Scarecrow - Darko Antwi

We went to see
For ourselves

There was no ghost
Only slamming doors
And flapping curtains

There was no fear

It had vanished
Like the ghost

There was no ghost
No fear -

Only some angry harmattan wind
Knocking things about
Like a wounded lion

Author Profile - Darko Antwi

Biography:

Darko Antwi was born in Ashanti New Town, Kumasi, in May 1976 to Kwaku Antwi and Elizabeth Donkor. After his secondary education at Bekwai Seventh Day Adventist, Antwi taught in local kindergarten and primary schools for five years.

In September 2002 he traveled to the United Kingdom. During his stay in England, he was occupied by a string of odd jobs, including the position of a factory labourer, fabric launderer and newspaper columnist.

Antwi is the proprietor of Seaweed Books, publishers of Phillis Wheatley Chapter and organizers of both the Ahenkro Book Fair and the Miss Akoto Book Club. He also serves as a Contributing Editor with One Ghana One Voice.

Five Questions with Darko Antwi:

1. With "Scarecrow" you have joined the long list of OGOV poets writing about the harmattan. That said, do you consider this poem to be "about" the harmattan, or is the harmattan simply a feature of it?

Standing by the title, the speaker is reporting the aftermath of a frightening moment. Reducing it to characters, it is as well about the natural stunt of Harmattan: the wrath of one violent tropical condition. When ground and sieved, Harmattan would come to surface. All put together, it could be related to the need to go into the deep to uproot and discard every form of fear, visible or invisible: fear of heights, fear of darkness, fear of pregnancy, fear of the future, fear of cancer, fear of people and so on.


2. Have you written many poems about the harmattan? Is it a subject you're interested in writing about, generally, or was this a rare appearance of it in your work?

'Harmattan Shall Flee' is one of my earliest poems. That was written in the 1990s. A street typist around the walls of Kumasi Central Post Office got it organised on an official paper, costing me something less than ₵500 (5GHp). I wanted it published. I tried Daily Graphic and a couple of national newspapers eventually. None of them published nor replied. Probably it was not worthy. Maybe it failed largely on evidence that those papers hadn’t any column for poetry by then.

Since that disappointing attempt, I didn’t write anything about the subject until ‘Scarecrow’ came to mind in 2004.


3. "Scarecrow" is a very haunting poem. I wonder what inspired you to write it - a line? An image? An idea?

In 1988, my family was two years into a new home it had moved in to from Ashanti New Town. Everything was going well. New buildings were being put up on the bushy plots closest to ours. The neighbourhood population was growing. The second of my three brothers was born. That same year, I started secondary school at age twelve. The only bad news was the death of my beloved uncle, the 23-year old Akwasi Gyamfi - a sufferer of sickle cell disease.

One early morning, within the first week of Akwasi’s death, I was sent into his room to pick an item. Already, I had developed a fear for darkness. At night, I couldn’t stay in any of the rooms unaccompanied. This time round, I got scared while it was still day, while attending to the room of my deceased uncle. Some few yards to the door, I heard noises. I panicked. I went back to my grandma reporting the ghost I thought I heard. "Ghosts are not real," she responded in disbelief. But I remained quiet and wouldn’t move. She rebuked me saying: "Come on… let’s go in there… show me that your mother or father who has turned into a ghost."

So terrified and humiliated, I followed her into the room. The rest of the story are in the lines of "Scarecrow".


4. You have always been a leading critic and commentator on Ghanaian poetry. How do you find the state of the Ghanaian poetry scene now, compared to five years ago?

Five years ago, there was so much heat. That was a necessary energy, I think. By then, friendships were formed, errors were made, lessons were learned, and confidence was built. Now, it looks very much relaxed. It is not at all a negative relaxation; because between 2009 and the present, we have witnessed the fruit of the weekly interaction and the author exposure of the OGOV scheme, particularly. Since then several books have been published to the credit of some of the poets who were featured. Though minor, the influence of the period can’t be underestimated. Mariska Taylor-Darko and Elikplim Akorli are among the few whose works should not be taken for granted. I am proud to add that I have recently finished a foreword for Nana Yeboaa’s new book, "On the Banks of the Volta".

Interest for online poetry has gone down partly because the stage is active with regular Spoken Word performances. It's encouraging to note that the desire for attention is getting increasingly competitive. Sticking out my neck, it is my firmest opinion that the Spoken Word movement has rather given a boost to the written form. Nana Asaase, Mutumbo da Poet and others have become household names to the attention of the art they represent. There could be other trivial factors to the decline of online activities. We've got to examine them.


5. Continuing off that last question, where do you see things going in the next five years? Ten years? Are you optimistic about the current trajectory we're on?

We don't have much control over the production of quality titles. Improvement is essential, nevertheless. We are now left with a relationship with the public. Ghanaian poetry has to be discussed by ordinary people. It has to be in the news. We have to befriend the mainstream media. They have to write about poets and poetry. That job should not be the reserve solely of journalists. I am afraid they have little expertise, and little commitment/interest in creative writing. Writers (poets) should volunteer critical and exciting reviews. The papers are not too willing to pay allowances. Let's be ready for a sacrifice. Let's do this with the hope that the demand for poetry will become part of the everyday life of the average Ghanaian. Let's do this with hope that someday in the next five years, publishers will have confidence in Ghanaian poetry. Let's hope that in the next ten years, several poets and some excellent works will get domestic and international recognition. That will go a long way to encourage the next generation.

As of now, we have a bunch of poets who have been inspired to share their works with colleagues. It hasn't gone beyond that. It takes calculated deeds to go beyond this dull practice of poet-to-poet readership. I would love any alternative suggestion for the progress of Ghanaian poetry. If any better deed is put to work, I would have faith. But where there is no such application, other than the current trajectory, optimism would be a farce to uphold. As earnest as attention is needed, Poetry Foundation Ghana and Writers Project of Ghana are doing a lot to publicise and develop talents. Thanks should go to the dedicated teams and visionary leaders behind their operation.

Contact Darko:

darko.antwi@yahoo.co.uk

A Final Walk to Freedom - Darko Antwi

As you leave,
Earth has not changed much.
Ticks still feed on cows,
frogs still squat in envy of crabs.
Sheep play the fool, as always.
Mandela, as you go,
pray for our conscience–
that we do not only place you
amongst saints, gods and supermen
and continue with our old ways.

You took a long walk
but it was not to freedom.
Now you walk
into the most private island:
no wildcats, no shrapnel,
no shadows, no virus
or tempest.

As you leave,
Earth has not changed much.
Ants onward create,
vultures scavenge,
tear and idle about without vision.
As you go, Mandela,
pray for our poor souls–
that we do not only place you
amongst saints, gods and supermen
and continue with our old ways.

You took a brutal walk
but it was not to freedom.
Now you walk
into the most private island,
no boundaries, no tribes,
no bishops, no advantage
or exploitation.

You walked and walked.
You walked mountains and valleys.
You stumbled and fainted.
You rose and travailed.
You carried us all.
Now take rest, just rest,
as you leave.

---

Darko Antwi is a contributing editor to One Ghana, One Voice.

It's Daybreak - Darko Antwi

Kofi, it's daybreak
And the Al-bafoons are long gone
Those who are neither cobblers
Nor farmers nor hunters

Kofi, Kofi, Kofi...
Kofi, Kofi, oh Kofi...
Kofi, Kofi, Kofi... wake
Kofi, Oohhh Koo-fi

Daavi has served you coffee
And Esinam has come to greet you

Kofi, it's daybreak
And the Al-racoons are no more
Those who are neither moslems
Nor christians nor atheists

Kofi, Kofi, Kofi...
Kofi, Kofi, oh Kofi...
Kofi, Kofi, Kofi... wake
Kofi, Oohhh Koo-fi

The newspaper vendor is at the gate
And Kwoku will soon be here for draught

Kofi it's daybreak
But we shall allow you this sleep
This long long sleep
We shall allow, we shall allow
Sleep well!

Darko Antwi is a long-time contributor to One Ghana, One Voice.

This poem is part of our series of poems in memory of Kofi Awoonor. You can learn more about Awoonor and the series here. If you have a poem in memory of Kofi Awoonor, please send it to us at oneghanaonevoice(at)gmail(dot)com.

Favourite Poems of 2012

Readers' Picks

When the War Came to Ghana by Andy Aryeetey (November 24th, 2012)

Comments on When the War Came to Ghana:

"With comical images of horror, "When the War Came to Ghana” cleverly drills at the agitation and wranglings which lurk behind Ghana’s peaceful facade. The essence of the message is everything except the endorsement of violence." - Darko Antwi

"Aryeetey is a good poet who is unafraid of telling his society what he sees in the mirror. " - Prince Mensah

"Great piece. I laughed and sighed at the realities of Ghanaian politics and life." - Bernadette Poku

The Still Small Voice by Dela Bobobee (January 21st, 2012)

Comments on A Still Small Voice:

"Dela's poem is a somber call for introspection - as individuals and as a society. It was the first poem to be featured in 2012 and made a world of impact for me by its thematic choices. We might seek the high and lofty or knock on the doors of fate and destiny but weaving through our dreams and actions is the still small voice. The voice of our conscience. The sound of our ideals. The noise of our souls. The aural essence of our spirits. 'The Still Small Voice' is a poem to be read over and over again. It is layered with meanings and laden with reminders to listen to the nudging of our higher angels. In 'The Still Small Voice', Dela Bobobee seeks to preempt a repeat of generational mistakes that have been the bane of many countries in the struggle for social progress. The poet becomes prophet, priest and propagandist for 'the still small voice'. To balance idealism with realism, Mr. Bobobee challenges his readers with another weapon: the past-

if we have done it before
then we can still do it again

Such poetry is hard to find and I definitely consider it as one of the best I have ever read on One Ghana, One Voice." - Prince Mensah

"The Still Small Voice comes from God. This is the voice that speaks to every human heart, whether sinful or righteous. "The Still Small Voice" is a prophetic poem." - Dominic Arituo

"Didactic and very African. I really enjoy not only reading [Dela's] poems but also studying them thoroughly..." - Martin Elorm Dogbo

Our President Died: A Poem for Mills by Nana Yaw Sarpong (August 9th, 2012)

Comments on Our President Died: A Poem for Mills:

"Each poem by Nana Yaw Sarpong inspires respect. "Our President Died: A Poem for Mills" is particularly sovereign, per figurative language. It threads on a plot which the average poet would consider as tightrope. When solidarity is expressed unreservedly, as this poem has, then the author’s objectivity should be praised. " - Darko Antwi

"The tributes we received following President Mills' death were overflowing, both in their praise and their quantity. Nana Yaw Sarpong's was one of the best, most challenging, and most interesting." - Rob Taylor

Staff Picks

O! Jebu! Stared At The Beginning As Ananse Tickled Himself In The End by Novisi Dzitrie (January 28th, 2012)

Comments on O! Jebu! Stared At The Beginning As Ananse Tickled Himself In The End:

"This poem employs mythology and legend to explain the mundane. By doing this, Novisi Dzitrie continues the ageless tradition in African cultures that teaches wisdom and knowledge through folklore. Nowadays, African poets try to sound like Western poets in their themes and techniques but a poet like Novisi is to be praised. He takes the old and makes it new. He moves ahead by connecting with the past. "O! Jebu!..." is allegory through poetic devices, a superb example of a distinctive essence in African literature - the commingling of tangibles and intangibles as a device to understand existence. " - Prince Mensah

"Novisi Dzitrie is a writer whose literature has the flair to attract obsessive public admiration. His wits are so sharp, and his imagery so refined." - Darko Antwi

"A wonderful, playful poem. It got my vote based on the title alone!" - Rob Taylor

Memories of the Electricity Company of Ghana by Kofi A. Amoako (February 4th, 2012)

Comments on Memories of the Electricity Company of Ghana:

"Kofi A. Amoako, a Toronto-based Ghanaian poet, was a wonderful new arrival here at OGOV in 2012. We featured four of his poems over the course of the year, and any one of them could have been selected here. "Memories" was his first, most playful, and perhaps most filled with love for his home country." - Rob Taylor

"I love this poem! What an insight into life in Ghana. I will be visiting soon and I hope the power is on and off when needed!" - Moira

Tapestry by Darko Antwi (November 3rd, 2012)

Comments on Tapestry:

"It was a pleasure to watch "Tapestry" develop on our site. Originally written in response to Jabulani Mzinyathi's sharp-edged poem "french conference in the drc" and posted in the comment section, we were able to watch Darko Antwi work through a number of iterations before arriving at the final poem. And what a final poem it is: simple in language and yet weaving a complicated and beautiful tapestry of languages and ideas." - Rob Taylor

""Tapestry" is a trapeze between one's native tongue and another tongue - essential for wordsmiths, important to seekers of wisdom. We really do not know this wide world until we understand it in another person's language." - Prince Mensah

How Poems Work #6 - Prince Mensah on Darko Antwi's "The last words of Aunt Araba"

The last words of Aunt Araba - Darko Antwi

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Kojo to put away the bottle
else akpeteshie will take a photo of him

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Birago not to put her head on her husband
for I have not seen a pillow in that man

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Asantewaa to knock at Esi's door
for she owes me five okra and an onion

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Ebo to dig a foot deep around the odum
for I have hidden dozens of stones

I am going..
when I am gone,
tell Kakraba not to marry from Manso-Krom
for their women are lions and scorpions

I am going...
when I am gone,
invite Kuntu and offer him some drink
tell him: he has my pardon over the land dispute

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Aba: I don't need her shadow at my funeral
for the arrows of her falsehood have crushed my soul

I am going...
when I am gone,
be faithful with your vows to Nananom
that you may have their blessing and avoid their wrath

I am going...
ah... oh... oh...

When I read poems such as Darko Antwi’s "The last words of Aunt Araba", my hopes surge for the rapid ascendancy of modern Ghanaian literature. This poem consists of eight quatrains and one couplet. "The last words of Aunt Araba" reminds me of the works of older poets like Brew, Okai and Anyidoho. There is a sense of urgency in a place of calm. These are the words of a dying woman who is attempting to keep her hopes and dreams (and fights) alive.

The first line of each stanza is a fading reminder that the speaker is losing the strength to speak, that time is running out. It is like someone or something is beckoning Aunt Araba to come over, similar to Gabriel Okara’s "The Call of the River Nun" which states that -

         each dying year
brings near the sea-bird call,
the final call that
stills the crested waves
and breaks in two the curtain
of silence of my upturned canoe.

The next three lines of each of the eight stanzas in Antwi’s poem contain instructions to conclude the speaker’s unfinished business in life. This is a poem of nakedness and we are voyeurs to the many crooks and curves of the human soul. Leopold Senghor’s "Black Woman" captures this kind of nakedness –

I sing your beauty that passes, the form
that I fix in the Eternal,

Before jealous fate turn you to ashes to
feed the roots of life.

Darko Antwi captures the perceptions, peeves and personality of the speaker in her succinct directives (and comments) to the nine people mentioned in the poem. There are four women (Birago, Asantewaa, Esi and Aba) and five men (Kojo, Birago’s husband, Ebo, Kakraba and Kuntu). Each person is entreated to take an action that will lead to a better result for all involved. One can deduce that the speaker, Aunt Araba, holds a matriarchal status in her society. She dishes out advice and warnings in what reads like a last will and testament. With so much salvaging to be done among those she is leaving, Aunt Araba’s predicament becomes like that of the speaker in Kofi Awoonor’s "Songs of Sorrow" –

Returning is not possible
And going forward is a great difficulty
The affairs of this world are like the chameleon’s feces
Into which I have stepped
When I clean it cannot go.
I am on the world’s extreme corner,
I am not sitting in the row with the eminent
But those who are lucky

I am going to delve into this poem by deconstructing it stanza by stanza, both to look more deeply into the poem, and to show the many intersections this poem shares with its predecessors written by the greats of African verse.


Stanza 1:

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Kojo to put away the bottle
else akpeteshie will take a photo of him

In her first directive, Aunt Araba harps on personal responsibility, a critical and universal element to a successful life. She finds it a top priority to dish out a word of caution to Kojo about alcohol. He has to quit drinking or else akpeteshie will take a photo of him. For the non-Ghanaian, akpeteshie is the local alcoholic drink. It is cheap but has a corrosive effect on its drinkers. Heavy consumers of akpeteshie usually become physically unappealing, hence Aunt Araba’s warning that akpeteshie will take a picture of Kojo.

Aunt Araba is not only concerned about Kojo’s present state of alcoholism; she is also worried about the possibility of a disfigured future. It is interesting that she chooses to tackle alcoholism first. This might be due to the fact that alcoholism is a silent epidemic that is stealing a lot of dreams in our nations. Alcoholism stalls potential, rips families apart, and transmogrifies its users into physical and mental unattractiveness. Aunt Araba is concerned that the bottle can become the bane of Kojo’s existence and all he will be left with is a portrait taken by akpeteshie.

The sense of foreboding both in the speaker’s imminent death and Kojo’s alcoholism reflects similar sentiments expressed by Ikemefuna in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (Chapter Seven) –

King, if you eat it
You will weep for the abomination
Where White Ant installs king
Where Dust dances to the drums

There is a lingering suggestion in this stanza in that it is very likely that Kojo might not heed Aunt Araba’s warning, thus subjecting himself to the consequences of being an alcoholic.


Stanza 2:

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Birago not to put her head on her husband
for I have not seen a pillow in that man

In her second directive, Aunt Araba talks about self-reliance among women. She becomes a marriage counselor, albeit a cynical one. Her advice is counter-intuitive – why shouldn’t a wife ‘put her head on her husband’? Isn’t that one of the many purposes of marriage? Aunt Araba’s reason is that she has ‘not seen a pillow in that man’. She sounds like a post-modern feminist, a realist with years of experience studying how some husbands will never become ‘pillows’ for their wives. Birago is warned not to seek comfort or security from her husband because, according to Aunt Araba, the man is incapable of providing that. This stanza is a clarion call to women, from an older African woman to younger ones, to stop depending on their husbands as ‘pillows’. It is a jolt to the status quo where the wife is expected to ‘put her head on her husband’, regardless of whether there is ‘a pillow in that man’ or not. Interestingly, Aunt Araba does not ask Birago to leave her husband; she only asks her to become independent.

With these few words, the poet probes into the hidden realities of a typical marriage. This stanza is an indictment against our culture’s stagnation of women’s potential and the subsequent juxtaposition with male nonchalance towards their needs. Sadly, being a woman herself, Aunt Araba can only dish out her point of view on her death. This is where she becomes valuable to everyone around her. This is where she receives rapt attention. Why doesn’t our society use the wit and wisdom of the many Aunt Arabas while they live? Perhaps Birago’s marriage is a microcosm of many marriages – even a reflection of Aunt Araba’s. The dying woman finds it imperative to ask for the discontinuation of marital dysfunction. Note that there is no word to a husband by the dying woman, no lingering love towards a lover. Araba is alone. Alone in life and death. Perhaps she never had ‘a pillow’ in her love life.


Stanza 3:

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Asantewaa to knock at Esi's door
for she owes me five okra and an onion

In her third directive, Aunt Araba focuses on trustworthiness, even though she sounds petty and vindictive. She is trusting Asantewaa (a possible allusion to Yaa Asantewaa) to collect a debt of ‘five okra and an onion’, and trusting Esi to pay that debt. Note that in the two previous stanzas (and throughout the poem); Aunt Araba is not specific about the person who would be delivering her messages. However, in this stanza, she elects Asantewaa, presumably a no-nonsense and aggressive woman, to collect a debt. It is almost ridiculous when one considers the debt – ‘five okra and an onion’. Yet there might be an unstated reason behind such vindictiveness. Is Aunt Araba peeved at Esi because she is not by her death bed? Is she trying to expose Esi as someone who borrows and never pays back? Is she trying to make Esi as uncomfortable as she can, even from beyond the grave? Is Aunt Araba someone who never forgets (and forgives) anything?

There are things in one’s life that stick with us until death. Whatever Esi might have done to Aunt Araba – apart from borrowing ‘five okra and an onion’ – might have stuck too long on her mind. To have Asantewaa knock on Esi’s door to collect a debt of ‘five okra and an onion’ is actually problematic. Esi might find it an affront to her own character because, for all we know, she might have forgotten about that debt. Asantewaa, in executing a dying woman’s wishes, will be unrelenting and abrasive. This is a set-up to one bad argument or, even worse, a fight. Why is Aunt Araba producing acrimony where it did not exist?

Another look at this stanza reveals how things are different to different people. At first glance, one will brush Aunt Araba as vindictive. However, who knows, in her village, ‘five okra and an onion’ might be worth a lot and that it may be important for her to get the items back to her family. This stanza challenges our concept of what is worthy and what is not. To some, a debt of one million dollars is something you will instruct a person to collect. To Aunt Araba, the debt of ‘five okra and an onion’ is too important not to collect.


Stanza 4:

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Ebo to dig a foot deep around the odum
for I have hidden dozens of stones

In her fourth directive, Aunt Araba is suddenly generous. In a quick turnaround, the supposedly vindictive Aunt Araba is giving Ebo ‘dozens of stones’. But isn’t she telling everybody that there are ‘hidden dozens of stones’ ‘a foot deep around the odum’? This is intentional. Aunt Araba is letting everyone know that Ebo has the right to access the treasure. However, if Ebo does not exercise that right, everyone knows where the treasure is. In the event of his reluctance to ‘dig a foot deep around the odum’, the stones could be used to benefit the community. Even though Ebo has been given a treasure trove, he has ‘to dig a foot deep around the odum’. Nothing ever comes easy. Even free things.

This stanza is an allegory for the state of modern Africa. Aunt Araba is a miniature Mother Africa and we are the collective Ebo. We sit on a continent that is blessed not only with ‘hidden dozens of stones’, but with every ingredient needed to build a prosperous future. However, most people do not want ‘to dig a foot deep around the odum’. Most people want shortcuts through get-rich-quick schemes, bribes, embezzlement, armed robbery, 419 scams et cetera. The reality is everyone in the world knows that Africa sits on more wealth than it can imagine. So if Africans are reluctant ‘to dig a foot deep around the odum’ in order to access their God-given wealth, the rest of the world is more than eager to do so.


Stanza 5:

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Kakraba not to marry from Manso-Krom
for their women are lions and scorpions

The fifth directive deals with perceptions and names. The place, Manso-Krom, translates to ‘The Town of Litigations’. Aunt Araba does not want Kakraba to marry from that town because of its notoriety for having abrasive women.

Note that the speaker does not use the gender-appropriate word lioness for the women of Manso-Krom. They are portrayed as lions, as having masculine attributes such as control, aggression and violence. The depiction is of an obaa barima (a woman who behaves like a man). It is known that female scorpions kill their males after mating with them, an action similar to that of a black widow spider. Female scorpions are also known to eat their young when they are hungry. This image of self-centeredness troubles Aunt Araba. Bottom line, she has a problem with women who 1) do not act like women and 2) who misuse and discard men.

However, the question that rises immediately is about the accuracy in Aunt Araba’s perceptions. Certainly not all the women ‘are lions and scorpions’ as she alleges, but she prefaces her concerns with an established fact – the name of the town. Manso-Krom, the Town of Litigations. This adds credence to her harsh description of the women from that town. Or so it seems. It is interesting how the name of a place can color perceptions about people from that place. Africans living in other parts of the world have countless stories about this issue. People view Africa through the prism of films such as Shaka the Zulu or The Lion King and documentaries about hunger-stricken communities. These images give people a certain level of “expert” knowledge (sarcasm intended) about all things African. Of course, perception is reality, albeit a distorted one.

In this stanza, Aunt Araba, once again, demonstrates her human limitations. She is guilty of generalization, based on name and reputation. However, she is not alone in that guilt. Our world is still wading through the swamp of intense schism, ranging from tribalism to racism. All schism emanates from misguided interpretations of names and reputation. Nonetheless, this stanza raises a lot of questions. Is Manso-Krom a nickname because of its women or does the name predict the conduct of those women? Why is Kakraba interested in marrying from a town whose ‘women are lions and scorpions’? Is Kakraba a foolhardy Lothario or is it a secret about the town that Aunt Abena dishes out to him? Why is Aunt Araba, the post-modern feminist in stanza two, undermining the worth of women from Manso-Krom by describing them as ‘lions and scorpions’? Is it because she is preventing a reverse situation where the husband will not find ‘a pillow’ in his wife?

Aunt Araba is clear in employing the proverb – what is good for the goose is good for the gander. To a typical African woman, liberation does not mean role reversal – it only means that each person gets the maximum benefit and respect from their relationship. To Aunt Araba, the situation in Manso-Krom represents an anomaly that does not have to be encouraged. As a matriarch, she is unequivocal in her stance. She will not recommend women who ‘are lions and scorpions’ to her male kith and kin for marriage.


Stanza 6:

I am going...
when I am gone,
invite Kuntu and offer him some drink
tell him: he has my pardon over the land dispute

The sixth stanza is about reconciliation. However, it quickly raises the question as to why Aunt Araba is vindictive against Esi in stanza three over ‘five okra and an onion’ but is conciliatory to Kuntu ‘over the land dispute’? At first glance, it is not fair as we compare ‘five okra and an onion’ to land. Yet, this is a glimpse into the inexplicable, and sometimes hypocritical, nature of the human being. It is not about fairness; it is about favor.

We see more of that inconsistency when Aunt Araba tells her listeners to ‘invite Kuntu and offer him some drink’. Isn’t she the same Aunt Araba who raked Kojo through the coals for being in love with the bottle? Why is the standard different when it comes to Kuntu? Reading between the lines, Kojo is a younger man (perhaps, her son or nephew) and Kuntu might be a co-equal in age (a brother or cousin). The land dispute is a dead giveaway because it connotes a blood relationship, which is usually a basis for shared land in most African communities.

In this stanza, Aunt Araba is magnanimous, extending a ‘pardon over the land dispute’. She is smart in doing so because she intends to restore familial unity after her death. There is a reason for that. It is because her kith and kin of her age group become her children’s parents by default. As a good mother, she will be doing her progeny a favor by not letting them inherit her personal litigations.


Stanza 7:

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Aba: I don't need her shadow at my funeral
for the arrows of her falsehood have crushed my soul

The seventh stanza is about vengeance. Aunt Araba has a bone to pick with a second woman, Aba. Like Esi in the third stanza, Aba has to pay a price for offending Aunt Araba. In Aba’s case, it is for lying and gossiping. The price is a ban from attending Aunt Araba’s funeral.

Funerals are important events in African communities. They are part family/friend reunions and part board meetings. Attendance or absence has huge implications. Whenever one is unable to attend the funeral of a close relative or friend, one is considered a ‘sansanni’, a useless person whose funeral does not merit attendance. For Aunt Araba to tell Aba that she does not want ‘her shadow at my funeral’ is an effort to isolate Aba and make her subject to the ire of the community. By asking Aba to stay away her funeral, Aunt Araba is severing all ties. It will be a safe guess to deduce that Aba is Aunt Araba’s daughter. There are three reasons that support my guess. Araba is a derivative name from Aba, suggesting a mother who named her daughter after herself. The second reason is that the act of banning people from funerals is usually done by parents to punish children who did not treat them right. The third reason is the level of pain. Note that Aba’s punishment is the harshest of them all. Esi, perhaps, after huffing and puffing over ‘five okra and an onion’ might still attend Aunt Araba’s funeral. But Aba does not have a choice.

It seems Aunt Araba is still in pain from ‘the arrows of her [Aba’s] falsehood’. Pain, any kinds of pain, caused by close relatives, sting more than those caused by strangers. To have a daughter, or anyone for that matter, rain ‘arrows of her falsehood’ is certainly a crushing experience. Aunt Araba is going to the other world with a peeve against Aba. In West African culture, this implies a curse, an irrevocable stain on Aba’s life. To Aunt Araba, Aba has become a persona non grata, something of semblance to the description in Christopher Okigbo’s "Love Apart" –

And we are now shadows
That cling to each other
But kiss the air only.

Stanza 8:

I am going...
when I am gone,
be faithful with your vows to Nananom
that you may have their blessing and avoid their wrath

This stanza concentrates on reverence for the divine. Aunt Araba states the necessity of being ‘faithful with your vows to Nananom’. Nananom, which translates to ‘The Kings’, is a euphemism for gods and departed spirits. Here Aunt Araba becomes a medium between the living and the departed, a role defined with excellence in Senghor’s "Night of Sine" –

Let me inhale the smell of our Dead, let me collect and repeat their living voice, let me learn
To live before I sink, deeper than the diver, into the lofty depth of sleep.

This is the final piece to the mosaic that is Aunt Araba’s life. She wants those who remain in this life after her to do the right things so that ‘you may have their blessing and avoid their wrath’. Among several tribes in Ghana (and Africa, for that matter), one’s success or failures are believed to be intrinsically linked to either the blessings or wrath of Nananom.

Aunt Araba uses Biblical allusion in this stanza as it echoes the sentiments in Ecclesiastes 5: 4 – 7 -

When you make a vow to God, do not delay to fulfill it. He has no pleasure in fools; fulfill your vow. It is better not to make a vow than to make one and not fulfill it. Do not let your mouth lead you into sin. And do not protest to the temple messenger, “My vow was a mistake.” Why should God be angry at what you say and destroy the work of your hands? Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore fear God.

The warning that Aunt Araba extends to her listeners is to walk their talk. As she has proven throughout the poem, she is a woman of few words, moving from subject to subject with clarity even as her time on earth comes to a close.

In this stanza, we experience the frailty of the human experience and the dependence on external things to validate that experience. We also see the divine as the unseen unifier of human divergence. What sets stanza eight apart from the rest is that its message is universal. It lacks the specificity that is rife in previous stanzas. Aunt Araba’s advice, like the rain-water in Wole Soyinka’s "Dedication" is -

                                  the gift
Of gods ---- drink of its purity, bear fruits in season.

Fruits then to your lips: haste to repay
The debt of birth. Yield man-tides like the sea
And ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossilled sands.

Darko Antwi uses this stanza as a sleight-of-hand to restore Aunt Araba’s image as a devout individual. It is effective because suddenly we see a woman who is fixated on cultural continuity and the maintenance of divine relations. No one (in her community) will have a problem with her directives in stanza eight. Aunt Araba’s image is salvaged by her appeal to the senses of the majority. This raises several questions such as these: Is the individual vindicated by towing the line of the majority? Doesn’t this sudden change in tone undermine Aunt Araba’s contrarian image built in stanzas one through seven? Is Aunt Araba trying to curry the favor of Nananom before she even joins them? Is there a specific way to exercise faith in order to get results?

Through the first seven stanzas, we have seen Aunt Araba through many prisms (some flattering, others not-so-flattering). This eighth stanza depicts her as a devotee to the ways and customs of her people. She is revolutionary in asking Birago to find independence from her husband but reserved by asking Kakraba not marry women from Manso-Krom. She is hard rock and soft wind. She does not forgive Esi’s debt of food items but she pardons Kuntu over a land dispute. However, in the end, she is a woman who wants a good life – for herself and her family. She wants to be remembered for something. As the sands in her hourglass drip, Aunt Araba finds it her final duty to connect the people she is leaving to those she is about to meet. In this stanza, her personal issues become secondary to the issue of respect for tradition. She becomes like the speaker in Senghor’s "The Message", a messenger to the tribe from Nananom –

I left my warm meal and the handling of many disputes.
Wearing nothing more than a pagne for the dewy mornings,
I had only words of peace as protection and to open every
road.
And I too traversed rivers and forests full of dangers
Where vines hung more treacherous than snakes.
I went among people who would easily let fly a poisoned
greeting.
But I held on the sign of recognition
And the spirits watched over my breath.

Stanza 9:

I am going...
ah... oh... oh...

In this stanza we witness death. We hear Aunt Araba as she drifts into the icy hands of death. There is a tone of painful regret in her ‘ah... oh... oh...’. From the previous stanzas, there was a sense of unfinished business. Perhaps that was the source of regret for this woman. Yet, death comes to us all. It is the most certain appointment on the calendar of our lives. Aunt Araba lived a life of contradictions, as most of us do. Her last words summarize those contradictions but through it all, we discover a person. We discover a beautiful soul, we experience the transition between life and death. Okigbo’s "The Stars Have Departed" depicts this scene -

the sky in monocle
surveys the world under
The stars have departed
and I – where am I?
Stretch, stretch, O antennae,
to clutch at this hour,
fulfilling each moment in a
broken monody

Even though Aunt Araba is passionate about issues that come with being alive, Aunt Araba is alone in her descent into the hands of Death. She must bear that burden alone. That is why in the ninth stanza there is no directive to 'tell' anyone what to do. There are no more words, no more bones to pick or stones to share, only silence to capture the finality of death. At this point of the poem, David Diop’s "The Renegade" resonates well –

Let these words of anguish keep time with your restless
Step –
Oh I am lonely so lonely here

***********************************************************


"The last words of Aunt Araba" is a poem about seeing an individual vis-a-vis the community in which they live. From the first to ninth stanza there is an ongoing conversation centered on what the speaker has to offer her community and what that community has to do in order to make her happy, as captured in these ten statements:

• Kojo has to quit alcoholism
• Birago has to quit being dependent on her husband
• Birago’s husband has no capacity to provide comfort
• Asantewaa has to collect on a debt
• Esi has to pay that debt
• Ebo has to dig for hidden treasures
• Kakraba has to rescind from his decision to marry from a particular town
• Kuntu has received pardon over a land dispute
• Aba has to stay away from Aunt Araba’s imminent funeral
• Everyone has to be faithful to tradition

Note that everything has to be done when the speaker, Aunt Araba, is dead and gone. The most active verb in this poem is to tell. To tell with the sense of resignation that Awoonor’s "Songs of Sorrow" espouses –

Tell them their house is falling
And the trees are in the fence
Have been eaten by termites:
That the martels curse them.
Ask them why they idle there
While we suffer, and eat sand,
And the crow and the vulture
Hover always above our broken fences

The first time I read this poem, I was quickly reminded of its similarity to the hit list that King David, on his deathbed, gave to Solomon in 1 Kings 2:1-9. On that list, people had to be disposed of, while others were to be promoted. Likewise, in this poem, some people are warned, some are shamed, some are pardoned, and the rest are given either a pardon or a gift. Why is this the case? Why won’t Aunt Araba allow her issues to go to the grave with her? Why is she using her imminent demise as a trump card to drag the nine people on a guilt trip to do her wishes?

Some of Aunt Araba’s wishes are petty and vindictive, while others are subversive to the happiness of their recipients. Throughout the poem, there is a bequeathment of treasure to only one person. Even though the poem does not elaborate on why Ebo was the only person to receive the ‘hidden dozens of stones’, it is baffling as to why Birago with a husband with no ‘pillow’ in him is not given anything? Or why Esi’s debt of ‘five okra and an onion’ is not forgiven? Or why Kuntu is forgiven over the land dispute? Through the tapestry of her warnings and wishes, we see Aunt Araba as a complicated character. A woman who means well in one stanza but is mean in the next one. A woman who advises one woman to be self-reliant but warns her male kin not to marry self-reliant women. A woman who will not forgive a debt of ‘five okra and an onion’ but will give another person a gift of ‘hidden dozens of stones’. A woman who forgives someone she has a land dispute with but will not forgive someone who lied about her. One of the many ironies in this poem is Aunt Araba calling out Manso-Krom for its lion-and-scorpion women whereas she is clearly a lioness and a scorpion herself. However, Aunt Araba, through catharsis, offloads the residual speed, power and weight on her heart. By doing this, she becomes 'weightless' like the butterfly, ready to enter the next phase. She reckons that each phase of existence requires us to experience tabula rasa, a clean slate, in order to come into synchronicity with requirements for that new phase. As Achebe mentions in "The Butterfly" -

Speed is violence
Power is violence
Weight is violence

The butterfly seeks safety in lightness
In weightless, undulating flight

Death has no porters for human baggage. We leave our qualms, quarrels and questions at the border of life and death. We come into life empty, we go into death empty. Aunt Araba’s last words are her own frantic efforts to become as empty as possible, to be ready for the journey beyond.

The contradictions paint a painfully human portrait of Aunt Araba. This is a contrast from the portrait of the deceased individual in the poet’s other seminal poem, "The Burial of St. Domeabra", which I had the opportunity to analyze in a previous “How Poems Work”. In that poem, no ill was spoken of the dead man because it was considered unacceptable. However, Aunt Araba, en route to her demise, incriminates her flawed humanity by having her warnings and wishes recorded. Is the poet subtly alluding to the proverb – silence is golden, speech is silver? Is Aunt Araba doing her community any good by leaving with ‘a bang’, or would she have done better service to her own memory by not saying a word? The more we get to know Aunt Araba, the more we understand the wisdom encapsulated in Achebe’s "Knowing Robs Us" –

Knowing robs us of wonder.
Had it not ripped apart
the fearful robes of primordial Night
to steal the force that crafted horns
on doghead and sowed insurrection
overnight

"The last words of Aunt Araba" is a glimpse into metadecisions of a tradition-minded, family-oriented African woman. This poem’s strength lies in its unapologetic realism. There is no effort to sanitize Aunt Araba’s legacy – it is presented as is – you take it or leave it. Darko Antwi has given us a snapshot of a life that could be like ours or our mothers’ or our aunts’. This poem is a dance between mystery and meaning. Its central theme is about becoming better, even though some of the speaker’s wishes are bitter. This is certainly a smorgasbord of love and hate, generosity and vindictiveness, worry and warnings and all things in between. It reminds us of us – the double standards, the favoritism, the overtly intrusive concerns and any kind of disposition that positions us to play God in other people’s lives. Like the speaker in Kwesi Brew’s "The Mesh", Aunt Araba is resolute that -

in the darkness of my doubts
You lifted the lamp of love
And I saw in your face
The road that I should take.

In the end, she is a human being. Human in her criticisms and concerns. Human in her foibles and failures. Humanized by death.

Tapestry - Darko Antwi

I have swallowed English
and choked myself with French

At daybreak yesterday
I started chewing Ewe,
and by sunset I was full

Tomorrow by this time,
I will try Dutch or Arabic
and eat myself to death.

Earth indeed is not my home
I have got to go into clay
like a proconsul africanus

Cut my tongue when I am gone
wrap it in a cloth of many colours
and give it to any courteous person who passes-by

When my people ask for my tongue,
give them my bones,
or tell a long Indian tale.

Author Profile - Darko Antwi

Biography:

Darko Antwi was born in Ashanti New Town, Kumasi, in May 1976 to Kwaku Antwi and Elizabeth Donkor. After his secondary education at Bekwai Seventh Day Adventist, Antwi taught in local kindergarten and primary schools for five years.

In September 2002 he travelled to the United Kingdom. During his stay in England, he was occupied by a string of odd jobs, including the position of a factory labourer, fabric launderer and newspaper columnist.

Antwi is currently the proprietor of Seaweed Books, publishers of Phillis Wheately Chapter and organizers of both the Ahenkro Book Fair and the Miss Akoto Book Club.

Five Questions with Darko Antwi:

1. You posted an earlier version of "Tapestry" in the comment section of last week's poem, "french conference in the drc" by Jabulani Mzinyathi. In a subsequent comment you noted that you wrote the poem "instantaneously" upon reading Jabulani's poem, and that "something unusual was going through [your] mind". Since then you've edited the poem significantly, to the version we see today. Can you walk us through the process you went through (the moments of inspiration and rounds of edits), and perhaps shed some more light on the "something unusual" that was going through your mind?

When I read "french conference in the drc" I thought both within and outside of its context. Discounting the colonial label, the political atmosphere and economic conditions of the Democratic Republic of Congo, I found the poem to be surprisingly intolerant of "celebrating growth of the french language" by an African host. The African is "still in the spider's web", acknowledges the speaker in Mzinyathi's poem. Yet the writer issues a not so witty political objection, helpless to its rescue.

In my disappointment, I wrote "Tapestry" as an indirect response as to how languages should be treated. From the beginning to the end-line, I was inspired by a sense of respect for languages. I think languages should be treated like food or people. It should be within our choice to consume or befriend, irrespective of origin or ethnic background. Some people like local dishes. Others want to go foreign. Someone wants a bit of this and a bit of that. It's all a matter of choice. Modern independent states also have the right to make choices, just as an individual citizen would to determine his or her linguistic destiny.

I have edited "Tapestry" twice since its first draft, which was posted firsthand on 29th October. If it meets some constructive criticisms, I may edit more later. [Editor's note: since receiving this reply from Darko, he's further edited the poem a third time!]


2. Why do you think you found that the best way you could respond to Jabulani's poem was in another poem? How do you think your response would have differed - in terms of message - had it been delivered in a different form (i.e. a prose response)?

Rather than nothing, "Tapestry" may have been the best response I made. But I barely thought of it as the best. It was what I had at that blank moment to communicate. A response in prose, if I had any, would have pointed direct references to Mzinyathi's poem. That brings me here to believe that prose writings, as elaborate as they could be written, are most probably comprehensive. Not many readers would understand the telegram of "Tapestry", unless explained.


3. It's very interesting to watch the development of this poem through its edits from your initial post to its current state. Why did you add the reference to Proconsul africanus in the current version, for instance? And what drew you to transform the ending as you did?

I just wanted to say that, in spite of their speech function, human beings are mortal. They pass away like other animals. Nevertheless human beings, by natural design, pass away by passing on wisdom and knowledge to the living and future generations, through the art of speech. The tongue is therefore symbolic. I could have referred to any other animal, but I wanted to draw attention to the possible extinction of languages. Hence the bygone primate, Proconsul africanus, makes an effective shadow to loom broadly.

In the last stanza I wanted to make a strong case for preservation. I wanted the speaker to be seen as a will-maker who wanted the preservation of his valuable/sensitive part in the trust of those he deems competent. In the frame of incompetence and failure to preserve language, we can place the picture of Africans, who the speaker is likely referring to as "my people". So to avoid his incompetent people, he suggests his executors do or say something cunning to outwit them.


4. I wonder about the inclusion of Ewe in the list of languages that the speaker consumes, seeing as, unlike the other languages mentioned, it is an indigenous language to Ghana. Could you discuss why you included Ewe? How do you think the poem would read differently if "Ewe" were replaced with, say, another European language?

I wanted to create a speaker who has an appetite/love for languages from all sorts of backgrounds. So it could have been an inclusion of any other Ghanaian or African language that would help the making of a variety of popular and unpopular, tasty and tasteless, bony and boneless meals. (Personally, I like the Ewe language more than any other Ghanaian language. That's personal, I insist). Replacing Ewe with another European language would have made the speaker a glutton without a care in the world for a balanced diet!

In all seriousness, I wanted to create a scenario where the speaking, learning and even the celebration of language by any person or group of people could be seen as a matter of preference based on discretion, and not a levy. So, it could have been European languages throughout. Yet the message wouldn't have been compromised, since languages in Europe have their differences.


5. I will pose for you now a question that I asked Jabulani Mzinyathi in his Q+A last week: How do you feel about Ghana, and yourself, being part of the English-speaking world? Do you think that is something worth celebrating? Criticizing?

If Ga, Akan, Swahili, Portuguese, or Zimbabwe's Chishona was one of the dominant languages in the world, and the official language of Ghana, I would have stood by it. I would have taken pride in it because one language becomes great for the right reasons. I'm so proud to be a speaker of English. And I feel no shame for Ghana's role in the English-speaking world. Ghanaians were not forced to speak English. The language has served a good purpose of bringing nations together. Mufti-lingual Ghana must be grateful, especially.

The African can celebrate French or English and yet pursue their own identity. Unquestionably the indigenous African languages should be promoted. We can either choose to promote them side-by-side or over-and-above the foreign languages. That done, we wouldn't fight against or resent the spread and dominance of the Anglo-Franco giant in this our competitive world. If we don't want to remain "cultural bats", let's promote what we have - and do nothing to discourage what others unite to promote.

There is something I have learned: English belongs to any nation that adopts it, except that the US, Australia and other advanced countries have thought it wise to brand theirs in books. People from different places don't speak the same English. Our differences in attitude and accents divide it into Nigerian English, Spanish English, Kenyan English, Indian English, Jamaican English, etc. The good English people have pardoned all of us. They have let us go free for some of the wonky-croaky accents we corrupt their language with. I'm joking, of course! Like the English people, I love the diversity associated with the Queens language. The beauty of it made me write the following poem in 2003, when I was just a year old in London:

The Accent Syndrome

On a summer errand
at the High Road of Tottenham,
vibrant symphonies meet
to sound English like:
a crunch from apple bite
a rustle from withered leaves
a honk from car horn
a fizz from dissolving tablets
a clink from wine glasses
a pop from an opened bottle
a sizzle from frying sausage
a hiss from punctured tyre
and jingles from a bunch of keys.

not forgetting the free whirr
of a fan; the burr virtuoso
of the good English people –
in whose liberal setting
the orchestra blooms.

Back to the question of celebration. If I choose to use an iPod, a blender and a mower, I think I will celebrate them too. By so doing, I would be appreciating the brains behind them, as well as the technological Western culture that inspired their invention. Does that mean I'm against the patronage of local made tools? No! Of course I would wish, support and even apply, if I can, for an improvement in some primitive tools we make and use in the African world. Does that mean I'm against foreign goods? Not at all.

Contact Darko:

darko.antwi@yahoo.co.uk

All Poets are Mad... Except Kwaku Ananse - Darko Antwi

In his lifetime as a translator, the Englishman Robert Burton once said: "All poets are mad". I don't know why he made such a crude statement. He may have had difficulties in translating the burlesque nature of some poetic lines. Probably, he was expressing disgust at the odd private lives of poets.

As I ponder on the rationale behind Burton’s utterance – and while I pray no one takes offence – I have managed to look out for some psychotic symptoms among Ghanaian poets of Martin Egblewogbe’s generation. The result is compelling to the assumed universal madness of poets, in the metaphoric sense though.

To find out for yourself how crazy Ghanaian poets are, go to the capital of Ghanaian poetry sites: an online magazine called One Ghana, One Voice (OGOV). Since 2007, OGOV, founded by the Canadian Rob Taylor and Julian Adomako-Gyimah, has become a haven where Ghanaian poets, in fellowship with other nationals, have settled their innate desire for seclusion.

With poets from across regions and tribes, the OGOV archive has become wealthy by some eccentric, weird, twisted but mostly brilliant and heartwarming titles to excite a reader. Perhaps the most encouraging factor of the magazine is its magic to attract the outcast Ghanaian poets of the diaspora to interact with colleagues who wander in the homeland. The male-to-female ratio of 5:1 succeeds a fashion which the lady poet, Mariska Taylor-Darko, examined years ago in an OGOV Roundtable Discussion: "Ghanaian writing has been male dominated in the past because to be honest women were relegated to the kitchen and bringing up kids and learning home science". Not so encouraging a trend! The general profile is however interesting: with a make-up of high academic laurels and noble career backgrounds, incorporating: civil engineers, nurses, lecturers, lawyers, and more. One would expect this group of intellectuals to be a calibre of sound mind, but the opposite is evident.

Per custom, editor Rob Taylor often asks (within his traditional "five questions") what an OGOV featured poet wants to achieve with a particular poem. In response, each attempts either a social order or a political change. Their obsession for socio-political change does no harm in exposing the ultra-moral Ghanaian poet who seems to have wild thoughts about the world around him. He suspects a minister of state, with a sackful of stolen cedis, air-bound for safekeeping in Switzerland. The Ghanaian poet believes that the Greenwich Meridian line at Tema should be guarded against some western wind that could blow it by inches and miles to Ouagadougou. Given the licence, the Ghanaian poet would cry wolf about the rusty axis of the earth that needs repair. In his paranoia, he looks over his shoulders and raises unnecessary alarm on a variety of issues.

Could a host of their titles have influence over any social injustice or political impropriety? The reality is: when put on the scale, most of the relevant subjects do not carry weight. Such chaffy poems are full of delusions and weak logic – they lack the application of science. It would not be surprising if authors under this description test positive for a schizophrenia screening!

Of course, there are some anointed poets whose works have the tendency to affect purported social/political transformation. Most notable are the lingua-potent Novisi Dzitrie, the robust satirist Nana Yaw Sarpong, the theatrical prodigy Reggie Kyere and the idiomatic wizard Nii Ayikwei Parkes. Nevertheless, the best is yet to come out from the zeal and imagination of Adjei Agyei-Baah, Reginald Asanga Taluah, Nana Agyemang Ofosu, Edith Faalong, Appiah Grant, Foster Topper and several others. Let’s watch out!

If you were a fan of poetry, you would certainly agree with the respectable Adomako-Gyimah on the argument that poetry, in the hands of the poet, is a powerful weapon that can be used to kill politicians. But you may part ways with him (Adomako-Gyimah) when it comes to endorsing the circumstances under which some poets attack. In real life scenario, one person kills to be acquitted, and another kills to be convicted. The advice to the poet therefore is: he can/should kill – but with a reason to justify.

To avoid guilt and the ensuing consequences that befall murderers, I hope the Ghanaian poet learns to control his outrage as he goes about his virtuous endeavours. After all, the fair balance of principles (ideas) and feelings is important in upholding the image of the poetic voice as it engages the collective conscience of the reading public. To achieve a profound interplay of logic and sentiment, writers – and indeed poets – should definitely relate to the wisdom of Taylor’s Yardstick (a term I devised after reading one of Rob Taylor's answers to an OGOV "five questions" interview): a theory that puts a premium on the art of comprehensible writing over a focus on purely aesthetic concerns.

With little or no mentorship from elderly literary personnel, the young Ghanaian poet seems to have drawn inspiration from writers around the world, as sourced from OGOV interviews. Their mentors are remotely based: if the Ghanaian poets are not having an admiration for John Keats, they would be romantically inclined to Lord Byron. They idolize William Wordsworth and go bananas for Robert Browning. You may blame the elderly Ghanaian poets for not having the will to nurture the present OGOV-borne movement. Hold on! Share the blame. Give a large part to the young poets; since they themselves do not have the will to socialise, relate and stay at home. It’s hard taming them as they roam about picking some fifteenth century ornaments, that have been dropped in poetic waste bins, to adorn their verses. Such experience could be positive. But it would have been fearfully negative if we had found no trace of Ghanaian culture in the forms and themes they choose to write about. On that note, the Ghanaian poet should be praised for remembering their roots. You see, they don’t suffer from dementia, after all. They are only moderately insane, with sharp memories.

The poets’ cultural pride is brightly celebrated in the following selected poems: "For my Husband, an Educated Fool" by Nana Yeboaa, "Mama" by Vida Ayitah, "Marketplace" by Emma Akuffo, "Dry Season in Erenom" by Edith Faalong, "The Deer Hunt" by Mariska Taylor-Darko, "Trotro" by Kwadwo Kwarteng, "Night Falls on Children Playing" by Kofi A. Amoako.

Apart from the mental lapse, the Ghanaian poet has slipped into Acute Criticism Deficiency Syndrome. Do not panic! This disease can easily be cured. It takes field knowledge and fair mindedness of a practitioner – both of which are provisionally available.

Oscar Wilde understood what he was talking about when he warned about the doom of any genre of creative writing which is stripped of criticism. To avoid any sort of doom, let’s hope the leading critics Dela Bobobee, L.S. Mensah, Nana Fredua-Agyeman and Prince Mensah would extend their constructive arms (from beyond the OGOV pages, to the reach of other journals) to examine the crooked paths, and point out the square pegs that end up in round holes.

When the critic has played his role, the publisher is left to be pleased. As they examine a manuscript, the publisher will, in no doubt, look out for the following images: Einstein’s formula or Frankenstein’s monster within the written work, before risking an investment. Whenever I think of the objective of the publisher, I ask myself as to whether the Ghanaian poet (like the Russian poet, Pushkin) would look at his finished work "as a cobbler looks on his pair of boots." Pushkin went on to note that he "sells[s] for profit". The impression is simple: Pushkin kept on polishing his art to the appeal of publishers, to the pleasure of the common reader, and deliberately, to the displeasure of the authorities of his time. And he became a publishing success. End of story!

Should the Ghanaian poet take after Pushkin he must learn to clean his dusty and sometimes greasy art, since failure in exercising a routine revision of one’s intellectual paperwork could lead to a wretched output: as the status of a shabbily dressed somebody who roams the streets of central Accra. Isn’t that an act of madness?

When asked about the number of drafts L.S. Mensah took her poem "Mother of Ikemefuna" through before its appearance at OGOV in October 2011, she replied: "Over a dozen. Of my million hideous obsessions, the number of drafts of a single poem I go through is probably the worst". No wonder her verses are sensible, brisk and lively.

It may be controversial in acknowledging Kwaku Ananse as a poet, yet I hope it would largely be agreed that the rise of OGOV has not only stirred the absurd enthusiasm in its contributory poets... but it has as well-inspired creativity and the birth of other magazines and platforms like Akwantuo, Ghana Book Review, Phillis Wheatley Chapter, Alewa, Elhalakasa, and functional organisations like Writers Project of Ghana and Poetry Foundation Ghana.

Until I share another dark joke with you, let us leave the tricky Kwaku Ananse to do the web, and the patriotic Ghanaian poets, their sublime art.




Darko Antwi is a Ghanaian poet and critic. He is also the proprietor of Seaweed Books and editor of Phillis Wheatley Chapter. This article was originally published at Poetry Foundation Ghana, and is republished here with the author's permission.

State of the Nation's Loss - Darko Antwi

Madam Speaker,
Honourables, and Fellow Citizens,
The President of the Republic has left the Castle
He has gone to the village
He left around Two Fifteen Post Meridiem
It is sad to know that he will not return

Madam Speaker,
We wish he had not gone
But he went in good spirit,
Leaving behind; a clean seat,
A sharp sword and a high-raised flag

Madam Speaker,
Tears stream down our eyes
The coastal towns are gravely silent
The forest regions are cloudy
And the savanna homeland is windswept
Because the great oak has fallen

Madam Speaker,
We wish it had not fallen
But it did so with grace, and in dignity.
In fond memory of its shade,
And the evergreen foliage, we salute!

Darko Antwi is a regular contributor to One Ghana, One Voice.

If you have a poem in memory of President Mills, please send it to us at oneghanaonevoice(at)gmail(dot)com.

The last words of Aunt Araba - Darko Antwi

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Kojo to put away the bottle
else akpeteshie will take a photo of him

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Birago not to put her head on her husband
for I have not seen a pillow in that man

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Asantewaa to knock at Esi's door
for she owes me five okra and an onion

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Ebo to dig a foot deep around the odum
for I have hidden dozens of stones

I am going..
when I am gone,
tell Kakraba not to marry from Manso-Krom
for their women are lions and scorpions

I am going...
when I am gone,
invite Kuntu and offer him some drink
tell him: he has my pardon over the land dispute

I am going...
when I am gone,
tell Aba: I don't need her shadow at my funeral
for the arrows of her falsehood have crushed my soul

I am going...
when I am gone,
be faithful with your vows to Nananom
that you may have their blessing and avoid their wrath

I am going...
ah... oh... oh...

Author Profile - Darko Antwi

Biography:

Darko Antwi was born in Ashanti New Town, Kumasi, in May 1976 to Kwaku Antwi and Elizabeth Donkor. After his secondary education at Bekwai Seventh Day Adventist, Antwi taught in local kindergarten and primary schools for five years.

In September 2002 he travelled to the United Kingdom. During his stay in England, he was occupied by a string of odd jobs, including the position of a factory labourer, fabric launderer and newspaper columnist.

Antwi is currently the proprietor of Seaweed Books, publishers of Phillis Wheately Chapter and organizers of both the Ahenkro Book Fair and the Miss Akoto Book Club.

Five Questions with Darko Antwi:

1. What inspired you to write this poem?

I have never witnessed someone's dying moments. But I have always been fascinated by the hearsay of final words. Based on a younger relative's drinking habit, I imagined how his mother's last words to him would be. From that imagination, I went on and on to lay bare some of the attitudes that die with us: our fears, our hope, our mercies, our wryness, our prejudices, our bitterness etc. I have used a real name: 'Aunt Araba' in memory of a Fante woman who was married to my grand uncle. I loved her, and she loved me when I was growing up in the early 80's. She was a baker with a big brick oven at the centre of Ashanti New Town. She often gave me free fresh bread for breakfast. She said I was her 'husband'. Whenever she came home to pamper me, my head swelled. She died eight years ago. So, I wrote the poem with her in mind - though the drama is not necessarily true to her character.


2. How did this lines of the poem start for you? Did one particular stanza come first, and then the poem grew from there, or?

Since it was the foremost idea to drop into my mind, the first stanza was certainly first on the draft. And I thought it worthwhile to maintain its position. The only stanzas I kept shifting places are the 6th, 7th and 8th, as the script progressed.


3. The end of this poem relies on sounds (it reminds me of Mariska Taylor-Darko's "Harmattan don come again ooooooh"). Do you ever worry, in leaning on the use of such sounds, that they might be misinterpreted (especially, I think here, by an international audience not familiar with the Ghanaian verbal soundscape of "oh"s, "ah"s, etc.)? Or is it ok with you however that last line is interpreted?

I wish I knew Aunt Araba's mind / feelings myself. But I do not, unfortunately. I can only guess based on common usage of the sounds in real experiences [in the Ghanaian cultural setting]. Same may apply to the international audience. As if I knew how crucial it would be for interpretation. I thought of it myself. Hence I do not intend to subject it to misinterpretation. Those cultural-diverse sounds should therefore be studied to be understood in the Ghanaian context, for the benefit of effective psycho-analysis of the main character in the poem.


4. You used to live in London. Do you ever think of the state the city must be in as it gears up to host the Olympics? Have you been following some of the poetry events that surround the games, such as the Poetry Parnassus, in which Ghana will be represented by Nii Ayikwei Parkes?

I can only imagine the euphoria in the city. Nii Ayikwei Parkes representing Ghana at the Poetry Parnassus is an honour we can be proud of. May I, on behalf of the Ghanaian poetry community, use this media to wish him the best of performance.


5. It's been half a year since we last heard from you. How has 2012 been treating you? Have you been writing more or less than in 2011?

2012 has been so kind a year. I wrote much in 2011. So much, so that six months into this year, I am still wrapping up the volume I collected in the previous year for publication. It is not solely poetry. I am talking about four picture books and a reference document, inclusive.

Contact Darko:

darko.antwi@yahoo.co.uk

Favourite Poems of 2011

Readers' Picks:

portrait of a lotto prophet as savior of the people by Prince Mensah (Issue 5.38, September 24th - 30th, 2011)

Comments on portrait of a lotto prophet as savior of the people:

"Time is very important in this poem, and I like how Mensah uses the temporal divisions (Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow) to point up the inevitability of the people's fate. By fixating on immediate material needs, they condemn themselves to exploitation when they, like the refrain, dwell only in the present. The Lotto Prophet is the Pied Piper, this time he punishes the people for the mistake of wanting more, ironically, by taking what little the people possess. It could be applied to the present financial crisis." - L.S. Mensah

"When two or three lines in a poem stick to your memory, when you love to read that poem again and again, then that poem has some qualities that cannot be measured. An example of that poem is Prince Mensah's "portrait of a lotto prophet as savior of the people"" - Darko Antwi

A Text Message To My Friend, Jake, Who Died For Their Sake by Philip Addo (Issue 5.50, December 17th - 23rd, 2011)

Comments on A Text Message To My Friend, Jake, Who Died For Their Sake:

"I love the poem because it touches on a very sensitive issue: "Slave trade in our modern time." I think I adore the poem. - Molai Addo

"Well done to Philip Addo for his amazing poem." - Darko Antwi

Forgotten Heroes by Martin Elorm Dogbo (Issue 5.45, November 12th - 18th, 2011)

Comment on Forgotten Heroes:

"This poem's theme is very universal. The sad songs of “Forgotten Heroes” are sung in every language of the world, but it was handled with poetic artistry by Martin Dogbo with such melancholic undertones that pluck on emotional strings." - Dela Bobobee

Staff Picks:

Mother of Ikemefuna and Mother of Equiano by L.S. Mensah (Issues 5.42 - 5.44, October 22nd - November 11th, 2011)

Comments on Mother of Ikemefuna and Mother of Equiano:

"L.S. Mensah does a great job by writing about two mothers of two characters; one fictional (Ikemefuna) the other actual (Equiano). Both men were slaves; Ikemefuna in another neighboring tribe, Equiano in another foreign nation. "Mother of Ikemefuna" executes an excellent juxtaposition of death and life against a background of hollow traditions. Ikemefuna's mother speaks, as a microcosm of women in stagnant cultures. In "Mother of Equinano", the mother is a collector of memories, a woman whose small heart has enough space to contain all the places her lost son had ever stepped on." - Prince Mensah

"What a treat it was to feature this pair of poems by L.S. Mensah. "Mother of Equiano" in particular, especially that cracking ending, has haunted me more than almost any poem featured on OGOV to date. And in addition to the poems, L.S. is one of the most thoughtful and generous interviewees we've ever had (see here for yourself). What more can we ask for?" - Rob Taylor

Thinking aloud, while sipping palmwine in England by Darko Antwi (Issue 5.52, December 24th - 30th, 2011)

Comments on Thinking aloud, while sipping palmwine in England:

"In compelling diasporan mode, Darko Antwi pulls the strings of nostalgia to the notes of change (or vice versa). As he sips palmwine in England, the poet makes a clear statement that he refuses to drink English alcohol and, ironically, it is the only thing in his culture that still tastes right. Using the backdrop of rain, the poet muses about home, about the sheer simplicity and sensuality in the way of life. Amidst all that, there are serious issues that have managed to morph themselves into normalcy. Issues that continue to undermine the progress of society. Darko captures questions that run in the diasporan state of mind: is home still the same way I left it? Are people still dependent on rain (a euphemism for external factors) to make important decisions about their lives? " - Prince Mensah

"This poem is rich with images of home. Heavy with them. They spill from it like rain from the "pelvis of the roof". You can feel the weight of it all as you read. You can feel the ache. Beautiful stuff." - Rob Taylor

Ayitey, 1973 by Nii Parkes (Issue 5.10, March 5th - 11th, 2011)

Comment on Ayitey, 1973:

"As with many year-end awards, poems published on OGOV near the end of the year tend to get more attention than early-year poems that have slipped from our collective memory. This often leads to wonderful poems being overlooked, something which cannot be allowed to happen for the poems in Nii Ayikwei Parkes' "The Makings of You" series. "Ayitey, 1973" stands out in particular, weaving its web between Accra and London, Vietnam and 9/11, George Foreman and Bruce Lee, Picasso and Nas. And Neruda leaning over it all. It is a mesmerising poem." - Rob Taylor

Thinking aloud, while sipping palmwine in England - Darko Antwi

Perhaps it's raining
in my hometown
And the roaming goats
must have sought shelter
under the barn of maize and dried cassava

Perhaps it's raining
And the old lady is keeping some firewood
safe for morning porridge
and lukewarm bathwater

Perhaps it's raining
And Papa ought to rise
from his reclined chair
and place a barrel under the pelvis of the roof
to contain the pleasurable thrust of the waterfall

Perhaps it's raining
And the village boys and girls
are having an athletic fair:
cartwheeling themselves across fields,
or molding clay into Rubus fruticosus,
or reshaping the plastic soil to form urban houses,
owned by distant relatives
who have become pregnant men at Santasi

If it does not rain tomorrow,
will those boys and girls
cross the boundaries of the village
and trot around the globe
in chase of wild goose,
and wear out their fiber and cerebral,
for nickels and dimes?

Perhaps it's raining. Perhaps it's raining...
raining in the place of my birth...
raining cats and dogs.

Author Profile - Darko Antwi

Biography:

Darko Antwi was born in Kumasi in May 1976. After his secondary education at Bekwai Seventh Day Adventist, he taught in local kindergarten and primary schools from 1997 - 2002. He served as a columnist for African Echo newspaper from 2007 until 2009.

During the Emancipation Day 2006 at Cape Coast, Antwi’s epic, Nkrabea, was adapted for recitation. Also, it has a regular reading feature at Black History Month - Britain. One of Antwi's poems has recently been published at Phillis Wheatley Chapter.

Five Questions with Darko Antwi:

1. You mentioned in the comment section of last week's OGOV poem that "Thinking aloud..." "shapes itself between" Juanita Tsikata's "Wake Up, I'm Home" and Philip Addo's "A Text Message To My Friend, Jake, Who Died For Their Sake". Could you expand on this observation a bit? How do you think your poem sits between them? And what new territory does it cover that the other two do not?

Whereas Juanita Tsikata's title reviews a case of national identity and cultural deviation as a result of long term emigration, mine takes a preview of the subject. I noticed that the voice in Tsikata's poem makes decisive statements, very opposite to my contemplative rhetorical questions, be they legitimate or not.

Although it does not predict the aftermath of the voluntary movement of people "in the oracles of unseen" chains, Philip Addo's poem views, reports or bears witness to the event. The following lines are expressive: "The lions are marching with ants into pits for grains / The sheep are diving into the sea for fishes / They are going back to the mud."

There is mass movement of skilled/unskilled, legal/illegal Ghanaian immigrants in Europe and elsewhere. Yet settling in another country is not peculiar to Ghanaians, considering the socio-economic advantages and disadvantages that are being reaped globally. So depending on the angle one looks at continental migration, the theme, tone and the mood of the three poems can be compared and contrasted in minute traces.


2. Was "Thinking aloud..." written, at least in part, as a conscious response to similarly-themed poems by other writers, or was it written "independently" (i.e. only sub-consciously in relationship with other poems)?

It's neither of them. I wrote it during a difficult time in London. I had no job for nearly three months. So it's definitely a reflection of opportunities and resources in Ghana versus my jobless state. I never thought of responding to, or bearing relationship with other poems. Anyway, it would have been interesting writing with some sort of conscience other than the explained.


3. How important do you think it is that we as poets "challenge" one another on important issues? Do you think such criticism/debate is best accomplished through prose writing, or through further poems?

Very important. It has to be prose, since it elaborates and could better untie the tight knots of poetry.


4. Earlier this year a poem of yours, "The Burial of Saint Domeabra", was given a close reading by Prince Mensah as part of our "How Poems Work" series. How did it feel to have a poem of yours analysed in this way? Was it useful to you? Did it help you look at your writing, and your writing process, in a new light?

I was excited. I felt honoured. Prince Mensah's detailed work confounds me. It renewed my mind as to the fact that a poem has a message. But it never scared me of playing with words!


5. In a recent comment on the site, you expressed your regret that discussion of OGOV poems is down in 2011. Since we're at the end of the year, with voting currently on for our "Favourite Poems of 2011", what one or two OGOV poems from 2011 do you think should have garnered more attention and discussion from our readers?

The "The Makings of You" Series was a sensation. We could have had a lengthy discussion on Nii Ayikwei Parkes' prodigious output. But we made less out of "The Makings of Ourselves". In October, L.S. Mensah recreated the "Mother of Equiano" and the "Mother of Ikemefuna" for our veneration, but to my disappointment we paid little homage to her courtesy. David Urion's "Arthur Wharton, A Black Star Shines in Space" should have had a rocket discussion, but it lifted-off to nowhere.

Contact Darko:

darko.antwi@yahoo.co.uk