marching through the streets, walking to the castle with candles. So we arrived when the paper with the numbers on it said that things should start. Of course, none of our trio was surprised when nothing had started "on time." We took the opportunity to explore.

            At the back edge of the castle, we stood in the semi darkness at the precipice facing the sea. Stood beside the cannon.

            Where I stood, centuries before a European soldier stood, a slave trader stood, a ship's captain stood. And perhaps they and I wondered the same thing. How will this venture turn out for me? What, if anything, will Africa mean to me?

            Isn't it pathetic that it is easier to identify with the mind set of the colonialists then to imagine all the misery and anguish of our raped innocence? What did our ancestors think? Under the conditions they faced, what was it possible to think? But of course none of our ancestors were allowed to stand here on the wall and look out across the water, listen to the waves and leisurely dream of lands far away.

            I am stymied. I hear the sea. I feel the fort's immensity. I am covered in the dust of African travel. And I can not even imagine what to think. This is the trauma of birth. I am leaving the certainty of a Black womb and cast into something so shattering I can not even think. No wonder they characterized us as dumb and stupid. We were probably catatonic, unable to do little more than move.

            The dungeons have stone floors. We were chained there. Pissed there. Shat there. Some of us probably were even born there. Lay there. Spit and cried. And bled. The whole life cycle of Africa seeped into and absorbed by those stones.

            Peering into the unlit magazine (the small room where they kept the munitions), I try imaging that dark as it appeared centuries ago. Imagine being wrapped in that dark. You go down into the dark and everything is damp with body fluids, and the doors are closed and you are left alone, chained in your misery. Your sense of sight is useless. You can't see anything. You wish you couldn't smell anything. Every odor is pungent. And it seems that everything you touch moves, or slips, or slides, or is slimy, or something. Everything is moving except the dead body next to you, but everything else moves when you touch it. And of course, in the dark, you hear everything. Everything. And what you don't hear, you imagine you hear. You hear memories. You hear that seabird you heard cawing days ago when they first pushed you down the stairs into this sinking hole. You hear your heartbeat. You sharply hear a multitude of sounds. Noises. You can not imagine what causes all the sounds you hear. It is sensory overload.

            What must it have been like to breath there. Every time you breath in you suck up the tears and terror of someone next to you. They characterized us as scared of our own shadows, as believing in ghosts.

            Suppose you woke up naked, enchained, on a cold stone floor wet with your own piss that you tried to hold but couldn't, and your arms are wrapped around your brother who is dead. Over in another room, your sister is having the same experience but you do not know what she is experiencing.

            Suppose you woke up after a night of shifting shades of darkness. Of different languages shouted, languages you've never heard before. Some praying, some cursing the name of a god you did not even know was a god.

            Suppose you woke up and found yourself still alive but hugging a corpse for warmth. It had been cold in that hole, and you clung to each other for sanity. Clung desperately to this body which had been breathing when you fell asleep a few minutes ago, a few hours ago.

            Suppose the live one was you, could you still be sane? 

            You have to go to Ghana to understand. You have to wade through the vibrancy of the people and confront the mute witness of white rock castle. You have to stand facing the sea. Walk the yard. Look into the darkness you are afraid to confront even with a  torch or flashlight.

            At the bottom of one stairwell where there was nothing except solid wall surrounding a small floor, even when we shone the light the roaches did not scurry away.

            Imagine being there in the dark and insects are crawling all over you. Across your lips pressed tightly close you feel little legs running toward your nose and because you are chained one to another, you can not always get your hand up fast enough, so you exhale hard trying to blow the roach off your face or at least keep the thing out of your nose. This is when you learn to press close to the person beside you, press your face into the back of their hair and smell the sweat of their fear all night and wake up to discover that you have embraced a dead person. Could you handle it?

            No matter what you know intellectually, you have to go to Ghana to even begin to grasp the magnitude of this deflowering of our innocence. I always thought the middle passage was where we suffered, but climbing back up the steps out of the dungeon, I now know. I know. Men separated from women. Each of us going through hell and having no words to tell each other about it. Only the look. Only the haunted look of surviving the castle experience.

            You are a human being when you are marched into the fort, and if you survive howsoever long you are held captive there, if you survive you face the middle passage. And if you survive that, you face chattel slavery in the new world.

            How can any human remain human after centuries of that? Look at how fanatical the Jews are after less than two decades of Hitler (1933 - 1945).

            Tarzan has been among us for generations.

            Our psychosis as a people started in the castles. At the top of the steps, pausing as I cross the doorway into the yard, I wonder what cure can there be for the illness that the castle wrought?

            This is too much to think about. There are no words for this story. There is no language to talk about this. Tarzan's yells? The chants of traditional Africa? Standard American English? No, none of that is enough to communicate the transformation that the castle wrought.

            I have never known this before. I may have thought about it a little, but never  really imagined it. When I left New Orleans, flying north to New York and then southeast across the Atlantic into Africa, I had no way of knowing that everything I thought I knew about how we became Africans and what being an African (in the generic sense) meant had to be revised significantly in the face of the reality of the castle.

            I had been to East Africa. I stood in the sand and touched the chains. I understood slavery. I had seen ancient auction block in Africa. In the Caribbean, even in the USA. I had read books and talked with wise women and men, but I never understood before now the profound reach of history.

            If you want to know why we hate ourselves and each other. Why African dictators can be so brutal sometimes. Why we have these blood feuds which divide us even more than fighting Europe unifies us. Why we never ever seem to be able to get it all together. If you want to understand anything, everything. You must visit the castles of Ghana and realize that this experience was the birth of both the African and unavoidably also the nigger.

            Both the African and the nigger were conceived in the mind of a White man, and born in the womb of the slave castle because only the African and the nigger survived that. When you left the castle either you were dead or you were irreversibly changed forever. Some of us became more of one than the other, but all became at least a little of each. We became really Black (and blue) there in the stone wombs of those castles.

            We became something new. We became an African: an all encompassing identity that overrode whatever social identity we had, and, at the same time, we became that traumatized individual who can never fully trust his brother, never fully love his sister, never again fully be a member of the group, the tribe, the village, the land because most of us were captured by Black hands and sold into slavery.

            I understand the mitigating circumstances.

            I understand that the chiefs were often overwhelmed and forced to either capture others and sell them into slavery or watch their own people be marched off to never-never land.

            I understand that more than a few fought, and that our weapons of warfare were far inferior.

            I understand that many of the chiefs had no idea of what slavery meant in the new world and how it was so unlike being a slave in Africa.

            I understand all of that now, but a few centuries back, enchained in that roach laden, dark, filthy, lightless hole, I am not sure what I understood, or even if there was anything I could have understood.

            How does an adult understand that everything they have been they no longer are, and, while reflecting on that awesome thought, simultaneously understand that an identity they could never have conceived on their own, they are now in the process of becoming?

            As is the case with all humans, while most of us are not stupid, the majority of us are not geniuses -- it would have taken an African genius to figure out slavery at that moment. What slavery meant, how it happened, and how not just to survive, but to overcome. Based simply on the weight of numbers, the luck of the draw, there were probably more than a few geniuses among the millions who passed through those holes.

            I learned I wasn't one of those geniuses when my little white candle faded momentarily. Nia had handed the candle to me as I was the first to charge into the magazine. Earlier in the evening I had already gone part of the way in and had looked down through a portal at the processioners exploring the dungeon below where I stood. I had not felt any fear or any spirits for that matter, so I did not hesitate to take the candle and go further into the magazine.

            Moving resolutely into the unknown, I probably appeared to fearlessly trod down the steps. There was nothing there, just a dead-end cavity. After we saw nothing but a wall and a low ceiling, some bats and insects, everyone turned to go exploring other parts of the castle. Because I had descended the steps first and held the candle, I felt like I was the only one who walked around on the floor.

            Nia had been at the bottom too. This place does strange things to your sense of perception. Even though we were a group crowded into such a small space, I felt utterly alone. Utterly.

            As I started back up, my candle faltered while I was still on the bottom step. I looked up and could hear voices above me and see pinpoints of light bouncing off the curved wall, but around me and behind me was darkness and all I could think about eleven o'clock that Friday night on the 9th of December, 1994 was getting out of there.

            The candle flared back up quickly -- it was less than a second. But in that second, all I could think about was getting out. Getting out.

            The castle changes you forever.


-J-

 

 

         ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE.

 

            You know that the world is never the same after "the man" shafts whatever he encounters.

            In the process of being shaped into Africa, Africa was also raped and robbed. Africa suffers from the trauma of that rape and robbery. The lost of millions and millions of her strongest people. The lost of self esteem as her elders were rendered impotent, her traditions shattered, her culture trampled by the unmerciful wheels of commerce. The pain, the disease, the shame, the slavery. Centuries after centuries.

            Under European chattel slavery, a century is three generations, at best. Imagine over nine generations of us ground to human meal betwixt the rock and the hard place of racism and capitalism. Auschwitz was one generation. Elmina was Auschwitz nine times over.

            Before Tarzan built one church, Tarzan built the castle. A fort was his foothold and from there he swung through the countryside. But regardless of what Tarzan said in the bush, the fort reveals his real intentions.

            According to one of our guides, the coast of Ghana contains twenty-eight of the thirty-some existent slave castles. Pre-Hitler, concentration camps of whitewashed stone with holding cells instead of ovens. The vast majority of these thick walled way stations were the beginning of a long journey into an unimaginable new identity. Instead of a train ride to a ghastly hell of tattoos and death, the ticket of slavery led to a long boat ride into a living hell of generations of chattel existence for those who were so unfortunate as to survive -- and while millions and millions of us died, we were so strong that millions also survived.

            For every five of these wombs, these wounds on our humanity where we bled, and bled, and bled and dropped pitiful as poisoned cattle. For every five of these social cankers blighting the body of Africa's west coast, four festered on Ghana's shores.

            These castles were the dining rooms of Europe's ascending bourgeoisie.

            The traders picked over us, sucked the strong ones, the succulent ones, the ones who would build up mercantilism, industrialism, capitalism and all them isms. They ate us, belched and threw the bony ones of us aside, scraps for scavengers.

            Europeans literally consumed us in these castles, greedily shoved us through the maws of the front gates and defecated us out of small holes in the rear of the castles, loading us onto the ships, where we were packed into the bottoms destined to become the fertilizer of the "New World's" phenomenal economic growth. Capitalism was the cook and we were the meal.

            The scavengers of land, sea and air grew fat on the edge of Ghana. Huge, slow moving crabs feasting on fingers, toes, intestines and the soft parts of the face. Big bellied vultures plucking the delicacy of eyeballs. Huge-eyed hyenas laughing in the night dragging off thigh bones. The castles supplied nature's clean up crew with plenty, plenty dark meat.

            For every five of these terrible, fetid dining halls, four were in Ghana. Our flesh was not all Ghana born, indeed a small number of us came from as far as the East African coast, but even if we were born two months-walk away, no matter, four out of five of us left Africa with Ghana dust in our nose, coughing and hacking up blood while the Hamattan winds covered us with dull red granules of Saharan sand. Ghana air was the last of Africa we breathed.

            Thus, there is no surprise that Ghana is where the idea of Pan Africanism was really born. Here is where Africa's first bloody birth was consummated. Here is where Garvey and Padmore, C.L.R. and Walter Rodney got their intellectual ancestral start. Right in these slave castles: Cape Coast, Elmina, and twenty-six others. Locked up within these walls, our great philosophers first achieved the understanding that we were all Africans with the same immediate destiny: over the wall in death, on the ship if we lived.

            Even those who avoided capture because of stealth, or because of resistance, or because of, well, because of just plain luck, no matter, because even those who avoided captivity were traumatized in the bush by the cruel beauty of Tarzan. Whether Tarzan was called plantation master, or governor sir, or savior Jesus Christ.

            Don't you think the sudden shock of experiencing de-evolution at this level will produce at least one or two profound philosophers? In the castle we were stripped of everything except the essential spiritual kernel of our Africaness.

            Pan African was the indestrutible seed we carried into the Americas as we were literally wrenched naked out of Africa. When this philosophical seed sprouted, it would flower most articulately from the mouths of those thousands of miles and several generations removed from African soil. DuBois returned to work and die in Ghana because Dubois the philosopher was spiritually born in the castles of Ghana.

            The idea of unifying Africa and expelling Tarzan was born within the restrictions of the slave castles where hundreds of thousands of us died in captivity waiting sometimes as long as a year for a ship to transport us away.

            Up until imprisonment in the castle, some of us were willing to coexist, to accommodate, to seek what would later, in the post cold war world of international relations, be called "détente". We already knew resistance. But, within the castle was born the philosophy that there can be no coexistence with this evil, Tarzan must be expelled.

            The debate still rages today. Some of us can not live without Tarzan. Some of us can not live with him. All of us are having a hard time living.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "G" and "H")

photo by Alex Lear

-G-

 

 

         WOMAN, NO MAN.

 

            Do you know that it was White men who first came into us. After they left their women to sail the seas. Left their women to see what lay beyond the edge of the world. Left their women. Behind. Do you know what I am saying?

            Why were they always leaving their women? Don't they love them?

             I know they love our women.

            You know there's the race issue. There's the class issue. And there's the ass issue. You know that's why they made the bustle the fashion rage during the colonial era.

            What kind of man leaves his woman. Or perhaps it is only men who leave women. Men go it alone and love it. You know, rape, pillage, plunder. Have fun. You know what I mean?

            If you're a man reading this, you know what I mean.

            If you are a woman reading this, you really, really know what I mean.

            Men leave and go it alone. A woman always brings/births family.

            When they came here they had no women with them. Now, look at the colors amongst us -- all the different shades, hues, and intensities of our skin.

            Do you notice that in the movies Tarzan is never shown with an African woman but where did all of the brown babies of black women come from?

            In the daylight, Tarzan swings with Jane, but at night, at night. Tarzan's fascination is obvious when you look at the way we look since Tarzan has made himself part of the family.

 

 

***

 

 

            One night I was sleeping and Tarzan was in the bed, snoring next to me. He must have been dreaming because he called your name. I woke him.

            "Man, you're keeping me awake."

            "So you woke me to tell me I was keeping you awake?"

            "You were dreaming."

            "And how the devil do you know I was dreaming?"

            "Because you called her name."

            "Whose name? Jane?"

            "No."

            I looked away.

            Tarzan stirred, throwing the covers back. He was naked and I looked at his member. It did not seem to be any longer than mine.

            "I was not dreaming. A dream is an imaginary thing. I was in fact and have been for a long time having quite a go of it with your woman, old chap. Well, she's not really yours, but she is quite a woman."

            Suddenly I saw you climb silently out of the bed. You were naked. When you saw me, you picked up a cloth from the foot of the bed, wrapped yourself, and stood smoldering beside the bed. I lay there fully clothed. You looked at me and said nothing. I looked at you and said nothing.

            "I say old chap would you like to have a go at Jane?"

            In the language of our eyes, you told me no. Don't go.

            "Or would you like to have a go at her when I'm done?"

            Tarzan motioned for you to drop the cloth. I jumped up, stalking out of the room. When I got in the hall slamming the door behind me, Jane was fleeing down the hall, running toward my room. I went to your bed and you were gone, probably still in Tarzan's bed. Jane was crying in the hallway, slumped beside my bedroom door. She looked so white lying there. And I stood not knowing where to sleep. Somehow, I never thought of lying in my own bed.

            "I say old chap would you like to have a go?"

 

 

***

 

            In a very perceptive and sensitively written, although provocatively titled, book Alex Shoumatoff, a travel writer and naturalist investigates the social reality of contemporary Africa. His book is called African Madness. A collection of four long essays, the fourth one, "In Search of the Source of AIDS" contains an interesting aside which suggests the fascination that African female sexual activity generates.

            Shoumatoff is careful to deflate the more sensationalist claims, and even casts a cold light on totally unreliable statistics which are often used to buttress a case for Africa as both the source of AIDS and Africa as the site of a raging AIDS epidemic.

            As he converses with an anonymous physician in Zaire about the high incidence of heterosexually transmitted AIDS in Africa, Shoumatoff makes the following observation:

            We talked about the risk of being infected by a single sexual contact with an infected person. Estimates range from one in ten to one in a thousand. There are no believable figures, but it would seem that the virus is not very easily acquired when both partners are healthy. It is more readily transmitted to the woman, which would suggest that Zairois men are more promiscuous than women if the sex ratio of AIDS cases is equal.

            He explained that heterosexual sex was a lot more risky and efficient as a mode of transmission in Africa than it is in the West because the levels of seropositivity are much higher and a lot more people have other diseases. I wondered if the way sex is performed has anything to do with it. For most Africans, sex is a matter of vigorous old-fashioned humping, often without foreplay, which means that there is insufficient lubrication, and the genitalia of both partners are therefore liable to abrasion. Some researchers have speculated that the duration of the sex act, and the frottement, or grinding, that the women of certain tribes are famous for, certain techniques like the titikisha, Swahili milling movement, and the okuweta ekiwoto, the frenzied twisting of the waistline of Baganda women, may play a role. In other tribes, like the Tutsi and the Kikuyu, the woman is not supposed to move during intercourse lest she be thought of as a prostitute. It seems reasonable that the longer the genitals are in contact and the more fluid that is emitted and the more frottement the greater the chance for infection. But like the theories about ritual scarification, female circumcision, and blood brotherhood, this is not supported by any scientific study.

 

             What scientific study supports the generalization that "For most Africans, sex is a matter of vigorous old-fashioned humping, often without foreplay..."?

            Are there no names for the "grinding" movements that the "men" of certain tribes are famous for?

            Why are women always the site of sexual attention in the West, from Freud's "penis envy" and "vaginal orgasms" to Shoumatoff's "frottement"?

            Could it be that the Western patriarchy, and by extension, most men in the contemporary world via the influence of Western media, are actually filled with envy and awe in the face of the undeniable power of the female womb to generate life, not to mention the immense attraction that the vagina/womb has to owners of penises, even to homosexuals who often adopt feminine characteristics?

            Women. Could it be fear and envy -- fear of female power, fear of what in comparison is perceived as male weakness; envy of female fecundity, envy of the ability of women to do everything a man can do except, of course, generate sperm?

            Tarzan's other name is Dr. Frankenstein. Not the monster, mind you, but the good doctor, the man who would create life. The dream of every generation of Euro-centric manhood. Articulated in the Greek mythology of Zeus giving birth to a goddess out of his brain. Proselytized in the Christian mythology of Adam giving birth to Eve. And institutionalized in gender chavanism, in the patriarchy of Western culture. All in an effort to supplant women, make women superfluous. Why?

 

***

 

            In her paper "The African Woman Today," Ghanian writer Ama Ata Aidoo noted: "In most countries of Africa whole sectors of the economy, such as internal trade, agriculture, agro-business and health care are in the hands of women."

 

***

 

            Chinwezu, a leading, if not "the" leading, African literary critic is from Nigeria. He is staying at the Marnico Guest House in Cape Coast, as is Ama Ata Aidoo. We are all here to participate in the five day long colloquium.

            From what I know and surmise based on my meetings with their respective nationals, Nigeria, by contrast to Ghana, is materially richer but spiritually poorer. In their contrasting attitudes Chinwezu and Ama Ata Aidoo suggest how Africa will face the hard row we have to hoe.

            Shortly after Stephanie, Nia and I first arrived at and checked into Marnico, Ama Aidoo's car pulled into the compound. However, she was told that there were no rooms. A discussion ensued. At first Ama Aidoo was going to try to find another place. The manager said they were full. PANAFEST had reserved 10 rooms and they were all taken -- the whole week I never saw ten of us in the hotel, but that is another story.

            Then the egg popped out. Some film crew guy had stopped by and told the manager that he might be back for three rooms, so the manager was holding three rooms aside just in case.

            Ama Aidoo is a matronly Ghanaian, and when the truth was finally out she asserted herself in the spirit of matrons: You give me a room now. I am not going anywhere else.

            She told the driver to unload her bags. The manager relented and she moved in. Hours later I heard some men come into the room across the hall. I don't know whether it was the film crew, nor how many of them they had.

            What was nagging at the back of my head is why would the manager try to deny a room to a woman who could easily have been his mother, in favor of a "possible" booking from someone he didn't know.

            It would be more than a few days later before I realized what I had run into. The lack of respect we African men have for African women, and the absolute fact that African women are beginning to demand respect. To note one without the other is a mistake because it is women's demands which will overcome men's ignorance.

            In many cases, we men don't even realize we are trodding on women.

            I know sometimes when I am excited about something, I will charge ahead and stampede Nia. I will put my "two cents" in and expect to talk even when the conversation is not about money. Fortunately, as is her way and in her characteristic tone, Nia will speak softly but firmly to me when I err. She reminds me to respect her space and howsoever she chooses to occupy that space, especially when she chooses to occupy space in ways that are vastly different from the way I would negotiate the territory.

            This is not abstract. Men not respecting women and not realizing they aren't respecting women is a real problem of the African world. The solution is for women to demand respect. Those of we men who are serious about building a future will listen to our sisters.

             "I know I don't say much, but when I decide to talk, I want to do so without you interrupting."

            I felt ashamed of myself when Nia criticized a particular piece of dumb behavior I exhibited. But I felt thankful and a lot better about myself when I was able to catch my tongue on the next occasion I was about to jump in unannouced. Fortunately for me, although my mouth sometimes is undisciplined, my ears work very well. And I try to stay particularly attuned to women when they speak to me, especially when I am being criticized.

 

***

 

            On Wednesday, 14 December, mother Aidoo left us for a short run to Accra. "I will see you back here on Friday when I come back and when you come back from Kumasi." As she pulled away, Nia and I were sitting in the wooden lawn furniture under a tree in the courtyard. The night before we had sat out past midnight talking with Chinwezu, Haile Gerima and mother Aidoo. It just so happens that early Thursday night, 15 December, Nia and I are sitting at the same table awaiting a ride when mother Aidoo returns from Accra. She joins us and we talk. "Whenever I think of Marnico, I will think of you two sitting here."

            We were supposed to go to Kumasi but never made it because we had planned to take a car early, early Thursday morning rather than catch the bus which left Wednesday afternoon. Youssou N'Dour was scheduled to play the castle on Wednesday night -- we went, he didn't and there was no explanation about what happened. Youssou N'Dour's no show at the castle happened after we found out that none of the cars were allowed to drive to Kumasi. We had hit our first string of bad luck on the trip thus far, but even the bad luck turned out good.

            Moving to Kumasi on Wednesday afternoon and returning to Cape Coast on Thursday night proved to be a logistical and programmatic disaster. The Kumasi move was especially negative for the Women's Day program which was held in Cape Coast.

            The program featured dance and poetry performances by schools, women's associations and individuals. One choir, who waited patiently for three hours, completed their three numbers they had prepared even when the eager emcee tried to talk them off the stage after two numbers. Another drama group, from the northern part of Ghana, did a long musical about marriage with specific moral and practical advice about family planning, sex before marriage and similar issues.

            There were welcome addresses and a strong speech from Dr. Mary Grant, who spoke on the need for women to actively assert themselves in all spheres of national development. She spoke in direct and simple terms, not in slogans or rhetoric. The assembled women, some in T-shirts and skirts, some in uniforms, some in Ghanaian dress, all responded with enthusiasm.

            Ama Aidoo was sorry to hear that she had missed the program. She asked how it went and said that she had heard that it was beautiful. I then brought up Chinweizu's book Anatomy of Female Power. On the cover of the book is a provocative quote: "For all men who have been confused, misused and abused by women, particularly since the coming of feminism; and definitely not for women." The book is subtitled "A Masculinist Dissection of Matriarchy."

            The dedication says: To the handful of women now in my life (platonic friends, lovers, ex-lovers, lovers-to-be); To the countless others who have slipped in and out of  my life; and especially To those who have attempted to marry me: From them I have learned most of what I know about women.

            Strangely absent in the dedication of a book purporting to analyze "Female Power" is any mention of his mother. Chinweizu sells his 136-page misogynist screed for US$10. Both Ama Aidoo and I had bought a copy from Chinweizu one night when we sat out talking. When I first started reading it, I thought the man had written a satire, a caricature, but as I read on, I was forced to judge him serious in his views.

            For example:

 

            A baby is a breathing, bawling, flesh-and-bones club with which a woman can beat a man down to the ground and compel him to toil for her. Even an embryonic baby, a mere speck of a foetus in her womb, will do just fine when a woman wants to bend a man to her will. When she gets tired of supporting herself, she can throw her cares unto some hapless man by getting herself pregnant by him, knowing full well that it would take a most heartless man to abandon their child, and that where the baby goes, she, its mother and nurse, would tag along. That is why their baby is probably a wife's ultimate tool for getting, holding and exploiting her husband. (Pg. 101)

 

            The above quote is not an especially virulent extract, in fact, it's about the norm of most of the book. I could quote paragraph after paragraph in a similar caustic vein. Chinweizu's main thesis is that women control, and thus have power over men.

 

            Female power exists; it hangs over every man like a ubiquitous shadow. Indeed, the life cycle of man, from cradle to grave, may be divided into three phases, each of which is defined by the form of female power which dominates him: motherpower, bridepower, or wifepower.

            From birth to puberty, he is ruled by motherpower, as exercised over him by his one and only "mummy dearest". Then he passes into the territory of bridepower, as exercised over him by his bride-to-be, that cuddlesome and tender wench he feels he  cannot live without. This phase lasts from puberty to that wedding day when the last of his potential brides finally makes herself his wife. He then passes into the domain of wifepower, as exercised over him by his own resident matriarch, alias his darling wife. This phase lasts until he is either divorced, widowed, or dead.

            In each phase, female power is established over him through his peculiar weakness in that stage of his life. Motherpower is established over him while he is a helpless infant. Bridepower holds sway over him through his great need for a womb in which to procreate; if he didn't feel this need, he wouldn't put himself into the power of any owner of a womb. Wifepower is established over him through his craving to appear as lord and master of some woman's nest; should he dispense with this vanity not even the co-producer of his child could hold him in her nest and rule him.

            There are five conditions which enable women to get what they want from men: women's control of the womb; women's control of the kitchen; women's control of the cradle; the psychological immaturity of men relative to women; and man's tendency to be deranged by his own excited penis. These conditions are the five pillars of female power; they are decisive for their dominance over male power... (Pgs. 14 - 15)

 

            This is Chinweizu who wrote The West and the Rest of Us and Decolonising the African Mind. This is a major intellectual force. A man whose work is widely known and widely admired. This is also a man who obviously feels that he has been "confused, misused, and abused by women". Although I know neither the cause nor the details, my brother's pain is obvious. He like many, many men in Africa feels intimidated and oppressed by the strength, fecundity and persistence of African women.

            As I study more and more about the period of the slave trade and the subsequent colonial period, it is clear to me that not only was Africa depopulated, but a large percentage of her strongest men were literally kidnapped often at the hands of mercenaries. In my opinion, those mercenaries are the immediate ancestors of some of Africa's most brutal Black military dictatorships. But deeper than that brutality, slavery and colonialism also account for the two major prototypes of African male behavior: the  macho and the meek.

            Chinweizu agrees with me that this is the normative profile of the male, but he, not surprisingly, attributes this to female power over men rather than to the psychology of the oppressed and repressed.

 

            To understand why men have not yet revolted in the wake of feminism, we ought to note that, in their attitudes to women, there are three basic types of men: the macho, the musho, and the masculinist. A macho is a brawny, and sometimes brainy, factotum who has been bred for nest slavery, and who is indoctrinated to believe that he is the lord and master of the woman who rules him. A musho is a henpecked version of the macho who hangs like a bleedy worm between the beaks of his nest queen. A masculinist is a man who is devoted to male liberty, and who would avoid nest slavery. (Pg. 124)

 

            The castration image ("bleedy worm") underscores the virulence of those males who blame women for the current state of powerlessness in world affairs that is the reality of most African men. What is most interesting is that Chinweizu never makes an assessment of the African reality. Most of the quotes are from American and European authors, especially the quotes on feminism.

            Choosing to ground his analysis in the psychological realm without first examining the material and the social is Chinweizu's major problem. We should look at the conditions first, then consider why and how we feel about our conditions.

            The hard truth is that African women on the continent generally work from sunup to sundown, toiling on foot and with hand tools to eke out subsidence in a world that is terribly skewed against them. Just on a physical level, everywhere one looks, one sees mostly women and children porting material on their heads up and down, the length and breadth of the countryside.

            In Ghana in particular, not only are women the numerical majority, and not only do women do an inordinate amount of physical labor, they specifically produce, distribute and market the bulk of indigenous agricultural foodstuffs. The market women are  "notorious" for their psychological and economic independence. Ghana's first lady has thrown herself fully into the organizing of women, particularly in the rural areas, through initiatives such as the December 31st Women's Movement.

            The PANAFEST Women's Day program was designed to address these and other issues. I didn't see Chinweizu at the program, and assume that he, as were most of the other delegates, was in Kumasi. Because of this scheduling conflict, the importance of the Women's Day program was severely undermined.

            There has been a political revolution in Africa. That revolution gained nominal control of what we know today as the independent states of Africa. But in a world of multinational corporations and Euro/American/Asian concentrations of wealth in specific national economies, there is no real Africa independence in the sense of total self-reliance. Africa remains subservient to and aid-dependent on not only the former colonial master states, but also to and on newly emerged Arab and Asian powers. Everywhere in Africa efforts are underway to figure out a winning strategy for an economic revolution.

            Africa will not have the luxury of uninterrupted linear development: first in politics, then in internal social affairs, and third in economic affairs. The nations and people of Africa will not have the opportunity to establish nations whose boundaries are drawn up by and in the interest of Africans. The internal affairs of African nations will constantly be influenced by political and economic forces foreign to Africa. Economic development moving from dependency and subservience to self-reliance and independence cannot happen as long as the former colonial powers remain overwhelmingly influential. That's the downside.

            The upside is that although we face tremendous odds, at wildly uneven levels, social and economic development is happening in Africa, sometimes sequentially, sometimes in parallel, but happening nonetheless.

            The first revolution was political and the ultimate revolution will be for economic self-sufficiency, but between these two is the third revolution, the necessary internal social revolution required for the third step of economic revolution to be successful. African women moving from being the objects of the national productive forces to political and economic decision makers is a prerequisite of national economic independence.

            Women are strong in Ghana and elsewhere in the African world but they are neither respected nor in control. Women will have to demand and struggle for both respect and control. Indeed, that is the essence of power, the ability to self-defend, self-respect and self-control one's life.

            As contradictory as it may seem, in the long run, I think Africa will see a more genuine empowerment of women than in the West, precisely because African women are already 1.) strong in and central to the daily life of their countries, 2.) integrally involved in the internal economy, 3.) absolutely vital to the national well-being, and, most important of all, 4.) because African women are now beginning to demand respect and control.

             The revolution is coming, it's coming. Which is why mother Aidoo had a room at Marnico Guest House.

 


-H-

 

 

         ONE STEP BACKWARD, A GREAT LEAP FORWARD.

 

            When I get back people will want to know "what is Africa like." But I am not in Africa, I am in Ghana. Here I have to deal with specifics, "Africa" is a generality.

            GHANA The Land, The People And The Culture, A Tourist Guide published by Ghana Tourist Development Limited offers this succinct history of independent Ghana.

 

Political History

 

Ghana, formerly the Gold Coast, gained her independence within the Commonwealth on 6th March, 1957 under the leadership of Dr. Kwame Nkrumah. On 1st July, 1960, Dr. Kwame Nkrumah proclaimed Ghana a republic and combined the roles of President and Prime Minister. Dr. Nkrumah's Convention People's Party (CPP) government was ousted on 24th February, 1966 through a military coup; and the National Liberation Council (NLC) with General Joseph A. Ankrah as Chairman, took over the administration of the state.

 

On 30th September, 1969, Dr. Kofi Abrefa Busia and his Progress Party (PP) after gaining majority vote in a parliamentary election, took over the leadership of the state.

 

On 13th January, 1972 Ghana experienced its second military coup which brought General Kutu Acheampong and the Supreme Military Council (SMC) into power.

 

There was an uprising on 4th June, 1979 and Flight Lieutenant Jerry John  Rawlings emerged as leader of the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council (AFRC) which took over power for 3 months.

 

Parliamentary elections were held in the same year; and on 24th September, 1979, power was handed over to Dr. Hilla Limann and the People's National Party (PNP) Government.

 

Two years later, on 31st December, 1981, there was a revolution which brought back Flight Lieutenant Jerry John Rawlings to power.

 

Since then, government functions have been carried out by the Provisional National Defence Council (PNDC) led by Flight Lieutenant Jerry John Rawlings. (P.  17 - 18)

 

            I know as much factual details about the internal politics of Ghana as I do about the internal politics of Washington, D.C., which is to say, in the real world of movers and shakers, I know less than nothing. "Less than nothing" because everything I do know has been carefully filtered by some agency or individual before the information reached my brain.

            I am perpetually aware and wary of the high degree of media manipulation and political sleigh of hand that accompanies every government. I have never forgotten an interview with Mwalimu Julius Nyerere, the founding and former president of Tanzania. Mwalimu (teacher) is a Swahili honorific bestowed on Nyerere. He said, referring to the tendency of those in power to do whatever is necessary to remain in power: "all government are conservative. All." Someone asked him what about his revolutionary government. He simply repeated himself and smiled a cryptic, ironic smile that was chilling in its comradely candor.

            In the political arena it is dangerous to believe in absolutes. Every event, every experience, every action, every individual, every group can only be appreciated -- if, indeed, appreciation is possible -- in their own relative context.

            A military man runs Ghana.

             On the ground, at the street level, how is Ghana?

            Outside of Accra, modern housing is rare in the south central area through which we traveled. Traditional villages and crumbling vestiges of colonial era buildings are occasionally interrupted by new housing developments. Fortunately, the weather is relatively benign and people can comfortably sleep on the street at night: in door ways, on carts, on benches, tables, everywhere without fear of disturbance or of being robbed blind.

            Chickens and goats range freely on roadsides. That certainly would not be possible if people were literally starving. Young coconuts -- their water is a refreshing drink -- are sold for forty cedis (that's roughly four cents). Oranges, apples, bananas, papaya, watermelon, mango and pineapples abound.

            Ironically, the vast majority of Ghanaians eat a higher nutritional quality food than we do in the United States. I was startled into this realization by the epiphanous appearance of an ordinary Ghanaian woman walking toward me with a huge tray of colorful, fresh vegetables balanced serenely and securely on her head: bright orange carrots stuck out the front of the tray, an angular array of tender tubers. Were carrots native to Ghana? I just never imagined carrots in Ghana, yet there they were, not as a specialty item for the superrich but an average, everyday, cheap, and ubiquitous, healthy vegetable. My eyes were opened at that moment. Everywhere I looked, there was fresh food.

            Corn roasted on the roadside. Peeled oranges piled in small pyramids. Shaved coconuts bunched on a cart -- the empty shells used for fuel to fire the mud ovens where fish is smoked. Freshly harvested pineapples, carved into fragrant slices and wrapped a small handful to a plastic package. On and on.

            Fresh fruit and vegetables everyday. Freshly caught fish, free ranging fowl, and small amounts of red meat, supplemented by beans are the staples of the Ghanaian diet. Compare that to the chemical filled, canned, fast food, salt and sugar drenched food that most Americans eat daily. Plus most Ghanaians walk constantly, another health boon.

            Sanitation is rudimentary; brackish green sewerage sinks and stagnates as it trickles down narrow, open concrete gutters. The sharp aroma of open air latrines,  and the ubiquitous sight of men relieving themselves at the sewer's edge repulses industrially acclimated sensibilities, but you get used to it. That is, you get used to it after you get sick. Usually either malaria or some bug attacking either your digestive or respiratory system knocks you on your backside for a couple of days.

            I weathered the toughest cold I have had in years. For half a day I lost my voice. The onset of the illness was sharp pangs across my abdomen, followed by a cold. Strangely, there was no diarrhea. But then a cold in full force, which at its height included a painful tightness in my lungs that made deep inhalations a trial. Because my immune system is very strong, I was able to keep pushing and went about my work just as though nothing was wrong.

            One night the mosquitoes drove us inside. I think back to my childhood days in New Orleans when the mosquitoes there would drive us inside. I can remember the fog trucks going around to spray. I can remember the mosquitoes being so bad that the weatherman would warn us when they were spawning in the swamps. I can remember that in my lifetime, New Orleans was not much more advanced in terms of fighting mosquitoes than is Cape Coast, Ghana today. I remember.

            How is Ghana?

            Other than the sewerage situation, one of the most glaring failures in development is the paucity of mass transportation. Accra is clogged with cars, some of which appeared to be held together by Third World juju -- "Third World" because anywhere in the developing world you go, you see museum-ready automobiles puttering along, sustained by the ingenuity of shadetree mechanics who literally manufacture spare parts and improvise riggings to keep these vehicles in service. For example, the private taxis we rode in were ageless wonders whose parts probably spanned at least three decades. Moreover, the rule of the road seemed to be, if it will roll, let it ride.

            The police who were out in force were inspecting licensees for tax purposes rather than inspecting the cars for road worthiness and safety. Road blocks along the highway, and at critical junctures were the rule. 

            Even though Accra is very large, there seems to be four or five avenues that the vast majority of cars travel, and, during the day these routes are always crowded. As a testimony to African humanness, the traffic jams aren't accompanied by the cursing, and sometimes physical violence, that routinely occurs in the United States.

            The people's maintenance genius and civil patience with the traffic clogs notwithstanding, the private automobile remains a symbol of having arrived. A late model, shiny car, whether a luxury sedan or a modest two door economy car, marks the owner as being a cut above the working class. The black or dark maroon, brand new PANAFEST cars, with their distinct license plates, stood out everywhere we went. Needless to say, there was some fierce behind the scenes jockeying to determine who was assigned a car, and how one could get a car if not originally assigned a car.

            Stephanie had been assigned a car and we rode with her to Cape Coast. She returned to the States before we did, and we "inherited" her vehicle. The car question was really a question of mass transportation. PANAFEST was a special event, but what did the ordinary people do? They either crowded into private taxis and buses, or onto one of the handful of public service vehicles, or, more likely, they walked.

            Perhaps, its my own Western bias, but I think a light rail system connecting the various towns and villages, combined with a major bus system would tremendously facilitate development. But then again, maybe not. Maybe mass transit would only mean people ended up waiting longer for other things. I'm sure there is a reason that the government has not pursued that option -- even if the reason is only that ranking government bureaucrats tend to measure their status by whether they have a private car. Maybe, mass transit is a secondary or tertiary concern in the overall scheme of social needs. Maybe, it's only because I come from America that the whole transportation issue is even important to me. Maybe, but I don't think so. Even America is deficient when it comes to mass transit, particularly between cities.

            I remember reading an article about concrete. Yes, concrete; the history and uses of it. In the fifties, succumbing to the construction and automobile lobbies, the federal government decided to institute the interstate highway system. The option, of course, was to develop the rail system for interstate travel. We don't often think of it as a government policy, but the truth is a decision was made favoring the private automobile rather than a government supported rail system. That decision is one reason that Amtrak is such a total embarrassment as mass transit. In any case, while some argue that the government should not subsidize mass transit, the building of the interstate system is the most massive subsidizing of private transportation imaginable.

            My point, vis-a-vis Ghana, and the rest of Africa, is that less should be put into private automobiles (including the construction of concrete and asphalt highways) and more into rail based mass transit. Fortunately, it is not too late to make rational developmental choices.   

 

            Overall, how is Ghana? Ghana is poor but far from impoverished. People are proud of their traditions and exhibit concern for the well-being of their family, friends and neighbors.

            Ghana has dust everywhere. Nevertheless, people are clean, even dirt floors and spaces in front of houses, huts, stands and work sites are neatly swept.

            Ghana is underdeveloped. But there is electricity and the phones, though scarce and constantly clogged, do work.

            The deficiencies notwithstanding, everywhere one looks, social progress is budding. Though it's too soon to pick flowers and wave bouquets, people are patiently pushing forward. Women's associations. Clubs of young people. In ten years Ghana will be a different place.

            Right now, Ghana is a bright smile on the face of a two year old, who is being watched by an eighty year old woman beaming a great grandmother's smile.

            Ghana is the promise of young people working computers as well as young people  hawking dry goods in the street.

            Ghana. The promise of pride in traditions and a thirst for the future.

            Independent Ghana is less than fifty years old, full of adolescent vigor and aggressive optimism. Ghana, like all of Africa, for all of its problems, is relatively new in terms of national development even though ancient in terms of social development. Though it lacks capital and technology, what Ghana has is humanity, a veritable sea of patient and optimistic bright Black faces proudly extending their social traditions into the developing future.

 

***

 

            I have not seen one lion or elephant.

            Come to think of it, not one spear nor alligator yet either.

            I saw a queen mother who looked like my grandmother.

            I saw pinto beans and rice. CNN on cable and scandalous tabloids whose "shocking" revelations are so tame by U.S. standards that one wonders does Ghana realize the state the Western world is in.

            By any measure, Ghana has a relatively free press. By comparison to most African states, Ghana's press freedom is almost absolute. In fact, one of the papers is even called Free Press and offers a critical voice on national concerns.

            How free is the press? Consider this excerpt from the "MY CONCERN" column by Frank Abu Addo published in the 19th-20th Dec., 1994 edition of the The Ghanaian Voice, Ghana's Best Independent Newpaper.

 

            In his address during the Thanksgiving Service in commemoration of the Silver Jubilee celebration of Ghana Pentecostal Council, President Rawlings talked at length about love for one another.

            I was especially touched when he confessed that he had forgiven all those who  have trespassed against him (What about the future?)

            His second point which I found touching was the fact that the Jews have made a lot of films and documentaries about the Holocaust which serve as library materials and reminders to all living that this is what happened to the Jews on other lands especially Germany. He lamented that nothing of that sort is found here in West Africa on how slaves were taken from the hinterland, their ordeal at the castles and their "triumphant' entry into the voyage ships through the small holes which serve as the exits of the dark dungeons.

            Perhaps the President would love to see how the Europeans at the Elmina Castle used to stand on top there, looked into the female area of the dungeons and beckoned any woman they would want to sleep with into their bedrooms upstairs in a local film. Maybe that will explain how half castes and mulattos like himself came into being.

           

            Is that free enough for you?

            The Voice's sensationalistic cousin is P & P -- People and Places. Its masthead proclaims "We Report Nothing But The Truth."

            Headlines in the December 15th edition of P & P shout "GIRL MURDERS BABY She Throws One and A Half-Year-Old Baby Into Salty Well". Though this paper obviously aspires to attain the wide readership in Ghana comparable to the readership that the National Inquirer has in the USA, the most interesting aspect about its reporting of the incident was the editorial they ran.

 

Tragic Murder

 

            Christmas is normally described as an occasion for children. Parents are therefore expected to give their children the choicest meals, the best of clothes and toys if only they can afford it.

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "E" and "F")

photo by Alex Lear

 

-E-

 

 

         HOW THE WEST WAS WON

 

            Tarzan's voice startles me. It was late, very late. Nearby some star crossed rooster was crowing even though it was 3:00 a.m. in the morning.

            I was supposed to be sleeping. I had been writing. Now I was lying in bed. Thinking. Thinking. Unable to sleep. Lying quietly. Lying still. Thinking.

            "Can't sleep, can you?"

            I don't bother looking for him in dark. In fact, I raise my arm and cover my eyes.

            "You know old chap, it seems to me your people have forgotten how the west was won. I'm talking about you Black Americans, is that what you're called this year? I do so want to be correct."

            In the dark I hear pages rustling.

            "Oh, it's changed. It's African Americans now. Well, that's romantic. Af - free - can? Really! You guys are afraid of Africa. You're like lions who were born in a zoo and have never been let loose in the wild. I don't mean to offend you, old boy, but you can't drink the water, find the food distasteful, and would always prefer to ride in a private car rather than walk or crowd into a bus. So what's African about you?"

            I'm tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of looking through the wall of my eyeballs at people in the dust and knowing that those people are me, yet I am not fully comfortable with them. Tarzan is trying to rile me. I answer his question with a question.

            "And what does any of that have to do with how the west was won?"

            Tarzan smiles.

            "Oh, it's fifty questions time is it? Well, I shall answer your questions one for one as you answer mine. Goose and gander. Fair enough?"

            The rooster crows again. Tarzan smirks.

            "I'll start with an easy riddle for you. Why does an African rooster crow at night?"

            "Because day's work is never done. We can't stay up too late nor rise too early."

            "That's plausible, but the real answer is simple: because he wants to. You fellows are always looking for some big picture answer. Sometimes the answer is very simple. You know what people do? They do exactly what they want to do."

            I respond quickly, - And likewise, people don't do whatever it is they don't want to do, unless, of course they are forced. -

            Our eyes engage each other. Neither of us blink. Finally, Tarzan raises his brandy sniffer.

            "Cheers."

            He throws back the entire shot.

            "Shall we walk some, old chap?"

            "Tarzan, I don't want to walk with you."

            "Why, afraid you might learn something?"

            "The only thing I want to learn from you is how to kill you."

            Tarzan takes a seat, crosses his legs, looks toward the ceiling, and, after a few moments, begins speaking in a contemplative manner. "You know I sometimes stayed in the bush for years without seeing a White man and it didn't bother me."

            "It wouldn't bother me if I went for the rest of my life without seeing a White man."

            "I'm glad to hear you are feeling a bit better. You know you can't reduce everything to race."

            "You should talk. Isn't that a little like the pot calling the kettle..."

            "All I meant old chap is that can you be yourself when you're living among people who are different from you?"

            "You're assuming that Africa is different from me?"

            "I'm not assuming anything. I was merely commenting on what the bush was like for me and wondering whether you're up to the challenge."

            "Tarzan, why do you visit me and carry on these conversations, especially since you know I intend to kill you?"

            Tarzan ignores me at first, then he crosses close to me, stands close enough that I can smell the peach brandy on his breath and looks me in the eye.

            "The only reason I come is because you call."

            Pause.

            Someone knocks at the door. "Yes," I call out through the door. It's one of the workers awaiting breakfast instructions. Have Tarzan and I been talking that long? I open my eyes and there's light in the room. I must have fallen asleep. I tell the man what Nia and I want for breakfast and inform him that we will be down in forty-five minutes.

             I begin thinking again about how the west was won and suddenly realize what Tarzan was saying. In order to win the west you have to leave where you were born and settle somewhere in the west. In order to win we will have to go to the battleground, live in the bush. Walk deep into Africa's night. Alone and go for years without...

            "Now, you're getting the hang of it. You just might catch on yet. See you in your dreams."

            I look up. I thought Tarzan was gone. Tarzan winks at me and nonchalantly walks through the wall.

 

 

***

 

 

            No man can return to anything he has destroyed. That is why Tarzan can not return to Africa. The people Tarzan encountered when he first arrived no longer exist. Tarzan destroyed them.

            Tarzan the ruler can not return to Africa.

            But of course, Tarzan can and will continue to frequent Africa as an  investor such as a hotel owner, or as a physician and industrial engineer, as a missionary caring for the bodies and souls of the poor and/or an educator working to insure future skills, as a mandated economic consultant turning the screws on the economy, and certainly as a technical advisor teaching everything from computers to catering, tourist services to office administration. Nevertheless, it will not be like before.

            The innocence Tarzan first encountered is finished. First, some of us met the Europeans man to man, warrior facing explorer. Then king to ambassador and merchant. And, as slavery progressed, eventually, we all -- woman and child, as well as man -- had to face them. Slave to master. Conquest to conqueror. Raped to rapist. It was then that we submitted, physically overpowered and, eventually, also psychologically overpowered. Then the Whites graduated from men, from conquerors, to gods; their far off countries became "heaven" in comparison to the colonial hell we suffered in our homelands. Then the crulest cut of all, the colonialists handpicked and educated our leaders. Everything has been shit since then.

            But even though we still suffer from that scenario, nevertheless, at least we know that the Whites are not gods and that we are not animals. The old myths Tarzan perpetuated are ruptured. Though a certain gullibility remains exploitable and though the effects of the myths linger, naive acceptance of the god=White myth is done. The magic of the myths is no more.

             We Africans have a better understanding of ourselves as a whole because Tarzan forced us to recognize that we had a commonness that was not so apparent to us before Tarzan's arrival. We never conceived of all of us being Africans until after Tarzan made it impossible for us to ignore both the problems and the potential of embracing ourselves. Before Tarzan we were Ashanti or Ibo, Mandingo or Fulani, but not Africans. Zulu and Ndebele, Tutsi and Hutu. But not Africans as a common denominator.

            Indeed, the sad truth is that we often considered each other the enemy. Some of us even mistook Tarzan for an ally against our neighbors whom we had known for ages, our neighbors whom we regarded as age old enemies. How naive we were. Thank you Tarzan. You cured some of us forever of our innocence with respect to our alienation from each other.

            Of course old myths die hard. Even after the spell is broken the effects linger on. We are still struggling with being our own worse enemy. Still clawing through the cocoon of colonized thinking that wrapped around and continues to smother the very African identity which emerges from it. Like the worm called a caterpillar, after a gestation period of confinement within the shell of colonialism, in order to be the beautiful butterfly we are destined to become, we must break through the cocoon or else the cocoon will become our coffin. We will literally abort unless we break free.

            Even after all we have suffered (or is it because of all we have suffered), there is a pretty steep price to pay for our freedom. After many, many years of struggle, we still ain't free. Most of the original freedom fighters have been discarded, the original leaders discredited or forgotten. Toppled in coups. Replaced in elections. Brought down by economic conundrums. Or something.

            Its almost like the whole African world is caught captive on a slave ship and fated to toss and twist forever on the churning seas of the Atlantic. The bulk of us enchained below. A thin professional crust entertained on deck. And Tarzan's kin at the wheel.

            So now I am returning to Africa with a bundle of questions for it, for myself, for my survivors on the Black side of the water. Chief among these questions is what does it mean to break free?

            Freedom, I believe, is not a thing to possess but a process we must struggle through each and every day if the sacrifices of slavery are to ever bear fruit. Is sankofa (the Akan bird faced backward but moving forward) our destiny?

             We Pan Africanists in the diaspora are guinea fowl searching yard. We peck the corn but not every kernel is eaten. Sankofa. We must retrieve but not every tradition should be carried into the future.

            I have come both to embrace Africa and to criticize Africa. To embrace myself and criticize myself.

            To embrace, to hold, to touch.

            To critique, to question, to make choices.

            We will inspect and peck, but not all the food of this ancient ground will be eaten.

            It is such a funny thought: I am not returning to Africa, I am going forward into Africa. Going forward. Steady. Forward. Forward. For what?

 

 

***

 

 

            (Excerpt form the PANAFEST Opening Address by Ghana's President, Flt-Lt. J. J. Rawlings at Cape Coast, Ghana on Saturday, December 10, 1994.)

 

            However long you may have been away, we know that many of you yearn to be reunited with your ancestral home. I assure you on this happy occasion that a warm welcome awaits you here. Our traditional extended family has ample room for all its members.

            In bringing this family together again, I hope that we will experience more than just an exercise in nostalgia for the lost years. It should strengthen our determination to work together for the development of Africa and raise the dignity of people of African descent.

            The integrity of the family permeates every level of social, political and economic institutions as also does family disintegration. At this festival we are  laying emphasis on strengthening the family because it is the building block of our societies.

            Membership of a family implies more than a shared past. A family also looks to the future, and I trust that before PANAFEST '94 is over, links will have been forged which will lead to positive and practical action in uniting the extended African family in a purposeful drive into the future.

            But we may also look at the African family in its narrower and generic context. For those of you in the diaspora, the separation and break-up of the family suffered by your ancestors centuries ago might have influenced your concept of the family.

            More recently, the experiences of the slums, of inner city crime, the drug culture, the loss of parental control, the emphasis on material things, have also struck at the foundations of the family. The declaration of the International Year of the Family is an attempt by the world community to restore the dignity and integrity of the family.

            Whilst in some of you, this has been a source of strength, self-discipline and motivation with which to confront the scourges of the modern world, in others it has led to cynicism, apathy and a penchant for finding scapegoats to blame our troubles on, instead of bravely facing up to our difficult circumstances and striving to improve our lot.

            One of the most troubling aspects of this last reaction is the loss of respect for each other.

            The African family here in Africa is also under serious threat. Some of the factors could be traced to the colonial period, when policies were introduced which laid siege on our traditional values.

            The current urban drift also adds a further strain by destabilizing relationships in the rural areas through the easy association that pressures of city life impose on vulnerable new comers.

            But much more disturbing is the bombardment of our young people by the international media, through TV, films, video, magazines, etc. with what can only  be described as the lowest common denominator of international pseudo-culture.

            The powerful international media message is about individualism, self-gratification, material values and a cynical lack of respect for any moral authority which stands in the way of the instant attainment of perceived wants.

            Our traditional African values which define the responsibilities, duties and respect owed by the individual to the family and to the community, to the ancestors and to the land, are threatened by this flood of empty media hype served as the latest international trend, fashion or personal ideology.

            My Brothers and Sisters, Nowadays there is so much talk about the world becoming a global village. Modern communication technology especially television is 'shrinking' the world and homogenizing its cultures. However that process has tended to either exclude or subjugate the cultures of our peoples.

            We have to be honest to admit that distressing though this is, a good deal of these unproductive and sterile material which undermine the values and ideals of our youth originate from Western and Christian sources.

            It is part of the purpose of PANAFEST '94 to challenge this picture of media imperialism and offer to the world the true African identity.

 

 

***

 

 

            Our first evening in Ghana is spent at the DuBois Center. A friend of Stephanie Hughley told her she should check out a performance by the Pan African Orchestra. I first met Stephanie when she joined the National Black Arts Festival staff as artistic director in 1990 -- she's now on staff with the 1996 Cultural Olympiad. We are hanging together in Ghana.

            The opening performance is by a traditional, predominately percussion music ensemble. They are good. In honor of the holiday season, they even do a rhythmically rich and melodically inventive version of Handel's "The Messiah."

            The Pan African Orchestra follows. The instruments are all traditional African instruments, including a one string fiddle-like instrument which is bowed. There are twenty-some musicians. One row of musicians on wood flutes also double on traditional "horns" (the mmenson) and percussion, two string players, and a brace of percussionists. They file in like a European orchestra and remain standing until the conductor seats them. Instead of a baton the conductor wields an enchanting instrument.

            "Televi" is a percussion instrument of the Ewe people of Ghana. It's basically two small balls, probably gourds, which have something inside so that they rattle when you shake them. The two balls are connected with twine. One ball is held in the palm of the hand and the other swings around the outside of the hand. As the free swinging ball wraps around the hand it clacks sharply as it makes contact with the ball that is held in  the palm. At the same time the player shakes the ball that is held. So you have a shaking sound on the regular beats and the clacking on the down beats or the syncopated off beats, depending on how the televi is played. The conductor is ambidextrous and plays one in each hand as he directs the orchestra, his hands held shoulder high, shaking this swinging, percussive metronome.

            The Pan African Orchestra reminds me of Wynton Marsalis' efforts at developing jazz as a classical music. The repertoire and styles unavoidably look backward in an effort to identify and preserve the high points of the historical musical development. In a similar manner, this ensemble uses traditional instruments, traditional themes, and attempts to perform them in a traditional manner faithful to the origins but also reflective of "high art" standards. The string instruments, for example, are tuned each time before playing. The overall sound is quiet swinging, even when full out percussive, they are never riotous. The overall effect is sonorous and contemplative.

            Part of me admires and loves these and similar efforts to quantify and preserve the classical aspects of our traditional cultures. But unfortunately, the very process removes the communal dynamic. We sat and listened to a performance rather than participated in a ritualistic outpouring. Some of the flute players read from scores and all of the musicians were directed by a conductor who controlled the whole performance. No one danced, although I'm sure we could have (or, perhaps, should have) if we really wanted to.  This aural archiving of the traditions is important, however, it is not the future of African music.

            Over the two week period, I will hear the Pan African Orchestra three more times: between addresses at the opening of the colloquium, as a feature at one of the Cape Coast Castle performances, and at the closing program. Each time I enjoy them. But the question remains, this is past, what is the future? What are we headed forward toward?

            Ironically, even though a major part of PANAFEST is a presentation of music and dance, most of the performances are either weak or incomplete -- incomplete because in far too many cases, the main headliners either don't show up or, when in the country, don't perform as scheduled. Based on my experience as a festival producer, I'm sure a  great deal of the no shows are due to the fact that deposit moneys were not put in place early enough to guarantee the presence of headliners. I had looked forward to hearing artists such as Youssou N'Dour and Angelique Kidjo in an African setting.

            One of "THE" headliners, Stevie Wonder underscores another weakness of the program. He actually arrives but does not perform at the major concert. (I learn later that he did perform on an untuned piano -- a piano tuner could not be found in time.) One unconfirmed report is that he did not finish the preparation of his music and equipment. I don't know what the real story is. but I do know that the majority of the performers are entertainers in the Western sense and project only a limited Pan African consciousness. I saw or heard no contemporary performances that were worth writing home about as exemplary of cutting edge new directions in African music.

            The closing program featured a line up of musicians, most of whom were scheduled to perform at the gigantic 18-hour show but, for one reason or another, didn't get to perform. The personal highlight for me was a performance by a legendary Ghanaian highlife vocalist who seemed to be in his fifties or sixties. His set got people up and dancing to his topical songs, one of which welcomed us to Ghana and spoke about pulling the African family back together. His warmth and sincerity were matched by his musicianship and professionalism as a performer. Unfortunately, because there was no printed program and because my ear was unattuned to the emcee, I didn't catch this performer's name.

            The two final performances were the negative highlights of the well intended but mismanaged closing program, which was in itself, already too long and meandering. The first climax was Kanda Bongo Man of Zaire with an exuberant display of soukous. His band, including a European keyboardist, was in top form. The drummer in particular was awesome as a percussionist and expert as a second vocalist.

            Dressed in a red suit with a black sash and red Zorro hat, Kanda sang and dance with the fervor of a true "soul man." He sweated and gyrated. He funked it up and dropped some pelvis swivels on us that left no doubt about his prowess as a love man. He also had a female backup vocalist whom he did not feature and dancers whom he did.

            Two African female dancers came out and proceeded to put their backfields in furious motion. A follow-up number featured the larger of the duo and she had muscles  controlling her muscles, able to ripple her bared stomach and micro move her ample buttocks. Later they did a comic routine dressed as White women with bustles. Then, out came a "real" White woman as a third dancer and this combination of pelvis thrusting feminity proceed to do an even more "exotic" floor show. All this time Kanda Bongo Man is whooping with delight and directing the female traffic, occasionally joining them in a chorus of twists and shouts. Needless to say, the whole dance floor is filled. Each song is met with rapturous applause. A thunderous ovation demands an encore. Out come the dancers and there is now a second White woman completely the female zebra in heat routine. They put Raquel Welch and Paula Abdul to shame.

            Oh what a show!

            What it all had to do with Pan Africanism I'm not sure. But, that's entertainment!

            The anticlimax was provided by Princess, a contemporary urban music vocalist from the USA. She can sing, but coming on just before midnight, after five hours of a wide range of performances and presentations (the obligatory thanks and awards to sponsors and short speeches from dignitaries) and immediately behind Kanda Bongo Man was the worse possible slot. Moreover, she didn't have her own band. A male cohort served as bandleader directing a Ghanaian contemporary music ensemble which did a competent job of serving up slinky, funky backbeats and melodies. Princess, dressed in a tight, hip-hugging, semi-sexy, Black outfit, did the in vogue, gospel-voiced, apolitical, ingenue routine currently popular in the States -- a routine which Diana Ross propelled to both its apogee and nadir. It was embarrassingly inappropriate as the closing performance at PANAFEST.

            Princess, in all fairness to her, probably really wanted to sing at PANAFEST, and undoubtedly has genuine feelings for the goals and aspirations of PANAFEST and African people in general. The rub is that, politically, African Americans are underdeveloped. At this moment, abetted by the willing compliance of young African American entertainers desperate to develop their fledgling careers, the state of Black music in the States has sunk to an abysmal level of apolitical non-relevance and mindless sexual hedonism. Princess is far from the worse of the lot. She has talent and, in time, may even become a major artist. But, the question is direction.

            In the United States, and elsewhere in the diaspora, there are literally thousands of  socially relevant and aesthetically exciting artists who would have loved to perform at PANAFEST. Clearly artists such as Sweet Honey In The Rock should have headed the U.S. delegation of artists. But the problem is not just the state of the entertainment industry but also the orientation of those of us in charge of programs such as this. We go for the "big names" and for people who work in the vein of the big name performers. We are invariably disappointed, but we have no one to blame but ourselves for not closely examining our criterion for including artists.

            On the other hand, PANAFEST was able to put itself financially into the black by selling television and video rights, and, no doubt, a lucrative deal could not have been closed without the presence of "big name" entertainers.

 

 

***

 

 

            African Americans are a dangerous fire. Africa needs our light but the burning must be controlled, otherwise, as the examples of Stevie Wonder and Princess illustrate, instead of being illuminated, our hosts will be burnt.

            I pay very little attention to most Black pop videos, the flaunting of light skinned, barely clothed, women. The macho posturing. The gaudy and glitzy ostentatiousness. The fantasy settings: sleek cars, fabulously laid out homes and apartments. The fancy, hi-tech accouterments and personal accessories. The drinking, dancing, drugging. The modern day minstrel shows.

            When I see these same videos in Ghana I am forced to pay attention.

            When you see these videos in Ghana, what you see is cultural imperialism in Black face. You see shamelessly misleading adverts of fantasy masquerading as reality. And all brought to you with a beat. The baddest beats in the world. Beats so bad even the drums of Africa are incorporating the African American backbeat.

            Traditional African drumming eschews the thumping backbeat. The rhythms are both more complex and more varied. But there's still nothing like basic African American  funk whether watered down into Western pop or dropped full force, uncut in the various manifestations ranging from the jumping jive of Louis Jordan to the digitized rumble of phat rap samples and beat loops.

            There is a battle going on for the souls of Black folk, and unfortunately albeit not inconsistently with our history, people of African descent are on both sides of the battleline.

            When you get to Africa, turn on a television and see one of these 90s videos, you see a lot more than you do sitting home on the urban plantations of America.

            Imagine yourself explaining the cultural significance of any random half hour of BET soul videos. Explaining the meaning of this madness to people for whom this is their main contact with African Americans. Fellow Africans who want to claim us as sisters and brothers. What do you say?

 


-F-

        

 

         ONCE YOU'VE BEEN THERE.

 

            I used to wonder how could one ship load of Portuguese or English be enough to conquer mighty, mighty nations. I don't wonder any longer. The answer is obvious once you have been there.

            But you must be in Ghana, on the coast where the English were, pass through the five walls, the triple gates, walk through the stark, hard stone courtyard of the 15th century Portuguese fort which served as a slave castle -- a holding place for the exportation of enslaved Africans. Be there and feel the weight of walls, the thickness of canon, the cold iron of twenty pound (or heavier) shot, descend those steps and shiver listening to the echo of your footsteps in the clammy cavern, hear the waves splintering on the rocks with a poltergeist roar that pounded the last sound of Africa into your ancestors' woolly heads.

            After you have experienced the soft tones of the gentle Ghanaian people, eyes wide, men holding hands, women leaning against each other, everyone touched. After being there, you know.

            Once you have been there you will know why, after he secured a toe hold on the coast, we never stood a chance against Tarzan. A thousand spears could never have destroyed a single fort door. And we were just too humane to ever assume that someone would destroy our world. Even today, without airplanes it would be hard to take the fort, especially if the soldiers inside were better armed, ruthless and under the illusion that you were not even human.

            And especially if Lord Greystone's predecessors had collaborators: kings who sold. Merchants, mercenaries, and middle men who directly profiteered off the slave trade. Guides and translators who traitored.

 

 

             Our PANAFEST guide now is a young Ghanaian woman named Ivana -- yes, a Soviet name. Someone said to her "that's Russian?" And she said "yes"; but she should have said "Soviet" from when the communists worked in solidarity with the liberation movements. Sure they had their own agenda and were pushing their own philosophy, but they helped when the West refused. Refused even medicine and clothing to the liberation movements. Or worse yet, the West sent aid to emerging states, aid which was a Trojan bomb wrapped in IMF (International Monetary Fund) total tinkering with a country's economy. Tinkering at the level of a stern pa-pa parceling out fifteen cents daily allowance with a solemn lecture that if you buy any candy, even a penny's worth, all of the dole will be cut off immediately. And you better not get caught hanging with the wrong crowd.

            Structural readjustment is what they call this tinkering. Young college trained economists from the West are the de facto regulators of large sectors of the economy -- including the national airline company.

            We flew in on a leased, Ghana Airlines jumbo jet. Even though native Ghanaian pilots are available, the terms of the lease dictate that certain experienced ("certain experienced" is a euphemism for "White" or White acculturated) pilots and crew members be used. In the international leagues you don't even get to choose your own team players -- that's the essence of structural adjustment.

            In Cape Coast a young vendor explains that Western clothing is dumped on Ghana as part of IMF trade regulations. African clothing is more expensive than the Western commodities. So generally, the people acquire the cheapest apparel available. Even so you still see a lot of Ghanaians in traditional garb. IMF makes it difficult for Africans to dress in African styles.

            Ivana may or may not know about the terms of foreign aid, about the IMF and about the Soviets. Right now she and a fellow guide, also a young woman from Accra, want to see the slave castle. Ivana had tasks to complete and by the time she got to the castle, the dungeon doors were locked. I will ask Ivana later why she has that name.

            Ivana was born into a family of priestesses of traditional religion. She does not plan to become a priestess but she explained the whole ritual to Stephanie as we stood in an open square near the fort in downtown Accra. The kings of the area were there enthroned beneath gold encrusted umbrellas. Linguists whom you must speak through to talk to the king -- assuming that you can even get that close --  sit holding wooden staffs which are topped with solid gold emblems. I spot the sanfoka symbol atop one of the staffs and know that is the symbol for "return and fetch it." From a distance of twenty feet or so, even I can see that real gold has a shine that is deeper than glitter. Real gold is impressive, especially when thick and intricately carved. Or so it seems to my untutored eye. Immediately, I reflect on the African American penchant for wearing gold rings, necklaces, bracelets and earrings.

            This is the night before we visit the slave castle on Cape Coast which is a long drive outside of Accra. This is our second night in Accra. The first night we went to the DuBois center for a concert. Actually this is the beginning of the third day because it is shortly after midnight and we have been told that there will be a special ceremony, an atonement ritual in which the chiefs will beg the ancestors for forgiveness because of what some of them did in collaborating with the slavers.

            Even though it is video taped, this is not simply a staged event. It is in a poor part of town. There are no politicians around making speeches. There is no Christian preacher beginning with a prayer to "our lord".

            What is here are hundreds of poor Ghanaians watching as their chiefs announce the purpose of this gathering. A bull is led out, later a goat. They will be sacrificed. Three different sets of drummers.

            Other than the chiefs and the priestesses, no one is dressed up. People wear whatever they wore yesterday, whatever they will wear later today. Whatever they will wear tomorrow.

            They stand in the dirt. Some laugh in the background. Some are somber as they watch the ceremony. And as they watch us, their American brothers and sisters.

            Although the event was impressive, it really was not for the benefit of the diaspora. This was a necessary step toward facing up to the painful negative realities of our history. No concerted effort was made to make sure that all of the diaspora attendees to PANAFEST were brought to the ceremony. It was not held in the national stadium or the national theatre. In fact there was not even a bus to bring us to this field in the poor part of town.

             This was a step that the continent needed to take. I watched from a distance and understood that although it was specifically about the slave trade, this purification ritual was not about me as a "diaspora survivor/descendent" of that trade. This was about those who had collaborated in sending me away.

            What was most interesting to me is that this was the traditional chiefs speaking to the masses and not the contemporary elected officials speaking to the educated. I knew that the traditional chiefs needed to atone, but I question why weren't the "contemporary chiefs" also present to assure the people and themselves that they would not fall victim to a reoccurence of this historic collaboration.

            Until repatriation of the diaspora is the law of every African state, and especially of West African countries, the betrayal will not have been fully reversed. Just as they sent us away, they must bring us back, otherwise our return will be seen as a threat and resentments will abound. The reintegration of the family that was torn asunder is no simple task. In fact it is emotionally taxing. Sometimes, like when I am standing there, one a.m. in the morning watching "them" slit the throat of a sacrificial bull, I find pause and wonder just how much I want to return if this is what I am returning to.

            Part of me is in the crowd of simple people, looking at the chiefs, listening to the words, looking at us, watching the ritual and trying to sort it all out. At least five or six people say to me in broken English, welcome home brother. Unlike the chiefs, the poor people intuitively know that our positions are interchangeable. It could have been them in the dungeon, and now returning centuries later ignorant of the mother tongue, a stranger in my motherland.

            Part of me is with the dispassionate observation of the media cameras angling for a better or more dramatic shot, taking it all in indiscriminately without any filter other than the consciousness of Tarzan the video director dictating what should be observed and remembered and what did not matter. Stephanie and Nia did not bring their cameras because they thought this was going to be a sacred ceremony. They were very disappointed when they saw the media video equipment. The world has changed so rapidly, Africa's growing pains are illuminated, and everything takes place within the public glare. Africa has no privacy.

            Tarzan spends most of his time looking at the chiefs, observing the rituals, talking  to an interpreter who explains what's going on. Very little of Tarzan's footage is of the people. Nobody translates what they are saying to each other.

            And there is another tortured part of me on that killing ground, my throat slit. Even though I do not want to think it, I have had enough experience with Black political leaders to know that not only would they sell us out, but they will even fake elaborate rituals of seeming sincerity if they think that is what it will take to maintain their power. I try not to make a judgment about these men whom I never met.

            At one point there is a delay. I find out later that Ivana told Stephanie the purification ritual required the participation of the women but the chiefs had not involved the women from the beginning of the program, even though the priestesses were there dressed in white.

             When the men finally got around to asking the women to participate, the women first said "no." After giving them a piece of their mind, the elder sisters relented and the ritual went on.

            Like, I said, even when they are sincere, sometimes politicians are still only thinking about themselves. Perhaps, like that bull kicking in the dust long after its throat had been slit and its blood had been gathered in a pan, and used in the ceremony; maybe, like that bull whose carcass was carted off on a flatbed wagon drawn to the field by two young boys, a cart whose two wheel flaps had pictures of a brown Jesus on them; perhaps like that bull, like that goat, perhaps I was simply being used as a sacrificial vehicle to assuage the guilt of these traditional politicians.

            It may sound totally cynical to view myself in this way, but the truth is, at some point it crossed my mind.

            The truth is that Black politicians have a history of selling us out.

            The truth is that I was in the dungeon, thanks in part to the chiefs.

             The truth is it will take more than the slaughter of one bull and one goat to account for that.

—kalamu ya salaam 

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "C" and "D")

photo by Alex Lear

-C-

 

 

         FOREIGN EXCHANGE.

 

            When Felicia opens the sea blue piece of kente with symbols woven into the fabric, Nia turns her back to the cloth. "I don't want to see. I don't want to see it." One of those moments so overwhelming that you turn away because you know you cannot resist.

            I am not a shopper. I don't buy much of anything that is not either a book, a recording, computer software, or a piece of equipment. I especially am not much on buying clothes and fabric. Nevertheless, as soon as it is fully open, I convince myself that it would be wise to splurge and buy this gigantic piece of kente. It's big enough to serve as a spread for a king sized bed and beautiful enough to hang in a museum or art shop.

            Marketeer Felicia Kissi is a quintessential vendor at the Accra Art Center Market. Originally from Kumasi, she makes her living selling fabric, mainly kente, in the bustling capital city marketplace. Before our trip is over both Nia and I will revisit Felicia's stall and buy other pieces from her. Tourists are the main customers for these vendors.

            The market work is hard. The vendors arrive very early in the morning, set up their stalls, hanging fabric, articles of clothing, accessories, artifacts, and whatnots as high as twenty feet. Items are layered one on top the other. They sell all day and then completely break down their stall at night. In general, families work together and it is the women who seem to be in charge.

            As you walk past stall after stall, down the narrow aisles, your eyes beguiled by the seemingly endless array of African textiles and artifacts, choosing what to buy and which stall to buy from is mostly happenstance and the vicissitudes of personal preference.

            Of course, the vendors call out to you, invite you to stand in their small six foot square stalls, and greet you as "brother," "sister," promising the best deal in the market.  And "deal" it is. There are no marked prices in the market. Everything is an amiable haggle. The vendors start high expecting that the customer will demand a reduced price. The negotiating is part of the buying process.

            Nia loves the exchange. It's exasperating to me. Just tell me the price and then I will decide if I want to pay it. Although haggling back and forth turns me off, the blue kente puts even me in the mood. Felicia on one side. Nia and I on the other. We begin the bargain dance.

            There is no way I would ever have bought this piece of kente in the United States even though I might have admired it and desired it if I had seen it. First of all, this is not a piece one would find in a bookstore or small boutique which are generally the places from which I buy African material. I have never bought material from a museum or art shop. Moreover, the Stateside price for a piece such as this blue kente would undoubtedly be prohibitive. It's hard to believe it's me about to spend over $100 dollars for fabric. But here I am on a dirt field in downtown Accra, Ghana at an open air market shopping at a level I've never before done in my life.

            We bargain and end up getting two small pieces plus the impressive, gigantic-sized piece for a total of US$200. Back in the states, one of the small pieces alone would cost more than we have paid for the whole lot.

 

 

***

 

 

            It is Wednesday, 7 December 1994, our first day in Ghana and we are shopping. There is nothing on the PANAFEST schedule until the formal opening on Friday in Cape Coast. Recalling my trip to Tanzania for the 6th Pan African Congress, I encourage Nia to shop today -- which is a little like encouraging a fish to swim. I tell her how prices were actually cheaper when we first arrived at 6PAC than when we left. I suspect the influx of tourists for PANAFEST will be met with a similar rise in the prices that the market will bear. It's basic supply and demand economics. When there are lots of people with the money and the willingness to buy, you can charge more than when the number of people, the amount of spending money and the willingness to buy is less.

            We visit a number of stalls, including one recommended to us by Steve Bowser, a friend of mine from Atlanta who is chief of security at Spelman College and who was recently in Ghana. Our first day in Ghana, Nia and I do more shopping together than we have done in our almost four years together. And the vendors are waiting for us.

            We are shown masks, including some "old-looking" dusty masks which the owner invites us to view inside a small wooden enclosure. This is their living. The vendors know that the more "authentic" the sculpture looks, the higher the price they can demand. I am no authority on traditional African sculpture, so I can't even begin to identify styles and quality of workmanship. In cases like this I just go with my gut feelings. What I like, what I don't. We don't buy any masks.

            We are also shown some Asafo Flags. One set of three seems to be authentic. The fabric is worn. The embroidery and appliquÇs do not have a "finished" or "highly crafted" look. The lines are curvy rather than machine straight. Again, although I am no authority, these seem to be real. They are probably a very good buy for someone who is into art and knows the value, but they don't really appeal to me. I pass.

            After an hour or so of perusing the back end of the market where the sculpture and handicrafts stalls are located, we end up buying a leather grip which we get for US$24. We use it to carry the two outfits and a few smaller items which we had bought in the fabric section. The grip is a source of admiration everywhere we go. When we arrive back in the States, getting on the flight from New York to Atlanta, a group of three women ask Nia where she got it. They want to buy the bag, but Nia's not selling.

            After purchasing the bag, we return to the fabric area to bargain for two dress dashikis, one is a magnificent brown fabric with cowry shells. I end up paying US$80 for two shirts. The pricing started at $60 for just the cowry shell shirt. Throughout our two weeks in Ghana, in and out of various stalls, including making the rounds at the trade exhibition, we don't run into anything like the cowry shell shirt.

            We then look at a large bed spread sized piece of red wool-like fabric which has appliquÇs on it. It's starting price is well over $100. We like it but pass. Our last stop is back to the stall where we saw an impressive piece of kente for $60 when we first  came in.

            We spent hours going through the entire market. We are now back to this beautiful piece of kente. Nia and I decide to get it. The vendor shows us another piece which is almost as impressive and offers us a deal if we buy both. I am debating on whether I'm ready to spend $110 for two shawl size pieces of kente.

            Nia thinks it's a sound investment. I don't know. We have a very limited amount of money and if we spend over $300 dollars the first day, it might prove to be a very big mistake. I'm on the verge of changing my mind. I start looking around. Rather than taking advantage of a great deal, this just might be the licking of a sucker, and it's simply my minute to be born.

            I start looking up and down and all around. I've never ever in my life spent this much for fabric. I really don't know how to act. Then I spy a piece of blue way up at the top. I can only see the color and a part of some design in bright golden yellow. Maybe the pieces we're about to buy aren't the best pieces. "May I see that blue piece?"

 

 

***

 

  

            One of our main activities in Accra was shopping! We joked that it was a contribution to the Ghanaian economy.

            The foreign exchange generated from shopping for Ghanaian produced textiles, handicrafts and artifacts is potentially a major piece of Ghana's economic puzzle. Many, many developing countries, who generally produce one or two crops for export, are trying to figure out how to use tourism to generate foreign exchange at significant levels without suffering the moral debilitation that usually accompanies tourism.

            When tourism becomes a main source of foreign exchange, inevitably, at best, the country becomes a family oriented amusement park. At worse -- and unfortunately worse is the norm -- as tourism grows the country spirals socially downward becoming a mixture of brothel, gaming den and vacation spot for  moneyed people who cheaply "buy" natives to serve up and satisfy exotic/erotic fantasies.

            Over the past two decades, the island nations of the Caribbean have initiated numerous efforts to define and implement cultural tourism. Ideally, cultural tourism is benign in both its moral and material effects on the host society. Most cultural tourism efforts have centered around music festivals and national holiday celebrations such as jazz festivals in Aruba, Barbados and St. Lucia, or "Crop Over" in Barbados and "Carnival" in Trinidad.

            In theory, groups of people who have an interest in the ethnicity and heritage of the islands will attend these events as participants and not just as "idle rich consumers." The sad truth is that cultural tourism has been a failure.

            In Cuba, cultural tourism has led to a massive reappearance of prostitution and to the commodification of Afro-Cuban religious rituals and artifacts. For a specific fee, a tourist can be initiated into the religion during their ten day visit. Or, for a specific fee, a tourist can fulfill an exotic/erotic fantasy with a readily available young Cuban woman.

            Fierce debates are raging between cultural activists and government bureaucrats. The activists see the crass commercializing and commodification of the culture as a death blow. The bureaucrats on the other hand encourage, if not demand, that every cultural activity that receives any government support must in one way or another pay for itself through attracting the tourist dollar. Moreover, overt negatives such as black market activities, prostitution, and drug trafficking are broadly tolerated. This is a sad, but true, state of affairs in a revolutionary, socialist country which has been economically squeezed well past the breaking point. To a greater or lesser degree the situation is the same all over the Caribbean.

            The worse part about this development is that the foreign exchange generated from cultural tourism is relatively modest, if not insignificant. We people of color wherever we are found literally sell ourselves, our flesh, our dignity, our human spirit and in return receive barely enough money to survive, and never enough money to develop. Moreover, the cruelest twist of the tourism trap is that, in an effort to build hotels, convention centers, upgrade roads, provide "first class" transportation and guides, install air conditioning and insure an abundant supply of hot water, plus keep on hand a broad array of succulent meals day and night, our developing countries end up going deeper in debt to the governments and corporations of the tourists to whom we sell ourselves.

            Other than a "good time," we produce little that the tourist wants to buy. Most of the money that is generated from this type of tourism is made by those who own and operate the capital intensive areas of the tourist economy: the international transporters, the hotels and resorts, and the management of exclusive tourist activities and events.

            Our governments posses neither the resources nor the skills required to compete with multinational corporations. The airline companies, for example, of small countries are severely limited in their ability to match price discounts and services offered by the major American and European airlines. Governments are completely out of their league in running hotels and resorts. Usually the results of such efforts are both wasteful of valuable resources and hopelessly amateur by comparison to the Hilton's, Marriotts, Meridians, and hundreds of other hotel and resort chains which operate internationally.

            Moreover, the cultural events which are produced to attract the tourists often end up alienating our own people. Local people are too poor to buy tickets to and participate in the very events which were setup to attract foreign exchange.

            Additionally, the actual cash return on investments in festivals and specially staged events has been far less than projected. I speak from the experience of helping to organize festival and special events in the Caribbean and also from my background of growing up and working in New Orleans, a city which is economically defined and sociologically influenced by tourism.

            In most of the Caribbean cases, we were unable to attract the quantity of tourists needed to sustain and profit from the events. Additionally, we ended up either importing culture that was alien to the host country or presenting  commercialized replications of indigenous culture for the entertainment of tourists whose tastes are geared toward hedonism. In New Orleans we on the ground are unable to compete with the major tourist infrastructures. Thus, we end up filling service slots in the cultural tourism scheme.

            Moreover, despite the rhetoric to the contrary, competing for the foreign exchange of the tourist dollar becomes the major, if not sole, preoccupation of the managers of cultural tourism.

            PANAFEST exhibited some of the negative aspects outlined above, especially 1.)  the inability of government civil servants to plan and manage cultural activities and 2.) the alienation of local people from the performances and special events.

            This is the second, biennial PANAFEST. In 1992 it had been mostly in Accra. The secretariat decided, I suspect based on government suggestions, to decentralize PANAFEST 1994. Performances were held in five or six different cities. The colloquium was held at the University of Cape Coast except for one day of presentations in Kumasi. Opening and closing activities were held in Accra with an ongoing trade fair, exhibitions, film festival, and concerts in the capital city. Stevie Wonder, for example, was scheduled to perform in Accra.

            The idea seemed to be to spread everything around and also to figure a way to develop the Cape Coast area where the two main castles are located: Cape Coast and Elmina. The actuality was that it was almost unmanageable. In Accra many of the performances were sparsely attended because of the pricing structure and because the people who could have afforded the concerts and who were also most interested in PANAFEST were in Cape Coast attending the colloquium. 

             The planning committee found itself right up to and past opening day making "structural adjustments." The government guaranteed money was not received until two weeks before the event, meaning that there was very little hard promotion outside of Ghana. For example, even though Ghana Airlines offered a very reasonable $1200 dollar round-trip, direct flight from New York, we received the specific information only three weeks before our departure date.

            PANAFEST came into some fierce criticism from Ghanaians who felt that 94 was a step backward in comparison to the first one.

            In 1992 the first PANAFEST was more successful in organizing programs that encouraged and achieved major participation by locals in PANAFEST activities. But in the second year, most of the events were sparsely attended by Ghanaians. Ticket pricing was one major reason. But also the level of coordination with and involvement of local associations and organizations was minimized. The colloquium, for example, which was held at the University of Cape Coast had very little attendance from students at the University. There were no organized outreach activities to present the wide range of guests to the Ghanaian people through educational, religious, social or other indigenous institutions.

            In this regard, Ghana is neither unique nor even particularly bad at planning and administration. It's just that most of the people who were in charge of planning and administration were civil servants and tended to think in discreet, status quo, exclusive paradigms. They did what they had been trained to do. They did only what they knew how to do and what was acceptable to government superiors.

            Fortunately, the diversity of PANAFEST participants and the rural location of Cape Coast offered a great deal of informal interchange between visitors and villagers. Everywhere we walked, people welcomed us, talked to us.

            Perhaps in 1996, PANAFEST will build on the positives of people to people exchanges. Perhaps they will send us into schools and community centers to learn from and share our experiences with local people. Even on the level of peer to peer networking and workshoping, there were literally thousands of missed opportunities.

             On the other hand, part of the reason we were able to see the potential of these opportunities is because a large and diverse body of us had been invited to PANAFEST. This grouping is a critical mass which unavoidably sets off sparks, some of which will die out, but some of which will catch fire in the hearts and minds of one, two, twenty or however many participants. Some of us will not only be emotionally touched, we will also be motivated to action as a result of our PANAFEST experience in Ghana.

            Regardless of the numerous snafus and programmatic inadequacies, once in motion, PANAFEST brings literally hundreds of Africans from the diaspora into direct contact with Ghana, a contact which is destined to produce long term impact important to future development of both the host and the visitors. Get enough of the diaspora there, and we'll figure out for ourselves how to make something happen.

            The Pan African reintegration of the diaspora is an experimental process, the results cannot be premeditated nor quantified, or even qualified, in advance. The raw experience of Africa, the rock of our diaspora experiences: our ignorances and assumptions, our nostalgia and romanticism, our postmodern aggressiveness and Western temperaments. The rock of all of that hitting the hard realities of Africa will produce the spark required to resuscitate Pan Africanism.

            What is fired in the hearts and minds of PANAFEST participants no one can predict. But what is clear is that the PANAFEST experience will touch some in significant ways, and we will leave Africa burning with a determination to reclaim Africa within ourselves wherever we are. Possibly, a handful of us will even physically return to work temporarily, if not to live permanently.

            Ghana's main success with PANAFEST was that it invested in the cost to get us there. Sponsoring PANAFEST was an economic risk on the one hand, but, from another perspective, sponsorship was also a necessary step in Ghanaian national development, a step of healing, a step of re-completing, reuniting, rebuilding through embracing the diaspora. We in the diaspora have our own problems to sort out with the actualization of Pan Africanism and this sorting out process sometimes blinds us to the difficulties that continental Africa has with making Pan Africanism real.

            Because of its history and because PANAFEST seems as  though it will outlive FESTAC and similar efforts at Pan African cultural celebration, all of PANAFEST's deficiencies stood out in bold relief and were closely inspected by both friend and foe. Were Ghana not sponsoring PANAFEST, there would be nothing to criticize.

            There was a legitimate concern for the health and future of PANAFEST in the criticisms of participants. Some of the general criticism from non-participants, however, was not intended as a critique to help improve PANAFEST, but rather was an attack whose objective was to bury PANAFEST. Undoubtedly there are those in Ghana who would prefer that PANAFEST not exist at all. There are those who think it is a wasteful and unnecessary event. Such critics are particularly distrustful of involving large numbers of diaspora Africans. So, while we acknowledge the shortcomings, we must also resolutely support PANAFEST.

            Overall, PANAFEST is a good thing, and potentially could become a major, if not "the" major Pan African event. At the end of the colloquium there was even a criticism and suggestion session designed to elicit both honest assessment of the positive and negatives of the event, as well as to encourage participants to make suggestions for future PANAFEST activities.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

THE GHANAIAN CHRONICLE

Monday, December 19 - Wednesday, December 21, 1994

 

 

 

EDITORIAL

PANAFEST: An apology...and a celebration of the Soul.

 

COMPARED TO OTHER cultural fiestas like the Nottinghill Gate festival in London, (a purely West Indian affair), or the Rio Carnival in Brazil, or Mardi Grass in the USA, our Pan-African Historical Festival, PANAFEST, is a minor cantata of Kindergarten proportions.

            But the execution of these bigger events, which are annual celebrations, have been remarkable in their flawlessness. Baring the occasional run-ins with the British Police by revelers, the Nottinghill Gate festival in the British capital, an explosive fusion of sounds, culture and magic that involves thousands of performers and groups with elaborate paraphernalia has been exquisite presentations by our fellow brothers and sisters in England.

            Sadly, our own cultural festival which took two years of high-brow preparation to put together will probably be remembered as an epic failure.

            An event which the average Ghanaian, indeed the African on the continent sought to present as a vehicle for the breaking of bread with the rest of the African Family may be antithetical to the very theme we set out ourselves.

            Almost without exception, the performers and the visitors, high and low, low and high have had legitimate cause to complain about the unparalleled paucity in preparations, and huge personal frustrations. They were promised the moon, but they didn't even get past the clouds.

            Even our President went on record to voice his own disappointment. Unfortunately, he also did not fail to beguile our soul brothers with some tangential vituperations about death and grasscutters in his speech at Cape Coast. We apologise on his behalf. He is our President. We tolerate him. He goes off at times, but well, he is the only President we have got at the moment.

            THE GHANAIAN CHRONICLE wishes to apologise most sincerely for this floppy, scrappy preparations and the anguish it has caused the brothers.

            For those who were deceived and became the victims of sleight-of-tongue officialdom, we want to say 'Yepamo kyew'. Let us just hope that they can write it  off as the price of a pilgrimage to the Motherland.

            We hope they see the visit more in terms of a celebration of soul, the return of brothers and sisters uprooted in decades gone past into slavery, now returning completely liberated and strengthened to the Original family home. A home with all its problems, its difficulties, its shortcomings, but the Original Home all the same.

            Again, we implore participants, visitors, our guests, our brothers and sisters not to characterise this Panaflop as indicative of the much-touted African failure story. This was a government enterprise that had virtually zero private sector participation. Our government is now realising the wisdom in turning over the 'commanding heights' of our economy to private hands. At the Head of the National Commission of Culture which has oversight of PANAFEST, is one Lieutenant-General whom every Ghanaian kid knows as a monumental failure. And we are not that surprised that he could not arrest this failure as well. Next time, there will not be a Mr. John "Octopus" Darkey to personally engage in outright silly things like personally violently seizing video recorders as he did last Thursday and arrogating to himself a hundred tasks he cannot execute. He will run away when we start our own inquisition when you are all gone back to your 'civilisation'.

            We are sorry. We will do a better job next time, but let the spirit of brotherhood and unity remain and continue to glow as you begin your return journeys. Accentuate the positive in your accounts and testimonies to the folks back home. Tell them there are no marauding gunmen and colonies of drug junkies, that our school kids do not know what guns are, let alone take them to school as is the case in all the inner cities in the United States. But also tell them of the filth and stench in our cities, our struggles, the bankruptcy of our leadership, and the shimmering mirage of the so-called Economic Star-Pupil of the IMF (International Monetary Fund). Please come back. We love you. (P. 5)

 

 

 

***

 

 

FREE PRESS (Accra, Ghana)

December 16 to December 22, 1994

 

 

EDITORIAL

BEHIND THE  PANAFEST JINGLE

(Part Two)

 

            IT was Julius Nyerere of Tanzania, one of the sages of our time, a Nobel laureate, who once lamented, "While America is reaching for the moon, Tanzania is reaching for the village". This saying sums up the tragedy not of Tanzania alone but most of Africa as well.

            In his vision, Nyerere no doubt sees the village of old where the people only scratch the surface of the earth for their bare existence on a few headloads of produce; where for their music, the village folks thwack the surface of tympanic parchment upon dug-out stems for percussion, and blow wind through wooden flute, and sing and dance with frenzied abandon; the village where for their entertainment, the young folks gather by moonlight at the village centre, sing, clap, and dance; where girls of ripen age, heavily adorned with rich beads, and baring the sexy parts of their bodies, are paraded through the village under the Dipo or Otofo custom; the village where little children sit under the shade of the compound tree to learn ABC, and the elderly drink palm wine or pito.

            Yea, Nyerere must be seeing the village where the folks worship their chiefs like demigods, who decide the destiny of every soul, and whose word must be obeyed; the chiefs who having been adorned with riches are carried in palanquin on festive occasions and when they die, seven heads must carry their  dead body in his grave; the village where the farming, fishing and hunting men and women retire to rest at night in the thatched-roofed mud huts.

            But, O, when shall we leave this village in which we all live to where it belongs, and set our eyes towards the moon?, Nyerere would lament.

            By setting our eyes towards the moon, Nyerere would want Africa to look forward not backward for development and progress.

            Relating Nyerere's lamentation  to PANAFEST and its theme "The re-emergence of African civilisation" the crucial question one would ask is, is this the right time in Ghana's political, social, and economic tragedy to devote such enormous time and resources to promote "The Re-emergence of African Civilisation" on such a huge Panafestic scale?

            Is it right to spend billions of cedis in promoting "The Emergence of African Civilisation" while the economy is in shambles and inflation has become the order of the day, making life not worth living for the people, and parents cannot pay school fees?

            Is it right to spend billions of cedis to organise PANAFEST while the people live in abject poverty, and while our hospitals lack the basic materials and equipment to look after the sick and the people cannot pay for the cost of health care?

            What do we benefit from the billions wasted on PANAFEST while our young men and women roam the streets without jobs, some of them taking to peddling dog chains.

            Our educational institutions - from JSS to the Universities - have a chilling story to tell. No classroom accommodation, no equipment, no text-books, yet billions of cedis have been thrown into the PANAFEST drain.

            Where is the wisdom in sinking billions of cedis in a white elephant like PANAFEST while our police force lack vehicles, men, and even the stationery needed to establish and maintain law and order in the community, and while the defiled environment  breeds diseases?

            Can a country in need such as Ghana, begging for money all over the  world, waste so much money on such a hopeless venture as PANAFEST just to satisfy the appetite of a tyrant for ceremony and adulation, and his admirers from the Diaspora?

            Since, from all  indications, PANAFEST is being organized also to enable our brothers and sisters from the Diaspora to see and participate in "The Emergence of African Civilsation", it is fitting to bring under focus their entire relationship, their attitude towards Africans as brothers and sisters, and advancement of the continent.

            It is, indeed, sad that African Americans have nothing to show the world even as a memorial to their roots, a contribution for the development of Africa, to make the motherland a place worth living in not for Africans alone but for themselves as well.

            It is true that although African Americans had lived for centuries in America as slaves from Africa, whenever they come around to Africa they are shocked to see the backwardness of the motherland their forefathers left behind centuries ago. Indeed, they find their social conditions far more advanced than those of the brothers and sisters back home.

            A few of them like W.E.B. Du-Bois and Marcus Garvey, concerned with this situation, have in the past made suggestions for the emancipation, advancement, and development of Africa, yet these patriots met with strong rebuff from the majority, led by the likes of Booker T. Washington and others.

            So a Black Endowment Bank for Africa Development that could have saved Africa from World Bank imperialism in the 20th century for instance, never was.

            Indeed, since the second half of this century, there have been Black Americans of substance who could have contributed greatly towards Africa's well-being. From Paul Robeson, Louis Satchmo Armstrong, Bill Cosby, to Michael Jackson; from Jesse Owens, Joe Louis, Don King, to Mike Tyson; and many others, including businessmen, fund raising shows could have been and tournaments organised to raise billions of dollars into an African endowment fund, but all that never was.

             Interestingly, the luckiest Ghana had been was when Farrakhan contributed 50 dollars (yes 50 dollars!) in 1992 towards an appeal for funds at the W.E.B. Du-Bois centre. One, therefore, clearly sees the mischief done by Rawlings in donating as much as 50,000 dollars to Priscilla Kruize and her Heritage Museum in America!

            It is indeed painful to think that Ghana gains nothing from the camera-bearing, cap-wearing bespectacled African Americans who are occasionally invited to take part in festivities like PANAFEST, many of them addicted to taking photographs of dancers, and collecting sculptural pieces and other art works back home.

            Perhaps, next time round, Ghana would need the good services of notaries like Marva Collins, and Johnette B. Cole, in the field of education; Toni Morrison, Alex Harley, Amiri Baraka and Maya Angelow [sic], in the field of Arts and Literature; Carol Moseley Braun, Jesse Jackson, Maxine Waters, in politics; Angela Davis, Coretta Scott King, Anita Hill, social activities; Dorothy Height, Phyllis Wallace, Oprah Winfrey, Cardis Collins and Joan B. Johnson, in the business fields and not singers, clowns, and clappers.

            In any case, may we have the pleasure to welcome our brothers and sisters from the Diaspora who have come all the way to join in the fray, and the raping of the national coffers as it is believed to serve other political ends in the name of PANAFEST. O' what a great contribution to the cause of the motherland.  (P. 6)

 

 

***

 

 

            Part of what PANAFEST wanted to do was encourage capital investment in Ghana by people in the diaspora. A number of Ghanaian officials were focusing in this direction rather than on raw tourism. Part of the reason is conditions: Ghana does not have a tourism infrastructure in place. In Cape Coast there was not one hotel which could offer the two hundred or so rooms required to house most of the colloquium participants and performers in one place. The new hotel complex which was scheduled to be completed and which would have been large enough to accommodate the participants, unfortunately was not ready.

            Ghana recognizes they need serious development. Fortunately, they also are proud of their own culture and social traditions. They are not looking for "fast food" development.

            At the newly opened theatre/cultural center in Cape Coast, there was a Taco Bell restaurant. It was toward the rear of the building. I sought it out because I wanted to see how Ghana was handling multinational corporate participation in the national developmental process. There was nothing Taco Bell about the restaurant. There was no quick anything. The food was Ghanaian for the most part. There was not one "Tex-Mex" item on the menu. No Taco Bell napkins, imprinted paper products, or the like. In fact, if a small sign on the door didn't say Taco Bell, there would have been absolutely no way to know that this was a Taco Bell. And then, maybe it wasn't a Taco Bell. Maybe somebody just decided to call the place Taco Bell.

            Throughout Accra and the Cape Coast area there are few Western fast food restaurants. I don't personally remember seeing any, although I'm sure some do exist. In fact, I saw more computer billboards and businesses than burger or chicken advertisements and businesses. Coca-cola, of course, is there but Ghana has an indigenous product which favorably competes. "Citro" is a lemon/lime beverage which I liked better than either "Sprite" or "7Up".

            In any case, rather than rely solely on a large influx of multinational franchises, Ghana is hoping to attract capital investment from the African diaspora. Ghana has all kinds of developmental opportunities for those with modest (by diaspora standards) amounts of capital who are willing to work at long term development. Opportunities abound in a numerous areas, from agriculture to retailing, medicine to tourism, transportation to compact disc manufacturing. Ghana has both the need and the desire to involve diaspora Africans.

            Which brings us back to shopping. Nia and I bought quite a few items in Ghana which were far more substantial than tourist trinkets and souvenirs. Ghanaian textiles, particularly the kente cloth, has significant retailing potential. Unlike other examples of  "African print material", kente is actually manufactured in Ghana rather than merely designed by and for Africans but manufactured somewhere in Europe or Asia. Moreover, Africans in the diaspora are predisposed to wearing the material as both a fashion statement and an expression of ethnic pride. Finally, kente is part of the traditional Ghanaian culture. Although tourist oriented kente (with Greek fraternity/sorority slogans, Christian quotes, and the like) abound in the marketplace, kente was not originally created to sell to tourists.

            The potential of cultural tourism will never bear fruit as long as the emphasis is on "selling" entertainment to tourists. Selling entertainment invariably leads to decadence and hedonism. Ideally, like some of the emerging industrialized Asian nations, we would also like for African countries to be in the business of exporting technical equipment, such as computers. But, at the moment, that's an unrealistic dream. What is within our grasp is the encouragement of capital linkages between continental and diaspora Africans.

            For a number of reasons, ranging from the negatives of our deteriorating social conditions where we live to the positives of ethnic pride in our motherland, Africans in the diaspora will increase our interaction with the continent. Moreover, when we go to Africa, we will also want to bring Africa back with us. As more and more of us go, that pool of those who have returned and immersed ourselves into Africa's reality will produce individuals and opportunities which will result in serious capital investment.

            As I travel around the United States, whether traveling by car via interstate, or especially when flying through various airports, two characteristics strike me: one, the enormous size and level of development of the United States, and, two, the fact that America is in no way willing, prepared or even minimally inclined to share the resources and material development built up in the 20th century.

            Look at a small town like Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana, which doesn't even register as a major city by U.S. standards. In terms of physical infrastructure, Baton Rouge is light years ahead of Accra, the capital of Ghana. There are literally thousands of American cities the size of Baton Rouge with fully functioning airports, higher educational institutions, health and sanitation, communications and other industrial infrastructure. Although this density of development would be extraordinary in any other country in the world, most of we African Americans are blissfully unaware of the immensity and import of America's industrial infrastruce.

            In many, many ways, because all we really know about industrialism is consumerism, African Americans are unaware of what industrial development entails. We don't think about heavy machinery manufacturing, transportation concerns, sanitation, general utilities, medical services, and on and on. I remember reading one of the Sandinista writers who talked about the bewildering process of administering newly liberated Nicaragua.

            The mettle of any revolution is most severely tested not in the armed struggle phase, but rather in the reconstruction phase. This is where Africa needs the most help, and this is precisely where the bulk of we African Americans are deficient simply because we have not been in management and skilled labor but rather traditionally we have been relegated to being the brawn and brute strength of the American economy.

            On the level of material standard of living, we are, of course, very aware of being "better off" than most people in the world, and especially "better off" than Africa. Yet our "better off-ness" is both relative and solely material rather than absolute and social. As citizens of the U.S.A. we have some (depending on our particular financial wherewithal) access to the "good life" and some enjoyment of the material trappings of a modern industrial society manifested as a so-called high standard of living. Yet our relationships to the wealth and means of production, the infrastructure that makes all this possible, is tenuous at best. Whatever access we have is generally one of proximity or of being a "servant of the system" (whether as Joint Chief of Staff or Supreme Court Justice does nothing to change the ultimate reality that our participation in the affairs of the ruling class is to serve at their pleasure and to do their bidding).

            There is a big difference between being close to power or serving the interests of power and actually sharing power. Indeed, when looked at in detail and on an economic basis, those of us who live poor and Black in the inner cities of America have a standard of living (in terms of health care, life expectancy and other measures of social wellbeing) which is amazingly similar to our brothers and sisters in major cities throughout sub-Sahara Africa. We neither control nor produce, and therefore are dependents in relationship to America's industrial standard of living.

             Finally, to whatever degree we are better off, it is only in possession of material things. In terms of social wellbeing, in terms of individual and collective sanity, in terms of mental health and community, morals and ethics, well, let's just say things ain't what they used to be for African Americans at the end of the 20th century. Confronted by Africa's underdevelopment in an industrial sense combined with our own penchant for the material trappings of the so-called good life, Africa quickly teaches the diaspora that African Americans in general are the "whitest" Africans in the world. Our up side is that we have greater access to "things". Our downside is that our proximity to American power and mores has bleached us spiritually and socially.

            My critique of African Americans allegedly being better off than continental Africans focuses not only on our relationship to U.S. industrial development and our adoption of an American consciousness, but also we should focus on and question the cost of that development -- the whole world has suffered so that those of us in America can live as we do, even those of us who have limited access to and share very little of the wealth and power of America.

            The recent rise of the Republican party in America is further reinforcement that there will be no sharing of this wealth. From coast to coast, border to border, I go into what is left of the "Black community" and I am saddened. While we were never in a position to compete, at least, during the first half of the 20th century, we African Americans were building an internal economic infrastructure. Today, with far more political freedom, we have regressed into a state of near peonage, into an economic serfdom which is most accurately measured by noting deficiencies and lacks.

            Those of us who try to start businesses find ourselves severely outclassed and hampered not just by a lack of expertise and capital, but also hampered by having to compete with fully developed multinationals who are becoming increasingly adroit at employing niche marketing schemes designed to sew up the African American market. If we are to develop and compete as a people, it just seems that there is so very little room for growth available to us in the United States. People talk about opportunity, but what kind of opportunity do we have when we are first generation business people going up against the major, minor and even bush leagues of Wall Street corporations? Africa is a much more sensible and level playing field in terms of competition and also in terms of need.

            In African developmental terms, a $50,000 project is serious and significant. In the USA, that amount barely qualifies as venture capital in business development. African Americans who want to develop businesses and make serious money, stand a much better chance at competing and succeeding in Ghana than they do in the home of the brave and the land of the free.

            While they are not discouraging nor overlooking the tourist dollar, at this historical moment, Ghana is seeking African Americans to make venture capital, developmental investments in Ghana. There is both a genuine need and a genuine desire for an infusion of diaspora African skills and capital. When it comes to foreign exchange, the Pan African potential is enormous.

             Some suggest that South Africa will be the new "promised land". My particular reading is that South Africa will see blood shed and rough times before it sees a real improvement in the lives of African people. The White controlled, industrial infrastructure which makes South Africa so attractive to investors, is also the major obstacle for indigenous African development. Although I am not a prophet, the clash of Black expectations for a significant increase in their standard of living versus White determination to hold on to wealth and economic power is an obvious and unavoidable obstacle in the path of South African national development.

            Although Ghana is certainly not the only African country which is desirous of and could benefit from an infusion of diaspora capital and skills, psychologically, Ghana is the most prepared to make use of the unique diaspora configuration of foreign exchange. Some refer to this as the "Israel" model.

            The basic foundation of a large diaspora able to offer capital and political support is a point we and Jews have in common, there are also significant differences, not the least of which is the fact that Israel is one state, while Africa is a continent made up of many states. More important than logistical questions is the fact that the Jews as a people have never had a serious inferiority complex about themselves nor have they, as a people, been brainwashed into believing that the White man's ice is colder, the White man's businesses are better, and the White man's brains are smarter. While individual Jews

TRAVEL WRITING: TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN (parts "A" and "B")

photo by Alex Lear

 

TARZAN CAN NOT RETURN

TO AFRICA / BUT I CAN

— PANAFEST 1994 — 

 


-A-

 

 

         WHY DID I SAY THAT?

 

            "Tarzan, I have come to kill you."

            He laughs at my statement.

            "Why do you laugh? I am serious. My arrival means your demise. Your death."

            He chuckles, "Old boy..."

            I stiffen.

            "Oh don't take yourself so seriously."

            Pause. My eyes flare Ghanaian red as if cosmetically colored with the extract of a traditional root.

            Sensing my anger, Tarzan waves a manicured hand. Did you notice how Tarzan's hands are never dirty? "OK. 'Sir!' Shall I call you sir? I don't mean anything honorable by it. You know my contempt. I know my contempt. But I shall lie to you and call you 'sir' if that makes you feel better."

            I face him down. "Your last words?"

            He beats his chest.

            A lion roars. The elephants arrive. A blonde scurries in and adjusts his make up.

            "Do you think my right or my left side is better?"

            We pause as Tarzan poses, standing still until the director shouts "cut."

            Striding purposefully off the set, Tarzan takes me by the arm, "Come, let me show you something."

            We walk for a few days along the coast past twenty-eight castles. I keep him in front of me.

            "Well? You know, we couldn't have done all of this alone."

            I am not going to debate my history with him. "Are you ready to die?"

            "Oh, that again."

             "Tarzan, I've come to kill you."

            "You can't kill me."

            "Watch me."

            "You can't kill me because I am you and you are me. You are Tarzan, don't you get it? Of course you don't. You think you're free. You think you're African."

            Pause.

            I advance. Which weapon should I use. Maybe my bare hands. Yes.

            "I'm the only Africa you grew up knowing. Novels. Comic Books. Movies. Television. You can't kill how you grew up. Remember swinging on a rope and yelling like me?"

            He yells and beats his chest.

            "Remember the dumb spear chuckers? That was your Uncle Robert. I gave you two choices: you could be me or you could be them. You could be oog-la-boog-la or you could be Aaahh-Owwww-Ooooh-Ooooh!"

            Tarzan chuckles quietly.

            "Let's have a drink. Brandy would be nice, don't you think?"

            Pause.

            "How long did it take you to realize that you had no choices?"

            Pause.

            I don't know why I couldn't answer him. Why I didn't just kill him right then.

            "You know I've learned all of your languages and you've forgotten all of your languages. Dreadful, isn't it? All you have is my tongue."

            Tarzan takes his tongue out of his mouth and sits it on the table.

            "Go on, pick it up old man. Come, come now. Really it won't bite you. Teeth bite. Tongues don't. Oh, you know sticks and stones, and all that rot. Oh don't be a twit, go on try it. Give it a go."

            He nods at me. The tongue is wagging on the table.

            "Pick me up. Pick me up. Pick me up."

            Tarzan smiles. Nods to me again. Looks away.

            I raise my knife. Tarzan turns calmly, looks at me, smiles, raises his brandy  sniffer.

            "Cheers, old chap. And good luck. God knows, you will bloody well need it."

            Tarzan fades to dust. The brandy glass is empty. I am standing with the stupid knife in my hand and you enter the room.

            I hear my voice but not my tongue. I look on the table. Tarzan's tongue is gone. I turn to face you and break the silence of our communication with two words.

            "Me, Tarzan."

 

***

 

            "...no white American ever thinks that any other race is wholly civilized until he wears the white man's clothes, eats the white man's food, speaks the white man's language, and professes the white man's religion." said Booker T. Washington in his classic book, Up From Slavery. To which, it is both highly accurate and unfortunately necessary to add, "no Negro either." No Negro ever thinks he is wholly civilized until...

            In this regard, those of us who think of ourselves as human beings "just like Whites", who think of ourselves as capable of achieving civilization, have not arrived until we have ceased being ourselves.

            Except we never ever fully succeed at either arriving in civilization or leaving our selves. We are forever late, forever leaving. Never making a clean getaway and never able to recline in rest knowing that we have achieved the finished line.

            For the Negro there is no finish precisely because the Negro wishes to be other than what the Negro is. And no one can be that. No one can be other than what they are. No matter how much they master impersonation, they are still an imitation. Sometimes technically dazzling, even self-delusionally so. Sometimes able to fool all who witness them. But deep inside, no matter. Because at some point, the lights go down, the audience leaves, the stage is emptied of actors, and one is left to face the truth. We are what we are, regardless of what we want to be or what we pretend to be.

            Besides, there are no Black Tarzans. By definition Tarzan (the epitome of the "all knowing" and mythically powerful colonizer) is not a Negro. Not Black. Not African. And no mastery of language, no matter how elegant, will ever transorm us into what we are not.


-B-

 

 

         GOING TO MEET THE MAN 

 

            I am invited to participate in PANAFEST 1994 in Ghana. The official invite comes from John Darkey, the director. I had met Mr. Darkey at an October 1993 Cultural Groundings conference in New York city which was organized through the initiative of Marta Vega, Executive Director of the Caribbean Cultural Center. Marta Vega called me and asked me to stand in for her at PANAFEST. She felt that I could represent our efforts because I was one of the founding members of the Global Network for Cultural Equity and a contributor to Voices From The Battlefront, a book of essays on multiculturalism and the fight for cultural equity. Even though there is less than a month to prepare, I had been hoping to go. At that point I began seriously reorganizing my schedule and started the process of getting immunizations. The only catch was that other than the form invitation in the mail, I had received no direct contact. Would I be accepted as a delegate in place of Ms. Vega? Which of the two chartered flights? What specific time schedule? Would I present a paper?

            I want to go but it's difficult to get information. Communication is almost non-existant. More often than not we can't even get a fax through. There is a constant busy signal on the phone lines, even two a.m. in the morning.

            Calls to the Ghana Embassy in New York invariably result in a ten minute roundabout through a voice mail system with a prerecorded message that tells you how much the visa costs but neglects to supply an address. Finally, and after numerous and expensive efforts, in the "soon come" way endemic to underdevelopment, direct contact is made. I receive a comforting call from Julialynne Walker. Ms. Walker, a sister from the States, is the director for the Ghana division of the School For International Learning and volunteer coordinator for PANAFEST.

            Julialynne Walker tells me the time and date of my presentation, and confirms that all of the necessary information has been received. Her assurances and information fuel my fire -- obviously this was meant to be.

            The first step of a long journey is made.

            Later, three days after I arrive in Ghana, I find out that from the logistics and administrative standpoint, Ms. Walker is the key person. Working with a staff of Ghanaians, Ms. Walker is the funnel through which most of the day to day colloquium related problems are triaged. In fact, we first meet by what initially seems accident. I'm sitting in the temporary secretariat office in Cape Coast waiting to find out where our housing assignment is and she strides through on a reconnaissance mission. "I was just passing through to see if anyone needed any help and spotted you." As the week wears on, I realize that she was not "just passing through", she was making sure that as much as possible every detail was nailed down and that whatever had come loose was at least noted.

            Julialynne Walker has been in Ghana for awhile and is easily the most skilled  administrator that we encounter during PANAFEST. Not the least of her skills includes dealing with African (continental and diaspora) male egos which are threatened by her self-assured, efficient and effective leadership. Over and over again, situation after situation makes clear that quiet-fire Julialynne Walker is the engine moving the train down the track.

            That a woman is at the center of the inner workings is no surprise, because in most of the African world, on the continent and abroad, in a cross-gender but not inaccurate sense, a central truth reigns: the woman is also "the man."

SHORT STORY: BRAS COUPE (Part 4 of 4)

photo by Alex Lear

 

Part 4 of 4

 

            "Yeah, I hate to tell you this, but there was a double homocide a couple blocks away and we have reason to believe the murderer is still in the neighborhood." The officer spoke of two people murdered with the casualness only a New Oreans policeman could evidence when discussing the carnage that had now become some common. "Have you seen or heard anything?"

            I could have stood there for ten hours and not been able to honestly answer that question. I didn't really know what I had seen or not seen. At that moment I doubted my own sanity. Just then my phone rang.

            "One minute, officer, that's my phone." The phone stopped in the middle of the second ring before I could answer the extension in the front room. It was too soon for the answering machine to pick up. No, couldn't be—I instantly rejected the notion that Cooper had answered the phone.

            I had left the door open and the policeman stuck his head in and made a quick annoucement. "Sir, we're just advising everyone in the area to be careful and please call us immediately if you see or hear anything."

            I dashed back to the door as the officer was talking. He was a young, black guy, medium build, clean cut, and he spoke with an air of authority. I was about to say something to him when I heard Cooper call out to me from the bedroom, "that was Kristin, I told her you would call her right back."

            "Ok." I said, responding to both Cooper and the policeman. Before I could say anything else the policeman was backing away from my door. I turned quickly looking for Cooper but it was completely dark in the back and I couldn't see anything. When I turned back to the front door, the police cruiser was pulling off from the curb. I closed the door, pulled out my key and made sure that I locked the deadbolt this time.

            As I started toward the bedroom, I realized that I had locked myself in the house with Cooper. I froze in the hallway next to the bathroom.

            I turned the hall light on. I started feeling afraid again. The bathroom door was partially open. I stood away from the bathroom door and pushed it fully open. Nothing.

            I turned on the bathroom light. Nothing.

            The front room light was on. The hall light was on. The bathroom light was on. There were only two more rooms: my bedroom and the kitchen just beyond it.

            The bedroom was completely dark, as was the kitchen. "Cooper," I called out in a subdued and shaky voice. Nothing.

            I repeated the call a little louder, "Cooper." Nothing.

            I put my back to the wall and inched into the bedroom. Just inside the door way, I stood perfectly still, opened my mouth to balance the pressure in my ears and listened as keenly as I could. Nothing.

            The table lamp was only about three feet away but everytime I went to reach for it, something kept me pinned to the wall. Was he in the dark waiting to waylay me?

            "Cooper."

            Nothing.

            I took a deep breath, pushed away from the wall, and jumped on the bed. I was safe. I hit the lamp switch. Light filled the room. Nothing.

            All that was left was the kitchen.

            Now that most of the lights were on it was less frightening. I stepped into the hallway and reached my hand around the doorway to turn on the light in the little combination kitchen-dining room. This apartment was shaped funny because it was really a large double carved up into three apartments.

            There was nothing in the kitchen. I ran to the kitchen door which opened to the side alley. It was still locked with the deadbolt and I had the key in my trouser pocket.

            Every room was lit. There was nobody in here.

            I walked through every room growing bolder by the minute. I searched through each room three times. Nothing.

            Opened closet doors. Nothing.

            Pulled the shower curtain back and looked in the stall. Nothing.

             Looked under the bed. Nothing.

            I must have been hallucinating.

            I turned off the kitchen light and haltingly inched my way back into the front room.

            I turned off the front room lamp.

            I turned off the hall light.

            I turned off the bathroom light.

            I sat down on the bed and turned off the lamp.

            As soon as I felt the darkness envelop me, I flicked the switch back on. What was I doing? Where was Cooper? Was Cooper ever here? What the hell was going on?

            Then I remembered Kristin.

            I picked up the phone and dailed her. Her phone rang, and rang, and rang until the recorder came on. "Hi, I'm out at the moment, but I'll be right back. Please leave your name and number at the tone and I'll get right back to you. Thanks. Ciao."

            "David, get a hold of yourself. This is crazy," I mumbled to myself as I sat on the side of the bed staring into space.

            I got up again, went from room to room turning on all the lights. Tested the kitchen door. It was locked. Walked to the front of the house. Tested the front door. It was locked. Started at the front room and searched each  room in the house again. Nothing.

            I turned the lights off in every room except the bedroom. I sat down on the bed.

            I got up and walked around.

            I turned off the table lamp.

            As soon as it was off, I switched the lamp back on.

            I called Kristin again. No answer.

            I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face. Dried my face on the green towel hanging from the towel ring, turned off the bathroom light and went back in the bedroom.

            I kicked off my shoes. Lay down on the bed. Turned off the light. Heard something in the room. Turned the light back on. Nothing.

            I couldn't go on like this. Afraid of my own apartment.

            I called Kristin again. "I clearly remember Cooper saying that Kristin called," I said out loud to myself. She still wasn't home.

            I turned the radio on. I turned the radio off.

            I slipped back into my shoes and walked from the bedroom to the front room, turning on lights as I went.

            I walked from the front room to the bedroom, turning off lights as I went.

            When I got back in the bedroom I reached out to switch the lamp off, but I couldn't. So I stood there and looked at my hand on the switch. Finally, my hand moved to the phone and I called Kristin one more time. No answer.

            I lay down. I got up.

            I got tired of standing.

            I sat on the bed.

            I stood up.

            Then I thought I heard a knocking on the side of the house—Cooper was coming back. I walked through the house and turned all the other lights back on.

            I was exhausted. I didn't have the strength to leave the front room.

            I looked out the front window reconnoitering the area in front my house. I couldn't see anything.

            I left the window and stood in the middle of the front room.

            For the first time since I had come back from the Port Of Call, I thought to check the time. I looked at my watch. It was 9:05.

            I started to walk to the back of the house, instead I turned around. I had to go outside. I pulled out my key, unlocked the deadbolt, and threw the door wide open. I didn't think about setting the alarm, getting a jacket, or anything. I just stood in my open doorway and felt relatively safe now that I was halfway out the house. After a few minutes of deep breathing, I stepped completely out of the doorway and closed the door behind me.

            I looked up and down the street. A young guy was walking down the street with his hands in his pocket. Miss Sukky was pacing back and forth, plying her wares at her usual spot down the corner at Esplanade Avenue. A dog came sauntering toward me sniffing at the ground between the street and the sidewalk. The street mutt paused when he saw me, snorted gruffly, backed up briefly, turned and trotted away. A couple of blocks down, a police car's blue lights were flashing. It looked like every other night.

            Pow. Pow. I heard two shots in the distance and I jumped as each one went off. This was just like any other night. I had gotten used to the gunfire. Or so I thought. Pow. A third shot.

            I slumped down on the top step and before I knew better, I felt uncontrollable waves welling up inside me.

            For the first time since I arrived over a year ago, I began to question whether living here was worth playing Russian roulette, betting your life that the next murder wouldn't be your own.

             The economy, such as it was, was disasterously close to imploding. The gaming industry was a bust. Crime was spiralling out of control. Everywhere you looked the neighborhoods were disenigrating. Abandoned buildings, vacant property and housing for sale dominated the landscape—even on exclusive, posh St. Charles Avenue. The whole city was up for grabs.

            New Orleans wasn't fun like I had expected it to be, like I had wanted it to be. I couldn't go on pretending everything was cool. It wasn't.

            Madness again. That's what Cooper had said: Madness. Again. What did he mean by again? Was it ever this mad? Was New Orleans ever like this before?

            Kristin was always saying she admired my integrity. What would she think if she could see me now? I almost started crying again. I had to keep screwing up my face and rapidly blinking my eyes to fight back the tears—a crying man sitting on a stoop wouldn't last long in this neighborhood—but I wasn't totally successful and, everytime I wiped one away, another small tear droplet would form and sit at the edge of each of my eyes.

            Why was I crying? I wasn't hurt.

            But I was in pain.

            I wasn't robbed.

            But an essential part of my sanity was gone.

            "Kristin, I'm sorry." I had been so condescending toward her. I threw my head back and bumped it repeatedly against the front door. Harvard educated. Bump. Physically fit. Bump. And emotionally traumatized. Bump-bump. I head-knocked the door a couple of more times, partially dried my face with my shirt sleeve, reached into my pocket, pulled out my handkercheif and, in an almost pro forma attempt to clear my nasal passages, blew gobs of mucus into the white cotton. I sniffed once more, gave the tip of my nose another cursory brush and then dabbed hard at my moustache and down the sides of my mouth and over my beard. I folded the handkerchief and stuffed it back in my pocket. As I did so, my fingers touched my keys and I recoiled with a reflex action. I couldn't go back in there. Not now. Not tonight.

            I resigned myself to sitting on my steps all night. Or maybe I would walk over to the Exxon on Rampart and Esplanade and call for Kristin, and ask her... ask her what? To come get me. Ask her... somebody was standing in front of me.

            I was almost afraid to look the youngster in the eye, he might interpret my gaze as a challenge or a putdown. I had seen him around a couple of times. He unblinkingly looked at me like he was trying to decide what to do with me. I just looked at him.

            I could have gotten up and gone inside. I could have spoken to him. He could have spoken to me. But I just sat there and looked at him. He just stood there and looked at me. Neither one of us said anything.

            Finally, he nonchalantly turned, walked to the corner and stood there with his back to me. He pulled out a cigarette, lit up, blew smoke up in the air, turned around and started walking away. When he reached the far corner, he turned and disappeared. I finally exhaled.

            Leaning forward, my forearms resting heavily on my knees, I clasped my hands and dropped my head. "I don't want to die. Please, God. I want to live. I'm trying God. I'm trying my best." I couldn't remember the last time I had prayed to God. Whenever it was, for sure I had never uttered a more sincere prayer in my life.

            My hands were shaking. Literally shaking. I tried to keep them still. I could feel them shaking uncontrollably. I pushed them under my thighs momentarily, trying to sit on my hands to keep them still. It didn't help.

            I passed my hands through my hair, interlaced them behind my head and leaned back against the door. It didn't help.

            I leaned forward again, clenching and unclenching my fists. My hands were still shaking. I entwined my fingers and tightly clasped my hands. I had my eyes closed. I was afraid to look at my hands. Afraid to look at myself.

            I took a deep breath.

            "It's not worth it. It's not worth it," I heard myself muttering a bottom line assessment I never thought I would be thinking, not to mention saying it out loud.

            "David, what's wrong? Why are you sitting out here?"

            I looked up and there was Kristin, dashing out of her car and racing breathlessly toward me. I hadn't even heard her drive up. Her trembling voice was full of anxiety as she sprinted across the sidewalk.

            "Are you OK? I got here as fast as I could. Who was that on the phone?" her words gushed out in a torrent of concern and consternation.

            At that moment all I could do was drop my head and tender my resignation. This business was a bust, it was time to move on while I still could, "Kristin, I'm scared. Please, take me to your place."

 

###