This poem is from my book, The Makings of You. Written as a 'small-history' tract in honour of my baby sis, I thought I'd share given recent events, and the irony that Bobby - the angel Gabriel - Mugabe is a) still alive b) still in power c) up to tricks like Maggie in the run-up to elections
Back then I was six, still learning to throw
grass spears, running headlong into the full
mysteries of Accra. Of course there were things
I would find out later; Richard Pryor catching fire
trying to freebase, the launch of CNN, the invention
of Post-It notes, the reason why my mother cried
out so loud that night at the end of January when
the rains came with no warning and left muddy waters
stagnant along the road to school. I recall I was
so in love with my English teacher that I wanted her
to be my mother, and I had learnt the National anthem
after the coup d’état the June before. It was the year
Ayitey and I learned about politics; with only one TV
channel we had no choice: crowded around the bright
orange box from Philips, we watched black and white
images of Zimbabwe gaining Independence. We were
so proud because Mugabe’s wife was Ghanaian; it was our
victory. We juggled the sweetness of words like "struggle"
and "justice"; we could even pronounce proletarians – we were
joyous freedom fighters whose only moments of sadness came
at bedtime, and on the day Daddy said John Lennon was
shot. A year so full of drama we almost missed the swelling
of Mummy’s belly, her widening nostrils, the slackening of
her pace and lowering of her heels. But who could forget
the kicks you dealt our ears in the months before you emerged
in October – so violent that Daddy chose to name you Pebbles
after Fred Flintstone’s restless redhead daughter – Imagine that!
This was how you arrived three days before Margaret Thatcher
claimed "the lady’s not for turning", your tough reputation
preceding you, crying out louder than Robert Mugabe,
your limbs all funny, jerky as a man on fire.
what i'm reading/listening to
listening:
Kassav -
reading:
We Need New Names - NoViolet Bulawayo
Pebbles, 1980
Back then I was six, still learning to throw
grass spears, running headlong into the full
mysteries of Accra. Of course there were things
I would find out later; Richard Pryor catching fire
trying to freebase, the launch of CNN, the invention
of Post-It notes, the reason why my mother cried
out so loud that night at the end of January when
the rains came with no warning and left muddy waters
stagnant along the road to school. I recall I was
so in love with my English teacher that I wanted her
to be my mother, and I had learnt the National anthem
after the coup d’état the June before. It was the year
Ayitey and I learned about politics; with only one TV
channel we had no choice: crowded around the bright
orange box from Philips, we watched black and white
images of Zimbabwe gaining Independence. We were
so proud because Mugabe’s wife was Ghanaian; it was our
victory. We juggled the sweetness of words like "struggle"
and "justice"; we could even pronounce proletarians – we were
joyous freedom fighters whose only moments of sadness came
at bedtime, and on the day Daddy said John Lennon was
shot. A year so full of drama we almost missed the swelling
of Mummy’s belly, her widening nostrils, the slackening of
her pace and lowering of her heels. But who could forget
the kicks you dealt our ears in the months before you emerged
in October – so violent that Daddy chose to name you Pebbles
after Fred Flintstone’s restless redhead daughter – Imagine that!
This was how you arrived three days before Margaret Thatcher
claimed "the lady’s not for turning", your tough reputation
preceding you, crying out louder than Robert Mugabe,
your limbs all funny, jerky as a man on fire.
what i'm reading/listening to
listening:
Kassav -
reading:
We Need New Names - NoViolet Bulawayo
