Ghana Must Go Quotes

They were doers and thinkers and lovers and seekers and givers, but dreamers, most dangerously of all. They were dreamer-women. Very dangerous women. Who looked at the world through their wide dreamer-eyes and saw it not as it was, "brutal, senseless," etc., but worse, as it might be or might yet become. So, insatiable women. Un-pleasable women.

Sight is subjective. We learned that in class.

loss” is a notion. No more than a thought. Which one forms or one doesn’t. With words. Such that one cannot lose, nor ever say he has lost, what he does not permit to exist in his mind.

She sleeps like a cocoyam. A thing without senses. She sleeps like his mother, unplugged from the world.

There was the one basic storyline, which everyone knew, with the few custom endings to choose now and again. Basic: humming grandmas and polycentric dancing and drinks made from tree sap and patriarchy.

And what happens to daughters whose mothers betray them? They don’t become huggable like Sadie, Taiwo thinks. They don’t become giggly, adorable like Ling. They grow shells. Become hardened. They stop being girls. Though they look like girls and act like girls and flirt like girls and kiss like girls—really, they’re generals, commandos at war, riding out at first light to preempt further strikes. With an army behind them, their talents their horsemen, their brilliance and beauty and anything else they may have at their disposal dispatched into battle to capture the castle, to bring back the Honor. Of course it doesn’t work. For they burn down the village in search of the safety they lost, every time, Taiwo knows.

He feels a second pang now for the existence of perfection, the stubborn existence of perfection in the most vulnerable of things and in the face of his refusal-logical-admirable refusal-to engage with this existence in his heart, in his mind. For the comfortless logic, the curse of clear sight, no matter which string he pulls on the same wretched knot: (a) the futility of seeing given the fatality in a place such as this where a mother still bloody must bury her newborn, hose off, and go home to pound yam into paste; (b) the persistence of beauty, in fragility of all places!, in a dewdrop at daybreak, a thing that will end, and in moments, and in a garden, and in Ghana, lush Ghana, soft Ghana, verdant Ghana, where fragile things die.

Death must take place in the heart to be believed in. After love dies man believes in his death.

Then Ghana, and the smell of Ghana, a contradiction, a cracked clay pot: the smell of dryness, wetness, both, the damp of earth and dry of dust. The airport. Bodies pushing, pulling, shouting, begging, touching, breathing. He'd forgotten the bodies. The proximity of bodies. In America the bodies were distant. The warmth of it ...... Why had he hated this view? Of this beach, of the backs of these fishermen, glistening brown, of the long wooden boats, evangelical names in bright tricolor paint on their splintering sides, Black Star Jesus, Jah Reign, Christ the Fisher of Men, in the red, yellow, green of the national flag and the national spirit of open-source ethos, this mixing of Anglican, Rastafarian, Ghanaian? What was there to hate in this? There was only openness. As far as he could see. A cheerful openness. An innocence. An innocent beach on the road to Kokrobite at seven A.M. November 1975, little country lurching, cheerful, unaware, to revolution. Little taxi lurching, blasting revolution, to grief.

Looking back at a world that considered her irrelevant with a look that said she considered the world irrelevant, too.

loss” is a notion. No more than a thought. Which one forms or one doesn’t. With words. Such that one cannot lose, nor ever say he has lost, what

Your baby is crying," says the driver to Taiwo, the Ghanian way of saying your cell phone is ringing.

Suggested Reading Achebe, Chinua. Things Fall Apart Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. Americanah and Half of a Yellow Sun Aidoo, Ama Ata. No Sweetness Here and Other Stories Armah, Ayi Kwei. The Healers Bulawayo, NoViolet. We Need New Names Cole, Teju. Every Day Is for the Thief Mengestu, Dinaw. The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears Morrison, Toni. Beloved Okparanta, Chinelo. Happiness, Like Water Owuor, Yvonne Adhiambo. Dust Salih, Tayeb. Season of Migration to the North Selasi, Taiye. Ghana Must Go aaknopf.com

So, the women he's loved. Who knew nothing of satisfaction. Who having gotten what they wanted always promptly wanted more. Not greedy. Never greedy... They were doers and thinkers and lovers and seekers and givers, but dreamers, most dangerously of all. They were dreamer-women. Very dangerous women. Who looked at the world through their wide dreamer-eyes and saw it not as it was, "brutal, senseless," etc., but worse, as it might be or might yet become. So, insatiable women. Un-pleasable women. Who wanted above all things that could not be had. Not what THEY could not have--no such thing for such women--but what wasn't there to be had in the first place.

It is broken in four places. Just the cracks in the beginning, left untreated now for years. His mother in Kokrobité, Olu in Boston, Kofi in Jamestown, Folasadé all over. That woman, all over him, deep in the fascia, in the muscle, in the tissue, in the matter, in the blood. He is dying of a broken heart. He cannot help but laugh at this.

L'unico scopo di una relazione è quello di inscenare, in miniatura, tutto lo stramaledetto dramma della vita e della morte. L'amore nasce come nasce un bambino. L'amore cresce come cresce un bambino. Un uomo sa bene che deve morire, ma non avendo conosciuto altre realtà che la vita non crede veramente nella propria morte. E poi, un giorno, il suo amore si raffredda. Il cuore dell'amore smette di battere. L'amore muore. In questo modo, l'uomo impara che la morte è la realtà: che la morte può esistere nell'essenza di una persona, la "sua" morte. La perdita di un animale domestico o di una rosa o di un genitore può farlo soffrire, ma non sono convincenti, non abbastanza. La morte deve avvenire nel cuore per essere creduta. Dopo la morte dell'amore, l'uomo riesce a credere nella propria morte.

A vida dela até aquele momento tinha parecido tão original, um conto tecido elegantemente, com um elenco brilhante de personagens - ela: a princesa sem mãe de um palácio vertical, o apartamento de quatro andares na Ilha Victoria; eles: amigos fervorosos e glamurosos de seu pai, os empregados; ele: o rei viúvo do castelo. Se tivesse tido uma morte apropriada à vida deles como ela a conhecia - em um acidente de carro, por exemplo, em seu amado Deux Chevaux, ou de câncer de fígado ou pulmão, até o fim fumando Caos e engolindo rum -, ela poderia ter tolerado a perda. Teria ficado em luto. Teria se descoberto uma órfã em um apartamento de quatro andares, depois de perder ambos os pais aos treze anos, mas teria sido, enlutada dessa forma, uma coisa que ela reconheceria (trágica) em vez daquilo que se tornou: uma parte da história (genérica).

Another dangerous neoliberal word circulating everywhere that is worth zooming in on is the word ‘resilience’. On the surface, I think many people won’t object to the idea that it is good and beneficial for us to be resilient to withstand the difficulties and challenges of life. As a person who lived through the atrocities of wars and sanctions in Iraq, I’ve learnt that life is not about being happy or sad, not about laughing or crying, leaving or staying. Life is about endurance. Since most feelings, moods, and states of being are fleeting, endurance, for me, is the common denominator that helps me go through the darkest and most beautiful moments of life knowing that they are fleeing. In that sense, I believe it is good for us to master the art of resilience and endurance. Yet, how should we think about the meaning of ‘resilience’ when used by ruling classes that push for wars and occupations, and that contribute to producing millions of deaths and refugees to profit from plundering the planet? What does it mean when these same warmongers fund humanitarian organizations asking them to go to war-torn countries to teach people the value of ‘resilience’? What happens to the meaning of ‘resilience’ when they create frighteningly precarious economic structures, uncertain employment, and lay off people without accountability? All this while also asking us to be ‘resilient’… As such, we must not let the word ‘resilience’ circulate or get planted in the heads of our youth uncritically. Instead, we should raise questions about what it really means. Does it mean the same thing for a poor young man or woman from Ghana, Ecuador, Afghanistan vs a privileged member from the upper management of a U.S. corporation? Resilience towards what? What is the root of the challenges for which we are expected to be resilient? Does our resilience solve the cause or the root of the problem or does it maintain the status quo while we wait for the next disaster? Are individuals always to blame if their resilience doesn’t yield any results, or should we equally examine the social contract and the entire structure in which individuals live that might be designed in such a way that one’s resilience may not prevail no matter how much perseverance and sacrifice one demonstrates? There is no doubt that resilience, according to its neoliberal corporate meaning, is used in a way that places the sole responsibility of failure on the shoulders of individuals rather than equally holding accountable the structure in which these individuals exist, and the precarious circumstances that require work and commitment way beyond individual capabilities and resources. I find it more effective not to simply aspire to be resilient, but to distinguish between situations in which individual resilience can do, and those for which the depth, awareness, and work of an entire community or society is needed for any real and sustainable change to occur. But none of this can happen if we don’t first agree upon what each of us mean when we say ‘resilience,’ and if we have different definitions of what it means, then we should ask: how shall we merge and reconcile our definitions of the word so that we complement not undermine what we do individually and collectively as people. Resilience should not become a synonym for surrender. It is great to be resilient when facing a flood or an earthquake, but that is not the same when having to endure wars and economic crises caused by the ruling class and warmongers. [From “On the Great Resignation” published on CounterPunch on February 24, 2023]

Frustration/pity, that the world is both too beautiful and more beautiful than he knows, than he’s noticed, that he’s missed it, and that he might be missing more but that he might never know and that it might be too late; that it can be too late, that there is such a thing, a Too Late in the first place, that time will run out, and that it might not even matter in the end what he’s noticed, for how can it matter when it all disappears?

Between “the way things were” and “when everything changed,” a moment within which one notices nothing, about which one remembers all.

It was the reason, he thought, they built churches so big and investment banks so impressive. To dazzle the faithful. Arrogance by association. The machine was in control. And so he was in control who belonged to it.

The mind-boggling speed of a death. (Or was it the other way around? Mind-boggling speed of a life?)

Never success, because what were its units of measurement (U.S. dollars? Framed diplomas?) and what quantity was enough?

She’d seen everything he had—all the indignities of their poverty; the seeming unimportance of their being to and in the wider world; the maddening smallness of an existence that didn’t extend past a beach they could walk the whole length of in half of a day—without seeing herself undignified, unimportant, or small.

Dewdrops on grass. On the soles of his feet: sudden, wet, unexpected, so shocking they hurt.

Ama tut sich selbst nicht weh. Sie kommt gar nicht auf die Idee. Sich selbst in Frage zu stellen. Von ihrer Seele eine kleine Leidens-Zahlung für alle weltlichen Lüste einzufordern, obwohl die Welt diese Zahlung gar nicht verlangt. Ama ist keine Denkerin.Sie denkt nicht unaufhörlich – was könnte besser sein, was ist als Nächstes dran, was hat sie falsch gemacht, wer hat ihr eventuell Unrecht getan, was denkt oder fühlt er, sagt es aber nicht –, und deshalb stoßen ihre Gedanken nicht unaufhörlich mit seinen zusammen, was alle möglichen Reibereien und Feuerstürme und Explosionen verursachen würde, aus Versehen, Kollisionen da und dort im Haus. Ihre Gedanken sind keine gefährlichen Substanzen. Die Gedanken der Träumerinnen waren Landminen, freie Radikale. Ihre Gespräche beim Frühstück können in einen Krieg übergehen. Ama ist keine Kämpferin. Sie kommt ohne Waffen zum Frühstück und geht abends unbekleidet und unbewaffnet ins Bett. Sie hat kein persönliches Interesse daran, ihn zu ändern. Ihr natürlicher Zustand ist Zufriedenheit, nicht Neugier. Und deshalb ist sie, zweitens, nicht unglücklich.�

und dass es in Nordamerika kaum zweieiige Zwillinge gab (ganz anders beispielsweise in Nigeria, wo Zwillinge die Norm waren).�

Es amüsiert Fola schon immer, dass die Afrikaner überhaupt nichts für Blumen übrighaben, das typische Desinteresse von Menschen, die etwas im Überfluss besitzen (oder von Menschen, die psychisch geschädigt sind – die chronischen Selbsthasser, die, auch wenn es genügend Beweise gibt, es einfach nicht akzeptieren wollen, dass etwas, das zu ihrer Heimat gehört und dort im Überfluss, im Übermaß vorhanden ist, ohne große Mühe – dass so etwas einen Wert haben kann).�

ihr schlechtes Englisch lustig machen und über ihr halbautonomes Hinterteil, bei dem sich jede Hälfte einzeln bewegt; er wird sagen, dass das Land nie vorankommen kann, solange der normale Mensch sich so bewegt. Ohne Konzept. Unehrgeizige Schenkel und Schultern, die abrollen, lauter abgerundete Linien, wie eine Amöbe, eine frühe Lebensform. Wie der Ozean�.

The reduction of anguish to Hallmark-card hurt. The

he was bound inside this body, trapped, an airborne being caged. In

Not sunflowers, not roses, but rocks in patterned    sand grow here. And bloom. —ROBERT HAYDEN, “Approximations

A word forgot to remember what to forget and every so often let the truth slip —RENEE C. NEBLETT, “Snapshots

the little corpse like a less lucky Moses all wrapped up in palm frond, in

Adesso fissa le cose che brillano, catturato da tanta bellezza, e sa quello che già sapeva tanti inverni fa: quando ci si trova davanti a qualcosa di fragile e perfetto in un mondo che è brutto, terribile e crudele, conviene non dare nomi. Meglio fingere che la cosa non esista.

village

They were doers and thinkers and lovers and seekers and givers, but dreamers, most dangerously of all.

He drove around the pond, the sun beginning its descent. He drove without looking, without needing to, from memory. Seeing instead of looking. He drove home by heart. Past the little public school, abandoned in the evening time, seen instead of looked at looking lonely somehow. Past the sprawling mansions—were they always this massive? Their house seeming suddenly so modest, compared. Past the teeming trees—were there always this many? Like ladies-in-waiting along the side of the road. Around the third of four rotaries (the pride of Brookline, gratuitous rotaries). Past a man and dog jogging. Past some point of no return.

It was all he was after in the end, a human story, a way to be Kweku beyond being poor. To have somehow unhooked his little story from the larger ones, the stories of Country and of Poverty and of War that had swallowed up the stories of the people around him and spat them up faceless, nameless Villagers, cogs; to have fled, thus unhooked, on the small SS Sai for the vastness and smallness of life free of want: the petty triumphs and defeats of the Self (profession, family) versus those of the State (grinding work, civil war)—yes, this would have been quite enough, Kweku thinks. Born in dust, dead in grass. Progress. Distant shore reached.

That still farther, past "free," there lay "loved," in her laughter, lay "home" in her touch, in the soft of her Afro? He almost can't fathom it. Had never dared dream of it, believing such endings unavailable to him, or to them, who walked shoeless, who smiled in their deaths and who sang in their dreams and who didn't much matter. That he found her and loved her and made their love flesh four times over—it matters, if only to him.

Mr. Boakye Antwi said the nature of Ghana's constitution made it almost impossible to hold the president and government accountable. He said MPs of the governing party must support the government in everything or get into trouble. "If your party is in office, you cannot go against the government. MPs are here like robots. You have to support the government, whether it is right or wrong. The party is weak when it comes to the government because nobody can tell the President what to do. It applies to both parties, not just the NPP. The Constitution has given the President far too much power, and we don't have powerful institutions to check the President. CHRAJ, Supreme Court and all those institutions are appointed by the President. And as an MP, once you disagree with the President, they will unseat you.

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Kweku muore scalzo, una domenica all'alba, le pantofole all'uscio della camera, come cani. In questo istante è fermo, tra la veranda e il giardino, indeciso se tornare a prenderle. Non lo farà. In quella camera dorme Ama, la sua seconda moglie: le labbra dischiuse, la fronte leggermente aggrottata, la guancia che cerca calda uno scampolo di fresco sul cuscino, e Kweku non vuole svegliarla. Non potrebbe neanche se volesse. (incipit "La bellezza delle cose fragili")

sono due metà di un solo spirito, uno spirito troppo grande per essere contenuto in un solo corpo. Sono esseri liminali, metà umani, metà divini, e devono essere onorati come gli si confà, se non addirittura adorati. Il secondo gemello, in particolare, il changeling e il trickster, meno affascinato dalle cose del mondo rispetto al primo, viene sulla terra con grande riluttanza e vi rimane con un maggiore sforzo, consumato dalla nostalgia per i regni spirituali. Alla vigilia del giorno in cui i due gemelli nasceranno, ognuno nel proprio corpo fisico, il secondogenito, scettico, dice al primo: <>. Il primo gemello, Taiyewo (dallo yoruba to aiye wo, <>), vedendo che la sua metà non torna, si appresta senza fretta a raggiungere il suo Taiyewo, degnandosi di assumere una forma umana. Gli yoruba quindi considerano Kehinde il più grande: nato per secondo, ma più saggio, e quindi <>. (pag. 89 "La bellezza delle cose fragili")

Lowered eyes, lowered voices, feigned shyness, bent shoulders, the curse of their culture, exaltation of deference, that beaten-in impulse to show oneself obedient and worthy of praise for one’s reverence of Order (never mind that the Order is crumbling, corrupted, departed, dysfunctional; respect must be shown it).

...се научава, че "загуба" е понятие. Една мисъл, нищо повече. Която формулираш или не. С думи. Защото не можеш да загубиш, или да кажеш, че си загубил, това, което не си позволил да съществува в ума.

...че в лицето на нещо деликатно и съвършено в свят, който е грозен и смазващ, и суров, правилният начин да се процедира е следният: Не му давай име. Направи се, че не съществува.

Жените в живота му досега нямаха понятие от удовлетворение. Щом получеха каквото искат, искаха още, веднага. Не бяха алчни. Никога алчни. ... Те бяха дейни и мислещи, и обичащи, и търсещи, и даващи. Но и мечтаещи - най-опасната им черта. Те бяха жени мечтателки. Много опасни жени. Когато гледаха на света през големите си замечтани очи и го виждаха не такъв, какъвто беше, "брутален и безсмислен" и прочие, а по-лошо - какъвто би могъл да бъде или да стане тепърва. Тоест, ненаситни жени. Не-угодими жени. Които от всичко най-много искаха това, което не можеше да имат. Не това, което те не можеха да имат - за такива жени няма такива неща, - а това, което нямаше как да имаш. И най-лошото: които го поглеждаха и го виждаха такъв, какъвто би могъл да стане. По-красив отколкото той сам вярва, че е възможно да е.

Фола държи дъщеря си в ръце, а в главата ѝ се въртят куп мисли, сред които една: че е безсмислено да обичаш с такава мощ, защото тази сила не пътува, не ги пази, не ги защитава, не ходи заедно с тях, където ходят те, не им служи за щит - и все пак как иначе да обичаш? Какво друго да изпитва освен тази отчаяна, сурова любов, притиснала момичето с едно - едничко желание - да я предпази, да ѝ послужи за броня, и тази сурова, отчаяна мъка, че отдавна се е провалила в това?

Единственият смисъл на връзката е да се разиграе, като модел, цялата пуста драма на живота и смъртта. Любовта се ражда , както се ражда дете. Любовта расте, както расте и детето. Човек добре знае, че все някога ще умре, но тъй като познава само живота, не вярва в смъртта си. Тогава, един ден, любовта му изстива. Сърцето ѝ спира. Любовта пада мъртва. Така човек разбира, че смъртта е факт: че смъртта може да се случи и в неговото същество, в него самия. Загубата на домашен любимец, или роза, или родител, може да причини болка, но това важно послание няма да се разбере. Смъртта трябва да се случи в сърцето, за да повярва човек в нея. Умре ли любовта, човек започва да вярва и в собствената си смърт.

Хрумва ѝ нещо, не го изрича - че човек не може да научи всичко за един живот.

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