KENKEY AND FISH

Ten Thousand Hits

2011-08-13T01:53:00.000-07:00

Now how did that happen? I haven't blogged for ages but there it is. Somehow, someone or some people have helped me get there. It's great to have ten thousand hits on this site, so thanks. Writing is such an up and down world that I've been telling myself that I was too busy to blog. Maybe it was true. Lots has happened including my longlisting for the Paris Literary Award for a novella titled, 'The Sleepover'. That happened early this year and if I was smarter I would attach a link but hey....Now I'm working on a new and exciting project that I hope to blog about a bit more now. Till then, I'll be spending the rest of my day, walking into walls muttering, ten thousand, ten thousand, ten thousand....

Sugata Mitra: The child-driven education | Video on TED.com

2010-10-10T04:08:00.000-07:00

Sugata Mitra: The child-driven education | Video on TED.com

I'm published...2

2010-10-08T16:40:00.000-07:00

In case you missed it below, yes, I have a short story in this year's Mechanics Institute Review 7. Available at all good stores and Amazon I'm told. Check it out for amazing new voices - I tried to list my favourites but there were too many - and established writers such as Bernadine Evaristo, Salena Godden, Nicholas Hogg, David Foster Wallace.

My story is 'The Small House on Phuduhudo Road' on page 179, inspired by my visits to Botswana. It started out as a poem to be set to music - I know this amazing Batswana songstress - we were going to do this Floetry-style kinda thing. But we couldn't quite get together enough and I ran out of holiday time so I brought the poem with me to London. By that time it had morphed into images of animals, words like Phuduhudo and Kgale Hill, memories of eating fat cakes and sausage. The Child was doing her bit to keep our memories vivid, regaling anyone who would listen with stories of going riding on the Hill and how her mummy wouldn't let her camp out in the wild. It was the beginning of September; I started the MA at Birkbeck in October where I had to write two short stories in the first term.
The Small House on Phuduhudo Road (TSHOPR)was the second story. I wanted to write about strangers who come into families and leave them forever changed. I also wanted to do something with my now emaciated and sputtering Botswana poem. The result was this story that has given me my first publishing credit. And like late buses and mixed metaphors, days after I knew about this one, I heard news of my first short story also accepted for publication in a similar style anthology of new and established voices. It's due out next year so I'll blog more about it nearer the time. In the meantime, I'm getting ready to read an excerpt from TSHOPR; outloud. In front of people. With a mic 'n all. How coolishly scary is that? Or should I say scarishly cool. Both I think.
The Child will, of course, be on hand to shout 'Bravo!' at the end of each sentence in spontaneous, this-isn't-my-mummy-reading fashion.
I'd never written a short story before the MA and now I have one published and another waiting in the wings...Kinda good going, no?

Tale of a Binge Writer: Q&A with Nii Ayikwei Parkes - See my interview with this Ghanaian writer

2010-10-08T15:52:00.000-07:00

I'm published...

2010-10-08T15:51:00.000-07:00

writers' hub - MIR7 - MIR Editors

John Kasaona: How poachers became caretakers | Video on TED.com

2010-06-12T01:19:00.000-07:00

John Kasaona: How poachers became caretakers | Video on TED.com

Bobby McFerrin hacks your brain with music | Video on TED.com

2010-03-12T15:04:00.000-08:00

Bobby McFerrin hacks your brain with music | Video on TED.com

This Year

2010-01-16T15:45:00.000-08:00

I've been pondering about my New Year message for this blog since, oh, last Christmas Eve. First, I wanted to write about the past year, cherishing the good and spitting out the bad with some positive vibes for 2010... blah blah. Yawn. I fell into a too-bored-to-type-that-guff funk, before I sparked up the laptop. Then, with the New Year snow, my thoughts turned to white landscapes, fresh beginnings and clean breaks...a blank canvas to customise the future... Shut your eyes and imagine a future where you are a better writer/plumber/lollipop lady, forgiving yourself and others; living for a brighter day...
...but that left me feeling a bit we-are-the-worldish.
Then my heating broke down and The Child and I spent a couple of fun freezing days snuggling under four massive duvets, with hot chocolate and dumpling soup for comfort. So then of course the blog was going to be about loving where you are and, who you're with and, how the home should really be where the heart is and, lets pray that its the same for everyone around the world,la la la....
Still kinda we-are-the-worldish. I thought it might make for a good blog piece but, I ended up feeling a bit 'meh' about it after a few days. Then the earth broke away from the foundations of Haiti leaving an estimated two hundred thousand dead. Let me type that again: two hundred thousand. On that same day I finished reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road and went to a young mother's funeral. Somehow, they all seemed connected.
You know, We Are The World is not such a bad mantra for the New Year. I mean there's a reason its a popular song. It resonates with folk. And it's timeless. Our many differences only serve to emphasis our universal humanity. Can't argue with that. Why, it's the reason we all paused to cheer for the two year old Haitian boy rescued from the rubble where many might have died. Still, the reports of rioting in Haiti frighten me.
Cormac McCarthy's, The Road is a terrifying and stirring warning of what could happen if we choose to ignore our shared humanity. I beg you to read it. Then watch the film. Then read it again.
Finally, have you realised how hard it is to find a dry eye at a funeral when the children start to speak of their departed parent? It is heartbreaking to witness a child mourn his/her parent and yet the fact that even a detached onlooker can be moved by this gives me hope. And somewhere in there is my New Year message. Thank you for visiting my blog. I wish you a meaningful 2010.

To those who dream of a white Christmas..,

2009-12-21T10:28:00.000-08:00

It's freezing outside. Traffic and transport is all messed up. The pavements are slippery and cold. It's not much better inside. I'm trussed up like a turkey and feeling positively past it. Only an old fogey would wish for grey when we have brilliant picture post card scenary outside....

I wrote the above paragraph this morning and planned to continue in similar whingeing vein. But something about the old fogey bit got to me. It niggled and niggled until I started obsessing about it. And that's no good.

So I went. Outside. Just now. Just to see if it really is all it's cracked up to be. Don't get me wrong I travel in it if I need to and I'm pretty good at admiring it then cursing it from a window side seat. Hmm. The old fogey thing...I don't know I guess I just wanted to see if only children can enjoy this weather. So picture the scene if you will. I am alone. (The Child is away). It's pitch black and white outside. My trainers are half-covered with snow. Fresh powdery snow. I decide to take a walk. If you can call pushing your feet against the white stuff and making silly patterns walking, then yeah, I take a walk in the slow (this is not a typo!).

I meet only two people on the way. Grown people. Adults. They give me the smile that says, 'yeah, we're lovin' it too.' Just walking a leetle bit slower than normal so no one notices how much fun we're having. At the top of the road there's this big pavement-shaped white space begging for some shoe shaping. I oblige. Twist my feet in the stuff until I have written my name in big grey capitals. The sky is black and all is quiet. Just me making a shoep-shoep sounds with my shoe in the snow. I should write a book about it titled, The Shoe Who Loved The Snow. That would be the first in the series. Second would be, The Shoe Who Stalked the Snow. Final in the trilogy would be, The Shoe Who Became The Snow....I choose me to play the lead in all three. Pink fleece, white bobbed hat and scarf. Lone figure dancing in the snow to a very happy song.

Psst! Anybody there?

2009-09-15T11:32:00.000-07:00

Wow, so it's been a while. Last time I was writing Book Two. And you know how these things go. Two became Three and then I went back to One. Nothing like taking 4 steps forward and finding out that you are on a backward escalator. But you know, it's always getting better. And when I come to finish the second, which is really the third, well! Confused? I am. That's the thing I'm finding about writing. You see, unless and until someone says, right this is great; sign here to start your reading tour, I'll be working my way to perfection. And even if that means I have to re-work One, I'll still be flirting and fooling around with structures and POVs for Two and Three. It's like an addiction. Most times it's enjoyable. At other times, life just gets in the way, man.

Number Two

2009-07-18T14:26:00.000-07:00

Feels like slicking on that rich lipstick and stepping out for the first date in a long time. It's exciting. My stomach flips; my fingers tingle. Where will we go? I might have an idea. Kinda mapped it all out. He'll say this; I'll say that. There might be a joke and a giggle. A bit of round and round around the spot. Go here, go there, then home free. Done...

But hang on a minute. This book has got to be better than the first. I can't just drum up some formula and expect it to work. It's got to be... convincing. The characters have to live, the voice...the voices have to sing! Even when they are silent. So. This is going to be as inch-wormingly, nit-pickingly and ultimately, as satisfying as the first time. So I heave a sigh then lean in to the screen and prepare to obsess.

This Is It

2009-07-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

1. I first encountered Michael Jackson as a cartoon character dancing on my childhood television screen with his brothers. Those were the days....they called me sambo in the playground then I went home to see this afro-haloed boy sing. The next day white and black kids would talk about that guy on tv. And me? I puffed out my chest. You've never seen pride quite like it. It was as if I owned him.

2. Why do people always wait until someone dies before they realise that perhaps they misjudged them?

3. Great wealth can liberate and imprison in equal measure...

4. Any idiot can make a baby. Fatherhood is about responsibility and commitment. Ask Paris Jackson.

5. Charlie Chaplin's, 'Smile' is a great mantra for life

6. 'Don't stop till you get enough', P.Y.T., 'Off the Wall', 'Butterflies', 'The way you make me feel', ...all sign posts of different times in my life. Sounds that are part of my musical DNA. Thank you for the music.

RIP MJ

Sometimes money makes a world of a difference

2009-06-07T01:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged for ages but if you have followed this blog for a while you may recall a series of interviews I conducted in Ghana? If not, they are on the side bar of this blog under the 'On Ghana' section. One interviewee named Vivian said that she wanted 15 pounds to change her life so that she could become a trader. I am so pleased to report that she is now successfully trading and has indeed changed her life. Now if she can do it with 15 quid...make's one think dunnit?

Teardrops

2009-03-14T16:23:00.001-07:00

Anyone who ever had a dream, will join me in celebrating the achievement of Africa's newest diamond designer, Esayo Tetteh (the lady holding up the award) , short-listed finalist of the inaugural Diamond Trading Company Botswana(DTCB) Shining Light Diamond Jewellery Design Competition. Teardrops is a blinged-up and beautiful interpretation of the waist beads many young African girls wear on their way to woman hood. I am so proud of this design and I can't wait to see what she does next.

The Best Revenge

2009-03-11T14:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to add more eloquent comment to the paragraphs of outrage that have already been scribbled in response to Julie Myerson's expose of her son's cannabis (or skunk) use. Neither am I going to pose new questions about how writers get their material and, whether children, lovers and or personal experiences are off limits.

You see, I'm not one for complaining because most of what I write comes from personal experience. Okay so it's cobbled together from this and that, bit of tall tale'ling here and there and the odd unmaterialised fantasy lived out. But generally, it's all got some basis in fact. So when it comes to the Myerson issue, my strong view is that the natural urge that some families have to excuse and or cover up the sins of their nearest and dearest is wrong.
I have millions of friends and relatives who have done things that shame me and I hope that I will never (ever) cover up or make them feel any modicum of comfort at their bad behaviour.
The misguided notion that parents should not speak out against their childrens' bad behaviour is responsible for many a ruined over indulged individual who goes through life leaving destruction and heartbreak in his/her wake.

This topic provoked some debate on WW and as is always the case the discussion moved on...Someone said something about writing to 'get people back' and that got me thinking about the blogosphere. How many bitter bloggers resist the daily temptation to post a blog titled,
'You utter shit. What ever did I see in you? So glad I dumped you when I did'
...actually that's not such a bad......Hmmm...Oops! Where was I? Oh yes, WW...
So the conversation moved on to writing about difficult life events and then on to the risks of becoming consumed with bitterness...it was one of those lovely long threads. Then a wonderful writer gave me the inspiration for the title of today's post. Because yeah, life sucks sometimes but as tempting as it is to dedicate every blog post to one's enemies, which in my case would give me nothing at all to blog about....;), the best revenge, by a mile (as Simon would say), is living well. Just that. Smiling big and visualilng that nasty person as a tiny bubble of hot air that will, inevitably burst into the nothing they were always destined to be.

Polly's March

2009-03-03T14:41:00.000-08:00

There are many candidates for books that have affected me. Achebe's, Things Fall Apart, Rushdie's Midnight's Children, Toni Morrison's, Beloved, to name a few. But the effect they have had on me is nothing compared to my amazement at seeing The Child's reaction to Polly's March (above). Let's be clear. I'm not talking about the love for a story that requires it to be read night after night ad infinitum or nauseum. This is different. Polly's March is the story of a young girl's introduction to the suffragette movement in a historical story series of six books set in the same house on the same London street. I won't spoil the story for you. But this book will have your boys and girls campaigning for equal rights. Buy it, read it, borrow it.

Biggin' up the Addy series of books

2009-03-01T13:06:00.000-08:00

You may already have heard of this series of intelligently crafted educational stories about the slave trade but if not, you should really check them out. They are well worth the money.

All Black Eastenders Episode

2009-02-28T14:05:00.000-08:00

I don't know...call me Auntie Tomasina...yeah work it out, but I watched last week's all black episode with some trepidation. I mean there I was, bottom perched on edge of sofa thinking, what will people say when they switch over to the Beeb and see an all black episode filled with people discussing race riots in terms of 'us' and 'them'? I tell you, those script writers had me worried for at least the first half of the programme. Wow, I thought. Where are they taking this? Are they really going to address the challenges and triumphs of what it means to be British and black on a primetime soap opera? Like, where would they start? I scratched my head and stared at the screen preparing to be blown away. The minutes ticked on and I realised that the story is going to be about how Patrick took part in the riots himself. You know, a sort of 'blacks can be just as racist as whites' kinda vibe. Phew, I thought. Panic over.

This Year So Far...

2009-02-23T13:16:00.001-08:00

1. Crunchy tax cuts
2. Political popstardom...?
3. A very public education in cervical cancer
4. Sexy, sexy, In Bed With...(It's pink and and sparkly. Read it, read it.)
5. First semester scores
6. Nanny sacking
7. Counter discourse: celebration of the post-colonial writer
8. Doing the locomotion: it's the only way to travel
9. Reunited. And it feels so good
10 Still rocking (and rolling) on WriteWords

So long, it's been good to know you...

2008-12-30T11:10:00.000-08:00

On completing A Suitable Boy, (by Vikram Seth), one reviewer remarked that he felt as if he had left his good friends behind. I felt the same way about the following books in 2008:

1. Tum Tum and Nutmeg by Emily Bearn - The Child and I LOVED reading this tale of triumph over adversity at bedtime.

2. 26a by Diana Evans - A rich dark chocolate read interspersed with spicy bits of Africana and London-style humour. Looking forward to her next one.

3. Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides - A HUGE contemporary novel that will push all your buttons. This epic combines history, medicine, religion, geography...did I already say history? This book was only ruined (for me) by the title. Sorry it made me think of the place. Oh and I heard that the author took many years to write this novel. I'm with you there Mr Eugenides.

4. A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah - This is a brave yet humbling account of a Sierra Leonian child soldier. That's what most of the reviews say. Too few of them give credit to the prose that is compelling and atmospheric in the way of other great African writers so that the reader experiences the sleep deprivation and fatigue that preceeds the author's descent into the horror of that war. The writer in me wonders what was edited out of the final manuscript.

5.Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - I enjoyed her first novel Purple Hibiscus and grabbed at this one to see if it could be its equal. It was even better. Set in the midst of the Biafran War this very important novel weaves love and loss and class and racism in a contemporary page turner that will educate as well as it entertains.

Ooops! One more...

6. Ways To Live Forever by Sally Nichols - I laughed and cried and laughed and cried. This book has won a shed-load of awards and rightly so. It's author is a WWer so even better. But seriously. This is a contemporary book aimed at young people that loads of old people should read. You know how they say books can lift the soul? Right here is one that does just that.

Happy reading for '09. I already have a list for the year but my top two are:

1. A Secret Alchemy by Emma Darwin (Another WWer but damn those people are great writers!)
2. What is the What by Dave Eggers (I know it's old but I have to read that book)

Wow this Christmas!

2008-12-25T02:09:00.000-08:00

It's not about the twelve months that come around so quickly, or the end of year list of things-I-planned-to-do 'itis' that swamps as each afternoon darkens. It's not about the grind that seems to bear down a little heavier at the end of the year until you can hear your bones creak as you step out of the bed each morning. It's not even the underground chorus of coughing and spluttering on the tube or the schedule of disasters that seem to descend at this time of the year. Even without all of that, I have always regarded the Christmas break as just that. A life-saving break in routine where my first thought is phew, hope the next one's better.
But not this Christmas.
A wise old friend told me at the beginning of the year that 2008 would be good for me. You know who you are and, you were right. The book is done, the MA is great. I am getting to grips with short stories and I have a long list of issues I want to explore in the form. The new school and new job are fab and illness and diagnosis etc are ongoing but manageable.
I've had some great triumphs and the The Child is calling this her best Christmas ever.
SO...Even if we forget about me for a while...hard as that may be: we have Obama, a strong prospect for change in Zimbabwe, end in sight to Guantanamo. And yeah, I know all about the Crunch, disease, pestilence and poverty (happy now?) but I'm praying for silver linings all round.
So this morning I'm saying 'Wow, can't wait for the next one.'
Merry Christmas to you.
Thank you so much for visiting this blog. Look out for my best 08 reads in the next post.

Fings Wot I'm Learnin' from the MA

2008-11-28T15:14:00.000-08:00

I decided to do an MA in Creative Writing for purely logistical reasons: I needed to move my writing into the centre stage of my already hectic life. And as with most things, it has taken me a while to get into the groove of being a student again. You know the basics like securing funding, remembering to hand in homework on time (trickier than pinching water) , understanding what is expected of me etc - but now that I am close to the end of the first term it's all falling into place.
I've heard some say that creative writing can't be taught and that these courses churn out clone-like writers. Not sure I have the know how or the energy to refute any of that except to say that they (whoever) would have a hard time cloning the folk on my course. Anyway, back to the MA and its illuminations. So far I am learning that:

1. Good writing is different from good story telling
2. Getting structure right can be boring but your great story is a mass of confusion without proper organisation
3. Writing in slang or vernacular can be the death knell. Fake it and your reader will scream: pastiche!
4. Don't be an idiot - listen to criticism - most of it is constructive
5. You can't be a writer without writing
6. Your ground breaking experimental style will only work if you show that you have mastered the conventional rules of story telling
7. Writing is reading is writing is reading is writing is reading
8. That Gladwell guy who said 10000 hours practice makes you perfect was right. You just have to keep on re-writing until the shit sings off the page
9. Student bars were all designed and decorated by the same person

One man's curse...

2008-11-12T15:05:00.000-08:00

Faced with a long list of changes that (in theory) will take my book from 'good' to 'brilliant', I poured myself a large glass of Cab Sav and wondered again why I want to be a writer.

Because seriously man, this itch to write is like a curse. On days like today, I feel sure that I could choose to do anything else: cake baking, hat-making, belly dancing...even cleaning fish and be more in control of the time it would take to deliver a satisfactory outcome.

I mean, here I am with a head full of words, characters waiting to be written, stories aching to pour from my finger tips to the lap top, yet this running-about-town busy-busy living makes it so hard. I am running into coffee shops, sparking up the laptop to tap out fifty words then going on to something else. Lord knows why I'm not the fittest person I know with all that nonsense. Even with a team of foot masseurs and secretaries I'd still be exhausted.

But what's the alternative? I've tried the full time writing gig and it don't work. The only good thing about that period in my life was, the amount of time I was able to spend with The Child...but then I began to worry about cash....

Still, life is full of choices. And I choose scribbling. Morning, noon and night. I just need an average of 5 more hours in the day to write and do my job properly. It's not too much to ask for in the general scheme of things. Some people want botox and boob jobs.

Really, there should be a law against anything that stands in the way of someone's dream. There should be a law and a prison sentence. Hell, there should be cruel and unusual punishment involving, chilli and eyeballs,jeering crowds and wild drumming, grandmothers begging for forgiveness and new mothers swearing to protect their babes from such evil....

Someone on WW, who is way smarter than me, put it very eloquently: Writing is all about Time Time Time. That and a thick skin. And patience. And a gift for story telling. And writing. And reading. And you know what? When I'm in the zone and the words are arranging themselves so that the story plays out like a film with life-like characters and every single detail in sharp relief? Hooyah! When it's as good as that? Then writing is da bomb.

Oh Happy Day!

2008-11-05T03:13:00.000-08:00

Today we can all stand a little taller and laugher a little louder at anyone who has ever scoffed at our aspirations because we weren't the right colour, size, creed, social class.....whatever. Today is our day.

The End...

2008-09-26T10:09:00.000-07:00

After eleven years, three boyfriends, one child, six jobs, six house moves, one operation, two hospital stays and two health scares, fifteen (ouch) extra kgs and God knows how many air miles (not to mention one very scary crash landing), 6 re-writes including new plots and twists, I have finished my book. Nothing has changed. The world didn't end, but boy do I feel good.

All Black Italian Vogue

2008-07-02T13:02:00.000-07:00

Have you heard? Italian Vogue is planning an all-black edition next month and naysayers are predicting it to be the worst selling edition of all time. SOooo....there's an email and text campaign going round to force all right thinking Brothers and Sisters and Friends Of to go out there and buy buy buy....
Okay, I'll put up my hand. I passed the text on to a few friends then stopped to wonder what these skinny models have ever done for me. Because just like their white counterparts, they stress the hell out of me with their toned tums and fat-less thighs. Why should I support them when all they do is strutt their butts up a plank of wood in glamourous locations when the rest of us have to graft from nine to five? I mean how hard can it be to pout all day then slap someone with your mobile phone because they pissed you off? Man, I could do that before I got out of bed then collect the ten grand whilst I brushed my teeth. Sheesh.

But seriously, why single out black models? I mean call me a deluded one-world fantasist but, if we really want to redress the beauty paradigm then shouldn't there also be special editions for Oriental, Asian, Hispanic and Jewish models? So I'm saying buy the Italian vogue whenever it comes out but let's lobby for a new edition where each page features a model from a different race. Then those of us who are not skinny and beautiful can stress about life in a truly global way.

Ding ding, Round One!

2008-06-06T14:52:00.000-07:00

Big up and much respect to our US cousins for making history by endorsing a man of colour for their next president.....things just got really interesting.

Dis Here Blog

2008-05-26T13:54:00.000-07:00

Been such a long time since I was a regular blogger that I thought it might be nice (for me at least) to write a list of what this blog is about.

Writing: the art, the craft, the curse of it
Books I love: literary, commercial, funny, funky, cool, children's, poetry
My YouTube discoveries
Tough times and tantrums
Food - the smellier the better
Ghanaian single mummy writer shit
Shit I love
Shit I hate
Blah blah blah
Oh crap, this list was going so well

The Skin I Am In

2008-05-23T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have often wondered what it would take to bring me back to this blog. And as always, it is shit that moves me. Stuff I need to get out of my finger tips and, crap that needs to be shown up for what it is. So yes, I'm pissed off. Oh and mightily so. If I could sue a child for cruel and unacceptable behaviour, I would. But I can't. And anyway most nasty children aren't born that way. Their only crime is to be just bright enough to listen to and repeat the things their dumbass parents say. Parents who need to get an education. Parents who think they know a whole lot but, don't know jack.
You know the ones I mean. Pathetic underachievers who spend their lives feeling better than everyone else. They are oh so superior and can't be bothered to imagine what it is like to be alone, and a bit insecure about being different. No! Perish the thought. They are the righteous ones, spewing their poisonous gossip from broken mouths that speak from both sides. They shun us with upturned noses, like there's a smell somewhere. But no matter. I have a right to reply.
And here it goes: where we are now and, where we are headed, is way beyond your reach. We will wave to you when we get there because we are nice like that. But make no mistake; one day you will experience the same pain that we experience today. And when you do, think of us. Till then, it should please you to know that your actions only make us stronger.

Open Letter to Barack Obama

2008-03-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Barack
I've been wanting to write to you for some time now, and well,you won't know how it is but, sometimes life gets in the way of a good blogging idea.
So, where was I? Ah yes. Can you believe it? People have been asking me what I think of you - in the same way they asked me about Mandela, O.J, Oprah, Mugabe and Michael Jackson - as if I have some special insight into the temperature of your soul.
But where I felt justified in being more than a little pissed off that people thought I might know why Michael dangled that baby over the balcony, I don't mind people thinking that I may be connected to you. This is because I am audacious enough to hope that you are going to be one of those rare leaders who can change our world. If that sounds dramatic, it's because these are dramatic times: a woman or a black man might end up livin' in the White House.
Anyway........There's this man I talk to in my local cafe. We shoot the breeze, talk about the weather, then go about our business. Well, the last time we met he planted an idea into my mind that has settled. Of course, you were the topic. This man, let's call him 'A' told me that he feels dirty. Yes, you read right. He feels personally tainted by the decisions our (US and UK) governments have taken in the past five years. For that reason he was moved almost to tears when he heard that Hilary had won in Texas and Ohio. Can you imagine it? 'A' is a successful property dealer in London and he was moved to tears when you lost in Texas and Ohio. I asked him why and he said that he had a vague hope - and he thinks the rest of the world is also hanging onto this hope - that you are the man to cleanse some of that dirt. I swear, he used the word cleanse.
Now I don't feel tainted but I kinda get where 'A' is coming from on this one. 'A' was telling me that if we look back in recent history, most of the leaders and celebrities we once thought were really good - Mugabe, Saddam Hussein, Michael Jackson, O.J - were soon proven to be not so great.
If we look further back, only a handful of people like Gandhi and Mandela are still regarded as truly great and even then there are always people who are quick to dig the dirt or criticise.
So back to you. 'A' thinks that you could be one of those leaders whose virtue endures through time. That was what we agreed on last week. Now that you have given your speech on race, I say, you are delivering on that hope already. And I'm rooting for you.

Writer Girl

ps. Do I need to mention that 'A' is middle-aged, Jewish and very right wing?

Valentine's

2008-02-11T13:25:00.000-08:00

There are so many ways to say, I love you. But I can't think of any, so here are a few songs and poems that do the job nicely:

Touch me in the morning - Diana Ross
Back to Black - Amy Winehouse
Anything by Rumi
Now That I Am Forever With Child - Audre Lorde
Sonnet 22 - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I recommend this one while you are waiting:

Get it & feel good - Ntozake Shange
Prayer - Nina Cassian
Think Lang - Marion Angus

And if you are fed up with wot you got:

One Perfect Rose - Dorothy Parker
Vicious Circle - Marsha Prescod
Did This Happen To Your Mother? Did Your Sister Throw Up A Lot? - Alice Walker
Dirty No Gooder Blues - Bessie Smith

If you are freshly single...:

Love After Love - Derek Walcott
Advice to a Discarded Lover - Fleur Adcock
'Honestly, I wish I were dead!' - Sappho

Finally, the kiss off:

Don't Fish in My Sea - Ma Rainey

How To Make Politics Sexy

2008-02-10T03:49:00.000-08:00

Involve women and minorities

Oh Carolina!

2008-01-26T23:09:00.000-08:00

Remember this song? It was a catchy crossover reggae tune that like so many of the old ones, reminds me of a particular time in the past and a particular friend.
I'll bet Barrack Obama has been belting it out or at least some version of it, since his 55 percent win in South Carolina. And no doubt the pundits are going to be waxing again about what this says about African-Americans and the role of race in these elections.
I listened to a radio programme the other day, where one South Carolina resident said, she didn't think America was ready for a black president. She expressed concerns for the safety of Obama and his family if he did get to the White House. Ready or not, Barrack is doing very well, but I do have some sympathy for her views.
I am suspicious of the perception these days that race no longer matters. That the racist is a street-yob spewing venomous insults that decent people would balk at. And equal access to pay, success, whatever, are the result of hard work, period. I am suspicious, because if all of that were true, then there would be non of this worldwide hooha about the role of race in the American elections.
I know almost nothing of Barrack's abilities as a leader, but I love the title of his book, The Audacity of Hope. I think it says it all on the question of race, and must bless anyone of any race who ever wanted to achieve something that seemed a little out of reach. I know that the content of the book includes the view that it is possible for ordinary people to take their power to make a change but it is the title that keeps coming back at me. The Audacity of Hope, is an infectious notion that resonates with me as I strive to create the life I want. I'll bet it's infected the people of South Carolina too.

Oi!

2008-01-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it's six days into the New Year and I'm not happy. There's chaos all around.
If it's not the violence in Pakistan after Benazir Bhutto's assassination, then its the 'tribal' machete hacking in Kenya...There's talk of crunch, crash, meltdown, slowdown. Not to mention the seasonal nightmare of babies mauled by their relatives' Rottweilers; house fires; celebrity misadventure; Friendly Fire; pandemics and price hikes; health experts finding new ways to make us even more paranoid: like telling us that energy saving bulbs could exacerbate eczema. I hear Botox has become a favoured cosmetic therapy. Don't these people realise that the rest of us can tell that they've had the needle? I thought beauty treatments were supposed to be subtle? Like the (ahem) weave??
But I digress. Honestly people, an Out-Of-Spacian would be throwing its (gender unbiased) hands up in the air at this dismal start. We must do better. I'm still feeling optimistic. Maybe Obama will shake things up.
What I do know is that some great books are coming out this year. Check out Mothernight by Sarah Stovell , Unrequited by James W Bennet , A Dangerous Man by Anne Brooke for the first few. I'll be listing a lot more on this blog. And who knows? I may have something to announce too.

Happy New Year folks!

Good Riddance 2007?

2007-12-30T01:36:00.000-08:00

Did you see this? In the States people are writing about the things that didn't go too well for them in 2007 and then 'posting them away' , as a way of getting rid and moving on...
I thought of doing the same but couldn't be arsed to spend any energy on 'what went wrong'.
Instead, here's a list of everything and everyone who made my 2007 such a great writing year. So in no particular order, big thanks to:

Doris Lessing - for inspiration, for writing about Apartheid, for winning the Nobel prize at eighty-something , for The Grass is Singing
Bookslam - for being the coolest thing I've done in far too long
Def Poetry Jams on YouTube - for Floetry, Rives, Shihan and many more
Amy Winehouse - for Back to Black
Papa D - for being the first person to tell me about my blog (without knowing it was mine!)
WriteWords - for advice, spats, inspiration and the Life Boar. It should really be number one on this list...
Chimamanda Ngozie Adichie - for telling the story of Biafra
OBE and the Africa Channel - for painting another picture
Rhonda Byrne - for The Secret. Which works.
The Child - for inspiration and love; for laughter and bizarre one-liners like, 'Heaven is full of dead people.'
The Itch of Writing - for reminding me - every single morning

Goodbye '007. Bring on '08.

Last Christmas...

2007-12-24T01:05:00.001-08:00

This is the time of year when one tends to look back. For me, 2007 has had its ups and downs; periods when I could not write at all; sleepless nights that stretched into lonely mornings. But it has also been a year of miracles: too many to mention but, one very special one has been the response to this blog. The stats have blown me away. People have logged on (and more than once!) from Ghana, China, India, Honolulu, Mauritius, Trinidad, Canada, Australia, Kenya, the United Arab Emirates and from all over the US and the UK. I have been particularly surprised at the response to my Ghana interviews: David (the architect) has had two business queries; and Vivian and Emmanuel's stories touched people in ways I could never have imagined.
So I'd like to say a huge 'Happy Holidays' to everyone who has ever logged on or commented on my blog. There were times when this blog was my only creative (and sometimes emotional) outlet so, thank you. '08 is going to be way better for writing and blogging. Believe.

Let's Talk About Sex Baby

2007-12-16T15:28:00.000-08:00

Warning: This is a midnight rant. It may go wrong.
Topic: Sex scenes.
Who wants to write mine? They say its best to imagine that your nearest and dearest are dead before you write a sex scene but that's not my problem. They say you have to write it from Point of View to get over the embarrassment but, that too is not my problem. My problem is...well mad as it sounds, I want to protect my characters' privacy. I'm thinking why don't I just write, and then they had sex, and have done with it? Readers are getting too nosey these days. What do they care about who does what and what goes where? Sigh. It's got to be done though. So following is a list of things I will try to avoid:

His eyes bulged at her big breasts
She saw his pot belly and wanted to back out but it was too late
He took so long to fold his clothes that she fell asleep
He started mewing like a cat
He took one look at her naked body and developed a severe case of flatulence
Blah blah blah - that was the best she could do to fake an orgasm
He was happier now that he had a Real Doll

Okay, it's all madness in here. Bedtime.

I'd like to thank Mr Simon Cowell, for giving me confidence

2007-12-09T02:21:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of it about these days: people taking and giving away confidence and self-esteem. Simon transforming ordinary people into stars; Gok showing ladies how to look good naked; Happy slappers creating years of misery with the click of a button...
I don't have any special insight or views into how or why that happens. Maybe we're all a bit more insecure these days or its just that we all need positive affirmation every once in while. Whatever the reason, you can be going about your life, minding your own business when something suddenly affirms and changes your outlook, mood and wellbeing. Kinda magical, no? It happened to me the other day. And I am very excited.

The Image of Africa - 7 Questions

2007-12-08T16:38:00.000-08:00

Why did it take Chancellor Angela Merkel to accuse Mugabe of tarnishing the image of Africa?
Don't the other African leaders at the EU summit feel the same?
Don't they have newspapers?
Can't Thabo Mbeki tell from the number of refugees turning up at his door?
Doesn't the fact of Ms Merkel's accusation itself say something about the 'image of Africa'?
Like why does the 'image' lie in the eye of the Western beholder?
When are we going to take things (Mugabe and all the others) in hand and shape our own image?

NaNo No No

2007-12-04T13:38:00.001-08:00

I've failed miserably. Instead of getting phat, I lost words. Edited right down to the bone, and I'm still not done yet. This re-write, right-write will be the death of me. Congrats to everyone who succeeded. I'm not really happy for you. Just bitter and jealous.

Back to Blog (With apologies to Ms Winehouse)

2007-12-03T13:19:00.000-08:00

I tried to write my book instead

But these ten words just rule my head:

Switch the computer on

And then go back to blog...

NaNo NaNo

2007-11-10T01:13:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm late by hey, what's new? I've decided to the NaNoWriMo (www.nanowrimo.org) thing so I won't be posting anything on this blog until Dec 1. Not unless I'm really itching to...but no. I am determined this year. 50k is the target and I'm getting phat.

Torn between two loves, winning every time

2007-11-08T15:05:00.001-08:00

I feel like holding up a lit candle and swaying from side to side singing, we are the world, we are the children, but that's not very far from how I feel after my trip to Ghana. Don't get me wrong. My bags are unpacked, and all thoughts of decamping and moving back to Ghana are now...well, kinda buried.
I'm lovin' this enduring Autumn's stunning chilly skies. I enjoy wrapping up for firework nights and long walks in the park. The Child and I are now back to our routine, rushing to catch yellow-yellow leaves as they fall from trees; cuddling up on the sofa to watch Strictly. My horrendous commute continues and I'm back to turning up late for work, leaving early and stressing all the while. Living only for the magic 8.30 pm when, I can finally exhale and write.
Yet thoughts of Ghana are not far away. And I definitely want to visit more often. How lucky am I to love two countries.
And as a writer, I see London and Accra as a rich source of stories. From London, I want to write about otherness, difference and fitting in; from Ghana I want to find and draw from an endless well of rarely told stories of gay love; benign polygamy; charismatic Christianity; drug trafficking; elder romance and child entrepreneurs. The list is endless. All I have to do is be the best writer that I can be and hope that the publishing world will welcome my stories.

Post Ghana: Introducing David

2007-11-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

There are loads of impressive buildings all over Accra. In fact, when people talk of development they usually refer to the construction industry. I wanted to find out more so I decided to speak to someone who works in the industry. This is David. He is a local architect with his own business. His wife is an executive director of an international advertising company; his teenage children attend fee-paying schools.

WG: Okay, so I just want people who read the blog to know a bit about how you live. What car do you drive?
David: Mazda Pick up 2.7 ltr
WG: How many bedrooms are in your house?
David: Five
WG: How many domestic helpers do you have?
David: Three
WG: Now your job. Where did you train?
David: Bucharest, Romania

WG: How many people does your company employ?
David: Eight
WG: I have seen some very grand buildings in Accra. How much would it cost to design and build an eight bedroom mansion in an area like Airport or East Legon?
David: A 100'x100' (feet) plot would cost about US$30,000 and the house would be about US$80,000.
WG: How much would it cost to design and build a regional hospital?
David: It is hard to say. One hospital I worked on cost approximately 35 m (sterling ) (excluding consultancy fees).
WG: That's more than I thought it would be
David: There is a very funny phenomenon here in Ghana. Construction costs are high mainly because almost all the building materials are imported and, for a hospital, just add the cost of shipping all the equipment and paying the foreign 'experts' to install them plus their five star hotel bills - must I go on? It's even worse if the hospital is being built by the same people who are providing the loan for it.

WG: What do you think is the biggest problem facing Ghanaians today?

David: Misplaced priorities in terms of development.
WG: What are your hopes for the future?

David: One day, we will be able to enjoy the real fruits of our labour. There is a lot of money being generated in the country but most of it is unaccounted for, if these monies were to be utilised properly we would not need to borrow so much from the West
WG: Have you ever thought of leaving Ghana to live abroad?

David: Never!

WG: Wow, why such a strong answer?
David: It's not that I would never live abroad. It's just that I haven't thought about it simply because I believe a person can be or do whatever he or she wants no matter where they are located. I was born in Togo, I started primary school in Egypt, I was confirmed in Pakistan, I started secondary school in London and I went to university in Romania. From my experiences and from hearing those of my friends, I have come to believe that it's what you do, not where you are that makes a life worthwhile.

WG: What would you like people who read this blog to know about Ghana today? David: Ghana is a fast growing economy with lots of investment potential. As they say, the early bird catches the worm so, those who get in the market early will stand a very good chance of making a profitable investment. It's also a cool place to hang out.

Post Ghana: Introducing Emmanuel

2007-11-02T15:07:00.000-07:00

I met Emmanuel, who became our regular taxi driver, when I was looking to hire a taxi with seat belts for The Child's car seat. He speaks impeccable English and agreed to to do this interview and have his picture on my blog.
WG:How old are you?
Emmanuel: 31
WG:Where are you from?
Emmanuel: Aflao (in the Volta Region)
WG: Who is in your family and how often do you see them?
Emmanuel: My father is dead. My mother is very old now. I am the fourth child of six and the responsibility for looking after my mother falls mainly with me. I send her money and I go back to the village at Christmas time. We have a great time together. Accra is no fun at that time of the year. People eat and drink a lot in the village and they take food to their neighbours' houses.
WG: Why did you come to Accra?
Emmanuel: I am here for work. I have lived in Accra for ten years. I am an electrician but I couldn't get work so I turned to taxi driving. I had an electrical apprenticeship but that was cut short. So far, I have worked for a security company and I have also baked pastries for a living. I have been driving a taxi for three years now.
WG: Are you university educated?
Emmanuel: (looks surprised) No, I didn't even go to secondary school. I would one day like to return to schol to study computer engineering.
WG: Do you have a girlfriend?
Emmanuel: Yes, we are engaged to be married. She is 26 and has a job.
WG: What do you think is the biggest problem facing Ghanaians today?
Emmanuel:It is difficult for a poor man from a poor family to be rich.
WG: What do you mean?
Emmanuel: Rich people help their children. Some of us [poor folk] are lazy. It will be hard for a rich person to help a stranger.
WG: Do you think I am rich?
Emmanuel: Yes
WG: Why?
Emmanuel: You live in a self-contained bungalow
WG: Self-contained?
Emmanuel: Yes, everything [kitchen, bathroom, toilet] is inside.
WG: Where do you live now?
Emmanuel: I am renting a single room.
WG: Would you feel rich if you lived in a self-contained property?
Emmanuel: Yes, that would make me happy.
WG: What do you think of the international celebrities and local politicians who build massive mansions in Accra?
Emmanuel: They live in a different world.
WG: What are your plans for the future?
Emmanuel: I want to open an electrical store. I have already bought a kiosk structure and I am saving up to buy the tools I will need. It is hard because I have so much responsibility back at the village.
WG: How much money will you need to set it all up?
Emmanuel: Two hundred and fifty Ghana Cedis (250 US dollars, 190 pounds approx).

Post Ghana: Introducing Vivian

2007-11-02T13:54:00.000-07:00

Following my Londoner-come-to-town hissy fit,

I decided to talk to a few Ghanaians to find out more about life in Accra. This is Vivian. She's agreed for me publish her picture and tell her story on my blog. She is twenty-five years old and she comes from Ada (Tcevie) which is near the Eastern region. Her father (who is dead) was a farm hand and her mother is a vegetable trader. She was originally one of eight children. Four died. Vivian has a two year old daughter. Her son died some six months before I met her. Vivian does not speak English so this interview was conducted with the help of an intepreter.

WG: Why are you here in Accra?

Vivian: I am here to take up an offer of marriage.

WG: When?

Vivian: I am not sure yet. I am living with the man right now but my relatives are insisting on us doing things the traditional way so we will have to go back to the village to do the formal engagement and marriage.

WG: Are you happy with that arrangement?

Vivian: Yes, because I lived with my former partner without performing any rituals [engagement etc] and he just left when my son died so I support my relatives in this.

WG: I want to learn more about you. What worries you most about life?

Vivian: The way men behave. I would like to have a happy equal partnership with a man. I want to be independent, to start trading so that I can buy the things I need for myself.

WG: What makes you happy?

Vivian: Spending time with my sisters, having a laugh, watching television.

WG: How many languages do you speak?

Vivian: Four

WG: Did you ever go to school?

Vivian: (looks to the ground) No

WG:What in your opinion is the biggest problem facing Ghanaians today?

Vivian: People are suffering from money worries and no work

WG:What do you think about Ghanaians who come from overseas to build big houses and spend their foreign money in town?

Vivian: People who come from abroad have better opportunities so they go further. Their parents give them good opportunities.

WG: Would you ever consider going to school?

Vivian: Yes, if I could find someone to look after me to do it.

WG: Is your fiance in a position to support you to go to school?

Vivian: (looks to the ground and laughs): No

WG: What are your hopes for your daughter?

Vivian: I want to start trading so that I can send her to school

WG: How much capital do you need to start trading?

Vivian: One hundred and fifty thousand cedis (Fifteen US dollars, 8 or 9 pounds sterling)

Post Card From Ghana: Culture Shock

2007-10-28T03:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, Accra has changed. And I get the impression that change is still occuring at a rapid pace. Physical development is plain to see; computers/mobile phones have revolutionised personal and business communication as they do elsewhere across the globe. The government is democratically elected; the local currency, the cedi , is equivalent to one US dollar; non-African foreigners mingle easily in town; international restaurants offer traditional English fare, pizza and Chinese food. High performance gas guzzlers are backed up in traffic and taxis are barred from exclusive neighbourhoods. There is no mistaking the sights and sounds of affluence dotted all over Accra. They are plain for all to see.

And yet, and yet....

I am irritated by the poor water supply, frustrated by the tiniest break in electrical power, baffled by the number of people I must involve in every single move I make. Sweat pours from me and I stink of mosquito repellent. People tell me they are used to the heat but they avoid going out in the torrential rain. That seems weird to me. Don't the two things go hand in hand? And let's not even talk about drink-driving or policemen who ask for 'something for the family'.

The delicious food I have craved for so long is still biteyourfingersoff delicious but, spicier than I imagined and, full of carbs! Haven't people heard of the Atkins Diet? Seriously, I'm going to have to hit the gym as soon as I get back to London.
People smile when I mention these things. Ghanaians are far more critical of their own country than any old Writer Girl who pops over for a few days. Still, I wonder if I should be writing about Ghana at all. Have I been living abroad for too long? We'll see. I want to talk to some people; find out more. It's still early days.

Post Card From Ghana : Welcome Home

2007-10-25T02:56:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this some days ago in Ghana but could not get on the net till now...)

Heathrow. Bags in tow, early on arrival, electronic check-in sorted, The Child and I strut confidently to the Nice Lady at the desk to put our bags in the hold. Nice Lady reflects my beam and says, let me just check your visa....
Visa. Of course, we need visas for Ghana. Crap, I forgot to get the effing visas. Who can I blame? My hectic life, my far away job, everyone who recently pissed me off and made me lose focus, myself?????
My smile is still brave if a little less certain. Nice Lady gets on the phone to see if I can make a visa application in Accra.I swallow hard, and explain to The Child that mummy made a big mistake and now we can't go to Ghana. The Child says, that's okay mummy, relieved that she can now avoid sleeping in a mud hut, being bitten by mosquitoes and running into lions and tigers on the street... I make a frantic phone call to the Benevolent Parent who paid for our trip. (You really didn't expect a poor Writer Girl to fund this herself did you?) Benevolent Parent says, don't worry you can do it here. Nice Lady confirms the same with a note on our tickets. Phew. I feel an idiot but still, phew. We head for the departure lounge and who do we meet there? Only an Old Friend who tells me, don't worry. There is no such thing as a problem once you get to Ghana. I stare at him. He laughs and tells me I worry too much. This really is nothing to get stressed over.
We board. It is a half empty plane so Old Friend joins us for what is arguably my best flight ever. Did you know that British Airways serves jollof rice en route to and from Ghana? With fried plantain and chicken? Not bad at all. Old Friend is a magnet for other Ghanaians on the flight and very soon our little corner of the plane is buzzing with wide ranging conversation and mybellyisbreaking laughter. I am still worried about the visa situation but one of our party is a Very Important Airport Person who tells me that there is a facility for visa application on arrival and all will be well. He is right. We arrive, at Kotoka Airport. I sail through the process, fill forms, pay the fee and step out to meet Sir K (my cousin) who is waiting to greet me and The Child. It is a strange yet lovely welcome back to the old country. And I am looking forward to re-discovering it.

...just birds and bees and flowers...

2007-10-04T14:14:00.000-07:00

I love this line from Roy Ayers' Everybody Loves the Sunshine. It reminds me of lazy afternoon picnics in the park and blurry Pimms-filled evenings. This past summer was just not long enough. But no matter because I am going to Sun. Yes, in just one week, my feet will touch down on Ghana soil. Ah...my days will be filled with noisy heat and laughter; my evenings will vibrate with crickets and croaking sounds. I hear the electricity service is still erratic inspite of the rapid development every where. They say the women are more beautiful than ever, and the men more outrageous. There must be new fashions, new trends. I left as a teenager, I am a bit older now. Will I understand the new slang? Do I even know my way around town? Hmm. I want to spy on clubbers as they dance to the latest sounds, gawp at young girls as they turn down eager suitors only to give in to them after a few more tries. I want to hear that sound; that special whispering sound of palm fronds in the breeze. I long to sink my feet in the sea water then marvel at barefooted young boys as they shimmy up a smooth coconut tree. I want to drive past Stevie Wonder's house and pretend I'm not excited. I want to blend in yet, I want to bore everyone with my tales of how good it feels to be coming back to the Sun.

Pink, red and orange flowers; sunbirds, green pigeons, Diana monkeys. A woman balancing oranges for sale on her head; young boys swimming in the lagoon; school children reciting their two times tables. I am preparing my eyes to store up images; my mouth waters when I think of the food....I can't wait to leave. Can't wait, can't wait.

To Anyone Who Might Criticise Me

2007-09-30T15:02:00.000-07:00

All told, I've had a pretty shitty August and September. These two months have been filled with shitty people telling me shit; not taking responsibility for their bullshit words and behaviour; and carrying on like that shit don't stick.
Well I've had enough of this crap.
My home-made 'die you shitty people' voodoo spells have failed miserably - I am left with enough frozen chicken parts to last till next spring - so I have resorted to a (borrowed) response, which does not contain any foul language or four-letter words.
This response comes courtesy of the wonderful h l mencken whom I shall now paraphrase. You see, this guy thought of how to confound his critics before their bullshit criticsims rained. Now that's some super foresight. He wrote a letter titled (and this is where the paraphrasing starts), 'To Anyone Who Might Criticise Me', and it goes a little like this:

Dear xxx

I am sitting in the smallest room in my house [and y'all know which room that is] with your letter of criticism before me. Very soon it will be behind me.

h l mencken

My Blogger's Prayer

2007-09-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

Oh merciful Father
in Heaven above
send me a super freak geek
to love

Someone who knows
how to link to Youtube
Then cut, splice and paste
like that's all he's been used to

It's the least he should know
cos I got cool tings to show
like poetry jaming
and Floetry's floe

After the blogosphere
we'll retire via the stairs
for playtime and cheer
but nothing too sleazy
just your average freak, yeah?

I can see it right now
oh and how,
people will quote
from my great blog of note
and yes, I will gloat
and say, 'oh I just hooked up,
with this super cool bloke'.

(copyright: writer girl)

Blog on

2007-09-28T11:56:00.001-07:00

Big up to all the bloggers in Burma, Afganistan, Pakistan and Sudan. The truth shouts out from the hidden flicker of your computer screens.

This week's O.P.P (Other Person's Poem)

2007-09-18T13:56:00.000-07:00

This week's poem is Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. (www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-i-rise/)

I always imagine the narrator to be like Celie from The Colour Purple, or a would-be Beyonce without an audience or hope for success, or even a modern day female banker who is fed up of being bullied at work . In any case, it is punching-the-air category poetry. Rise, people!

Come Alive

2007-09-14T06:44:00.000-07:00

During a recent WW spat one author said something like, 'I'd rather be alive, and I'm not alive if I'm not writing, and being read.'

Well, I say a big Amen to the being read part; I can't wait to see my book on the shelf of some funky bookstore (independent or otherwise, I ain't bothered) with a white post it note saying 'Store Staff Picks' stuck on the front.... Man, I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

But the statement itself, about being alive and writing made me think about what writing really means to me. Because lately, I have been thinking about giving up. My reasons are quite straightforward really. Writing takes time and what with a busy corporate job, three hour daily commute, and sole responsiblity for a child who needs more than just love to grow into a confident well-adjusted human being, I sometimes wonder how much of that precious time is being needlessly frittered away by this solitary tap tapping on my laptop.

How many friends have I dissed, how many evenings out missed because I have to write?

When I think about it, anything well almost any other hobby, would be less isolating and time-consuming. I could take up origami, flower pressing, even mud wrestling and be free of these characters in my head. What's more, I would not have to be alone to do any of the three, although the concept of solo mud wrestling sounds like self-abuse by another name...

But seriously though. I have been thinking about this for some time so I decided, last week, to give up writing. I looked around me, exhaled and thought, yes! Now for some real living. Instead of all that compulsive writing, I'm going to socialise.

So I dusted off my old party clothes, polished the handbag and shoes and waited. But the phone did not make a sound. That was the hardest part. I was not, as I had always imagined, suddenly innundated with invitations from wild and interesting people to accompany them to wild and interesting places. I waited and waited but nothing happened. Then I decided to watch more television and films, but that soon became oppressive as I started thinking of great story lines for my own book.
Worst of all, The Child did not really appreciate me trying to interfere with Barbie play with, story lines that just do not fit the genre. Whoever heard of Barbie and her friends discussing the meaning of life and playing the money markets whilst Ken looks on, happy in the knowledge that his sole purpose in life is to lie face down on the carpet?
I was told that my story was boring and silly.

So like a repentent lover who knows he has much grovelling to do, I flipped open the lid of my lap top and looked lovingly at my work in progress. Aaah! My heart skipped a beat; my mouth felt like it does as I am about to pop a piece of fried fish into it....

Sigh. It feels good to be back. It takes a lot of heartache, juggling and pain but what can I say, it's great to be writing again.

O.P.P (Other People's Poems)

2007-09-12T01:35:00.000-07:00

The lovely Anne Brookes (see the link to her blog on the right) has a Poem A Week on her blog so, not being as prolific as she is, I decided to post a link to a favourite poem of mine each week. This week's poem of choice is Invisible Kisses by the wonderful Lemn Sissay. http://www.lemnsissay.com/poems/index.htm
I suggest you lie down in a dark candle lit room while your intended recites this to you. Let the words wrap around you, and fall in love all over again...

MC SlickP

2007-09-09T22:26:00.001-07:00

Like most writers I like new and unusual stories. I know very little about rap music but I love the idea of this new rapper who has a different story to tell from the usual (I know I may be prejudiced). I met SlickP the rapper about a week ago and was struck by his African/European/Urban/Corporate vibe. Good luck, Slick P

Cracking Funnies

2007-09-09T21:55:00.001-07:00

What makes you laugh? The punch line at the end of a joke or your own intelligent memory?

I went to a live comedy show the other night and noticed that even the 'experimental' acts were great story tellers. Those who succeeded in making the folk on my table laugh - and believe me, I was the only person laughing at the lame jokes - were able to weave lots of potentially funny 'building blocks' in their narrative build up so that once we were at the punch line, it was easy to reflect on the entire story and then erupt into fits of uncontrollable laughter. But did we laugh at our own cleverness at being able to join up all the dots in the story? I don't know.

There was also a cultural dimension to this. The acts that did well were very English, self-deprecating, 'I can't get laid/this is my come face/I'm a bit weird' type acts. This is in stark contrast to some of the Def Comedy acts on YouTube which seem to be much more concerned with advising women on (in a humorous way, of course) how to keep their men from behaving badly...

And the comedy on African television shows seems to be based on ridiculing superstition or the lack of sophistication.

Funny old world really...

Feel the fear and do it anyway

2007-09-05T06:00:00.001-07:00

They say that money makes the world go round. But I disagree. I think it's fear. Fear of rejection and the loneliness that comes with being left on the shelf, fear of being too happy or vulnerable, fear of growing old and unattractive, fear of missing the boat, fear of ending up with nothing, fear of never achieving the dream, fear of reaching the dream and finding out its not enough, fear of finally realising that it's not them but you who are irredeemably dysfunctional, fear of not stacking up, fear of being too different, fear of failure, fear of success and how to maintain a winning edge, fear of what the neighbours will think, fear of how God will judge....fear fear fear.

Fear can make you foolish. At fourteen, I was so worried that my sophisticated class mates would turn their noses up at my (fairly invisible) dandruff that I washed my hair in skin-scorchingly potent disinfectant which burnt my scalp...

I had no hair for a long time but hey, everyone said it suited me.

Another time, I was so upset at being considered 'too thin' (yeah, things are back to front in Africa), that I stuffed myself with great big handfuls of kenkey last thing at night, in an attempt to wake up 'fat and healthy looking'. This just gave me excruciating indigestion; but maybe I was more greedy than fearful.

In any case, I think a little blue pill (or red if you so fancy) that could banish all fear would far outsell the pill for a broken heart and the one for a flat stomach.

In fact, I'm just waiting for someone to make such a pill. When they do, I'm going to go down to my local pharmacy to get me a bucket load.

I made it to Bookslam

2007-09-03T13:43:00.000-07:00

I have never really felt the need to blog about single mummyhood because, well, these days there are so many of us around doing our thing: basking in the ecstasy of motherhood; striving to bring up a 'just as good as' child; becoming financially astute; fantasising about a social life beyond the endless kiddie parties, fun fairs and God knows what else.

I might be unusual in this regard but on those rare occasions when I do happen to slither out of my front door, I hardly ever choose the venue or outing. I guess it's because I can't really believe I am escaping and so just go with the flow. Either way, be it an invitation to the cinema or a work related social event, I very rarely do what I want to do....

But all that is about to change because I finally made it to Bookslam. Billed as 'clubbing for grown ups', last week's Bookslam was everything I expected it to be and more. The poetry and readings, the music (check out Vula on MySpace), the crowd, the vibe, the Thai/Chinese food served in American style cartoon thingies....it was like finding an African restaurant serving kenkey and fish in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. I spent the entire evening grinning at anyone who would make eye contact, thrilled at my little find.

And when I came home, I was still so excited that I danced around my room.

It's not all about you....is it?

2007-08-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

There was a 'lively discussion' thread on WriteWords the other day about bloggers who, from the anonymity of their personal computers, dump every last detail of their personal lives out there, into the blogosphere. I'm not keen to re-hash the arguments but I feel that like any other kind of writing, the audience for the 'this is how I wash my dirty linen' type blog is as credible as the 'thesis into the origin and manufacture of linen' type blog. And if the writing is good enough, both blogs could share the same audience.

This got me thinking about writing in general. Like most writers, I have a small number (three) of people who are allowed to see a work in progress. One is a brilliant editor, the other two are avid readers. My non professional readers always tend to ask, did that really happen to you or who is that character really? Sometimes I feel like shouting, how many times do I have to tell you, it's all MADE UP? But maybe I am protesting too loudly.

Zadie Smith once said that writing is the ultimate art form because (and I am paraphrasing here), not only does the writer create a new world and characters that live and breath on their own, but also within that world, is the writer herself (or himself). Right there behind every word, phrase and nuance is a reflection of that writer's psyche, hidden in the redeeming gestures of the cold blooded murderer who weeps over a maimed animal, or laid bare in the eyes of the star-crossed lover who will never find her soul mate.

Fine artists could make the same claim except that their creations are rather static; okay someone will kill me for saying that, but they would have to fight me first, and anyway I'm sticking to the point. Bigger brains than mine can go on for days about how, well-drawn characters from classical fiction can still show us, teach us something today. Emma Bovary (for one) encapsulates the essence of many a modern disillusioned house wife.....So I think I'm with ZS on this one.

And the next time someone asks I'll say, yes of course, it's all about me!

Obsessive, compulsive, neurotic

2007-08-27T00:30:00.000-07:00

Yup that's me.

Time was, writers were expected to be tortured, mysterious souls. But those days are over it seems. The only people who get away with obsessive, compulsive, neurotic behaviour are celebs, including published and highly successful writers. You've got no chance if you are just another sad scribbler hacking away at your lap top.

Shame though. I would have loved to write an agent pitch letter that said,
'...and one last thing, apart from my brilliant, visual, viceral prose, you should also sign me up because I am tortured like you wouldn't believe and my little store room frequently doubles up as a garret.' Bet that Snark bird would love it.

'...we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss...'

2007-08-25T14:56:00.000-07:00

Life sucks sometimes. I think the quote above (from the first line in Paulo Coelho's Eleven Minutes) sums up why that happens. We want the fairy tale but end up (too often) in the abyss. This bank holiday weekend I am thinking that the fairy tale is all that keeps me going. And to everyone else who is holding on to that fairy tale, I say hang in there. It's coming...

e go be

2007-08-18T08:06:00.000-07:00

I've rediscovered my love for African pigeon English. I love the way the language (which has its own grammatical rules) breaks down to give an immediate and urgent message. It feels really cool to break rules and drop definite articles and still make sense.
Loosely translated, the phrase above means it will be . This sentiment and the recurring notion that letting go of the outcome of one's dreams is the key to achieving them has been playing on my mind over the past few weeks. Maybe it's because I have just finished re-reading Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist , maybe it's because I'm a control freak who cannot, will not do 'letting go'. Maybe it's because I find myself in a position where I can do nothing but let things go. Either way, I have become convinced that the key to achieving writing success (publication), and commercial and critical acclaim (what's wrong with dreaming big?) involves believing that e go be .
This belief starts with the kernel of the idea; to place an ordinary character in extraodinary circumstances, create a new world with its own rules and regulations, or even provide a window on a time and place that has so far been inaccessible to the rest of world. Whatever the story, writers must sustain their belief in character, plot etc, through drafting, editing, re-writing... over many months or even years. Sounds tough but during this blindly believing period something magical happens: the writing gets better over time; plots offer gifts and clever coincidences that you didn't plan or see; fully grown characters get their feet wet and start to strutt their stuff. This has nothing to do with technical ability. If we just believe that e go be then just like in The Alchemist, the universe will conspire to help us get there.

It's a bit of a namby-pamby, airy-fairy notion but as I package up my first novel to offer up to the world and begin to research and draft my second one , those three words are going to keep me going. That, or I'm gonna go a li'l bit crazy.

The cost of crime

2007-08-03T01:00:00.001-07:00

Call me draconian but I just want to try something here.
I am so fed up of reading about youth murders, rape, child and elderly abuse that I think there should be a public campaign to change the way these crimes are regarded by society and the law.
To my mind the thing that needs to change in society is not just the custodial sentences but rather a purer more quantifiable appreciation of what has been mercilessly taken away from these victims. So in addition to the charge of murder, rape, paedophilia, whatever, we add another charge based on a calculation of the loss of opportunity that the crime has brought about to the victim. The calculation would not necessarily be an addition to the number of years spent in jail but, say for instance in the case of the young footballer who was recently shot, this new policy would make sure that the perpetrator, as part of his rehabilitation, works to facilitate the career (either by driving him around, cleaning his shoes, whatever...) of another up and coming footballer so that he truly understands what he has taken away. That would be the first part.
Second, we as a society, should be less fascinated by the crimes themselves and more horrified by the loss of opportunity they bring about.

Red River by Lalita Tademy

2007-08-03T00:41:00.000-07:00

If you scroll down far enough on this blog you will see my post on Lalita Tademy's first book, Cane River which spent 12 weeks on the US best seller list and more importantly, was picked out by Oprah Winfrey.

Red River is her second family/memoir/faction novel charting the shameful events of the 1873 Easter Sunday massacre in Colfax. I grabbed this book thinking that the story would be as fascinating as her first novel. I was wrong. It is much more important because of its historical significance and affirmation of the strength of the human spirit.

Red River took me away from my own writing, it made me angry and it made me cry. And when I finished, I wanted to punch the air and shout out: Tademy! (You'll understand when you read the book).

If you look around the world in despair of the inequalities that still exist then, this book will give you hope. Through the extradordinary lives of her family members, Lalita Tademy has shown that change is possible even if only small disenfranchised group of people decide to make it so.

Excuse me while I rant

2007-07-28T00:00:00.001-07:00

We all know someone like this. Come on. You know who I mean. Every family, workplace and neighbourhood has one. They are the easily offended, grudge-bearing, martyrs. They bleat on and on about this and that; the terrible events of the year nineteen hoo-hoo and how it pained them. They hold their self-pity like a bunch of flowers, ready to hand over to you as soon as you say, 'So how are you today?'

Pathologically self-obsessed they never think to ask how you are doing. It's just an on-going me-fest for these folk. Well I've had it with the Permanently Aggrieved. 'Cos they suck. Big time. And to them I say: go get a life or find some place else to whinge......Rant over.

Nicole follows Paris to jail

2007-07-27T23:56:00.000-07:00

Did you see this headline? All that money, priviledge and status seems to go hand in hand with huge excess and a profound dislike of the conscious self.

If I had all that money I would want to be sober enough to enjoy the experience.

What's the betting that we don't see more and more of these celebrity incarcerations? Prison will soon be the new black.

The Secret of Happiness

2007-07-26T13:56:00.000-07:00

Every night an angel comes to whisper the secret of happiness in my ear. But it slips out of my mind when morning comes near. Very soon, I'll remember...

Water water

2007-07-22T22:30:00.000-07:00

Four days of flooding. Severn and Avon converged. Panic buying of bottled water. Drought. Evacuations. Homes and businesses evacuated. Agricultural land under water. This is England, in the summer of 2007.

Nii Ayikwei Parkes

2007-07-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

Poet, writer, essayist. I have heard him on the radio but today I started to read an excerpt of his novel 'Afterbirth' (New Writing 15) . What a beautiful writer you are Mr Parkes. When I get good, I want to write just like you.

(belated) Happy Birthday To Me

2007-07-22T15:36:00.001-07:00

Surely another year is no reason to cheer?

I am learning, that each decade or set of seven years reveals some life lesson that is useful for the next seven or ten years to come. My body and face show that time is passing. Thus far my voice has remained. But that too will turn as part of a beautifully created script; playing out as it should.

I passed a book to a friend of mine the other day. 'Stolen Lives' depicts the plight of the Ouffkir family and is a fascinating story spanning many years in captivity. It is not a book that (in my view) is particularly well written but it is a story that must be read. Just a few pages in to the novel, my friend told me she found the narrator pompous and arrogant. By the end of the novel she praised the clever way in which the voice changed as narrator told of the family's struggle to survive.

How must a character's Voice change to show the passage of time or circumstance? That the character has somehow been irrevocably changed by a one time event or series of troubles? Many characters have the same voice throughout a novel. Readers are only aware of the passage of time or a character's change of perspective via internal dialogue or action but I think a well executed voice is writing gold dust.

Hold this for me, I'm coming...

2007-07-13T15:41:00.000-07:00

My heart goes out to the parents of the two girls arrested in Ghana this week. They thought their daughters were on a school trip to France. But for three thousand pounds the girls travelled to Ghana to pick up laptop bags filled with cocaine.

I must have been sixteen myself, when I first read news stories of young Ghanaian girls duped by their boyfriends into carrying drugs into the UK. There was a period when the Ghanaian newspapers were filled with photographs of these girls arrested at Kotoka International airport. The photographs showed the girls with taped plastic bags filled with drugs, wrapped around their bodies. One girl died after swallowing a bag of cocaine which burst in her stomach. The saddest thing was that these girls were pawns driven by their desire to make money or gain the respect or acceptance of their peers.

Even so, I have been hugely irritated by some of the opinion and media coverage about these arrests.

A Fair Trials Abroad representative complained on Radio Four that the girls should have been allowed to re-enter the UK to be arrested here because they don't speak the language in Ghana... On another news programme, the girls Tottenham neighbours expressed their concern for the girls because there are cockroaches in Ghana....

This from people with distinctly West Indian accents - so we can assume they have absolutely no clue about Ghana - who live in Tottenham.

But back to the issue at hand; sharp intake of breath: Ghana was a British colony; English is the official language. Yes, of course the girls would be better off here, but they committed a crime in Ghana.

What does it say about Ghanaian justice if the police just turn a blind eye and send the two girls back because they are sixteen? I am sure the Ghanaians are just as anxious to prevent drug trafficking as we are here in the UK. They would want to find out where the girls got the laptop bags. And why should'nt they? Funnily enough when people are arrested in Thailand we don't have this level of hue and cry. Could it be that Ghana is coming under this level of scrutiny because people just don't know what to expect from that country?

Over the next few days and with this level of media interest, I am sure the girls will be sent back here. But we do not make their case any easier by criticising the Ghanaian officials for doing their job.

FGM

2007-07-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

It's summer time! 500 UK based young girls will be taken back to their ancestral homes in Africa or the Middle East to be circumcised. Of all the laws and policies mandated against this too old barbaric practice, it is only the most eligible young men of those countries and cultures who can guarantee its complete eradication. All they have to do is refuse to marry a girl who has been circumcised.

First Do No Harm

2007-07-03T15:27:00.000-07:00

You are a bright child. You do well at school. You tell people that you want to be a doctor. This makes them smile with pride, for you come from a country that values its doctors. You go to university, study for many years, become a doctor. Your medical qualification brings respect, status, money. You are mobile. You can leave your country, travel the world and make a good living from healing the sick. You can do all this, and so much more. Instead, instead, you try to blow up a busy nightclub. When that fails you drive a blazing car into an airport. Why??

On Attraction

2007-07-01T01:23:00.001-07:00

A look, a smile. Something tells you wait a while, this could be, interesting for me. Other times, you don't see it. But it's there. Creeping up on you; breaking through. You laugh out loud alone in your room; you'll feed your attraction again and soon; then one day kaboom! You're hooked.

I've just finished reading a book I expected to love. Everyone else is raving about this book. Calling it a tour de force. It will sell by the bucket load. And win a few prizes too no doubt.

And why not? It has much to recommend it: crystal clear prose, technical brilliance. Linear and dynamic, it is thoroughly believable.

Yet, it left me thinking: so what? I tried again, willed myself; even tried to fake it....but no. After a while I realised that it was the characters. Although well drawn and recognisable, they had no spark. Nothing to commend them. I didn't hate or like them. They were just - and I love this word - bleurgh.

Creating attractive - not necessarily likeable - compelling characters must be one of the biggest challenges in modern fiction. To get it right, I try to create rounded characters with a little something that readers can appreciate and hold on to. If I don't find the characters attractive, my readers won't either. So this is the last test for my almost nearly there manuscript.

And in fiction as in real life, it is best if that 'something' goes beyond the physical.

Terror Alert

2007-07-01T01:18:00.000-07:00

Two in London and one in Glasgow. Glasgow? At least now we know. A huge first test for Gordon Brown and Jacqui Smith. For the rest of us, it's the shock of knowing that these people are organised and outside London. These are scary times indeed. Be vigilant out there people.

Do Not Urinate Here. Spot Fine - Slap!

2007-06-17T15:09:00.001-07:00

I saw this public notice on the American in Africa blog.

There are a few others, like 'Do Not Dificate On This Farm' and 'Only A Fool Would Not Urinate Here' but this title one is my favourite. The signs are pretty typical examples of the type of everyday sight that cracks me up. Over the years I have found that I cannot go to an African city or town, usually a city, without seeing, hearing or smelling something outageously funny.

Whether it is a driver who cuts in front of a police car because he is fed up of waiting in traffic - on that occasion the driver dared to question the police's authority, saying that their fathers had not built the road - I can just imagine a similar scenario in London. Or some new decency-defying fashion, or a street hawker's loud advertisement for the latest remedy for piles, will have me laughing till I cry.

It is to our credit that we can laugh at ourselves, but I often wonder, whether I can credibly present these funny incidents or idiosyncracies in my writing without diminishing, disregarding or disrespecting the fact that in Africa, 'jokeyness' is the antidote to poverty, hunger, disease, corruption...the list is heavy. And long.

I guess it is about reaching a fine balance (sorry, couldn't resist mentioning one of my favourite books) between the sublime and the ridiculous. Or painting an accurate picture and treating the subjects with respect. A few ethnic writers have fallen foul of this balance, with some pretty horrific consequences. Not even a knighthood could placate me if I felt that millions of people believed that I had decided to denigrate them through my book. I would be devastated if my book provoked that sort of response.

Yet writers can open the window on a world that others have not yet seen. My book is my attempt at opening a window on a small aspect of African life. Hopefully, I will achieve this without pissing anyone off.

Famous last words? I hope not. In anycase this blog is easily deleted!

Cane River by Lalita Tademy

2007-06-10T01:41:00.000-07:00

Some stories just have to be told. Cane River is one of them. One reviewer described it as 'Roots' from a female perspective. It is that and more. It moved me to tears and inspired me.

It made me realise that those who call for a simple apology for the Slave Trade are absolutely right to do so. It's effects are far reaching. A hundred years is nothing.

Read Cane River. It is education and elightenment.

The 'N' word on Big Brother

2007-06-07T13:35:00.000-07:00

So the posh bird who entered the Big Brother house spouting 'education, education, education' has been booted out because she used a word that is offensive to many black and brown people? ..She must have missed the 'how to behave' part of the curriculum.

Chimamanda!

2007-06-07T13:32:00.000-07:00

Young African author wins the Orange Prize. Stop. African literature is finding its place. Stop. UK agents and publishers pay attention. Stop.

Querying literary agents (again)

2007-06-04T12:46:00.000-07:00

It's a bit like going out on the pull. You make your pitch to the person you think you know, who you think will understand where you are coming from, the one you have heard so much about. You know that this person will connect with your work and recognise its brilliance.

You prepare your first three chapters, synopsis, hook and send it off with crossed fingers and prayer. You wait six to eight weeks for a response. When it arrives, your fingers tremble as you open the envelope. The letter begins well but it's a rejection.

You spend the next few days licking your wounds, telling yourself that it is just part of the process. You try to see things from their perspective...yeah maybe you could do better next time. You dust yourself off and try again. And again. Soon you can spot a rejection without opening the envelope.

You give up writing for a bit and try to distract yourself with other things. But that tiny niggling, I would love to be writing feeling stalks you like a rejected lover. You ignore it and grow gloomily love sick by the day. Nothing makes sense. You are never 'present'. You stay home and watch tv, second guessing all the plots and wishing that you had written them. Newly published authors taunt you with their success stories. Their novels call to you, as if to show you how it should be done. Friends think you are depressed. They tell you to get out more, have some fun. You feel like staying in, so you can write.

So one day, that's just what you do. You write. And write. And write. It feels great. You start thinking of characters, voice and plot. You are starting all over again. Cheerily obsessing over every single word. Writing up a storm. On and on until you can trace the generations of edits on your edits. The finished product reads well. It has a lyrical rhythm and bounce to it. It's modern and edgy. You hope that people will love your characters and laugh at the right places. You spruce up your first three chapters, and go out on the pull again..............

Big Brother

2007-06-01T14:49:00.000-07:00

My trash threshold, which was already sweaty Brazilian limbo height, has just dropped to an all time low. I watched the opening of this year's Big Brother. What can I say? I had nothing better to do. It was just a bit of light entertainment. Still pissed me off though.

Why oh why do the black women in these programmes have to conform to such stupid stereo-types? Either you have the bust-thrusting, booty-shaking bimbo or the big fat mama whom every one loves....And when stirred they all seem to do that 'no nonsense, hands up in your face' bullshit which seems to be passed on from generation to generation of (televised) black women via their mothers' milk.

Why don't they ever have intelligent, educated career women with something to say for themselves...ahem, like me? I could do a lot with the prize money. Give up my job and write full time.

American Idol

2007-05-27T13:42:00.000-07:00

Call it tacky, empty, talentless, whatever... I don't care. I'm lovin' American Idol. Big time.
Give me cheesy Cowell, Paula with the hair - that's gotta be a weave right? - and the Dawg. Give me all of that. And more.

See I noticed something today, as I was watchin' and ironin'. You know, the usual Sunday afternoon stuff.

Today was the grand finale show. All the previous winners were trying to out scream each other. Eyes shut, pain-painted faces, arms out to the heavens. Regular people transformed into multi million selling stars. The American Dream.

I half-watched this year's winner thinking, what's so special?

I turned to the mountain of clothes before me - was there ever such drudgery as ironing? - but I was distracted when the presenter, Ryan Somebody, announced that a new album titled Instant Karma, featuring past and present Idols is soon going to be released in aid of those affected by the crisis in Darfur. Wow. If ever there was a cause that needed to be sexed up under a million neon lights, this would be it.

Darfur is dying for some celebrity. Who would have thought that Simon Cowell's talent show would be the vehicle to place this conflict centre stage?

So now I'm completely wrapped up in the show, ignoring my iron's anti-burn beep, telling my Child to shush.

Green Day take the stage. They sing 'Working Class hero' and the words seem to seep inside me as if I am hearing it for the first time. Makes me feel like my troubles are nothing.

I consider the words of the song for a long while after the show is over. I have to conclude that apart from raising money for Darfur, American Idol will give all the voters the chance to be real life heroes.

I feel almost embarrassed as I type this. Like it's really cheesy. But it's true.

I'll do anything for you, darling

2007-05-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

Poor old Paul Wolfowitz. All he ever wanted to do was help his girlfriend. Now it looks like he might just lose his job at the World Bank. Love costs, it really does. (shaking my head and tutting loudly).

I could force myself to weep copious tears for Paulie were it not for the fact that he 's a Bush man and some say, the architect of the Iraq war. Still, I can't help wishing I could somehow morph into a fly on his very posh (I'm sure) domestic walls.

Bet he doesn't even have to take the rubbish out now. Or give up the remote...Or...(no, that's too rude, I can't put that on my blog).

Note to Self

2007-05-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

Stop whittering and wondering and pondering things over. Give up sleepless dreaming and consciousness streaming....Curtail the critic and get back to sleep. Your problems will keep. Till dawn or next week. Quit tossing and turning, endlessly yearning...what's done is gone, and time to move on.

Darfur

2007-05-13T00:41:00.000-07:00

Images of conflict in an African wasteland seem all too familiar from my so distant and priviledged perspective. Like Rwanda and even Bosnia, the issues in the Darfurian crisis are confusing. Factions, governments and militia crowd my brain. Who's to blame? How can it be fixed? And isn't it just hopelessly typical?

I admit that I had closed my mind to the conflict, even though I am reliably informed that my forebears hailed from Darfur.

I had closed my mind, that is, until I met a woman whom I shall call C.

C is a beautiful blond multilingual aid worker based in Darfur. I met her recently when she made a short trip back to the UK . Our paths crossed at a kung fu class. Oh, I guess I should mention that she is a kick ass first dan, kung fu fighter, no?

I grabbed C and shamelessly cross-examined her about her work, her life, and why.
Why would she do this? Why would a stunning young woman who could have everything in the West, ditch it all to go to Darfur?

She smiled, it is an interesting job and she likes her colleagues. She is even teaching kung fu there. I stared at her, open-mouthed and humbled.

We spoke about writing. C does not want to write about her experiences. She feels it is not her place to write about Darfur. Instead, she has encouraged Darfuris to write it for themselves.

I insisted, 'but you must. I want to read your story.'

And I do. I really do.

I did what I thought was right

2007-05-10T16:10:00.000-07:00

Well, looks like old TB is going to leave number 10 Downing Street come June 27. Print and broadcast media are full of coverage of TB's achievements over the past ten years. It seems sadly ironic that for someone who gave 'spin' its place in UK politics, he has not been able to create a better epitaph than one of regret at taking us into the war in Iraq.

White Author, Black Voice

2007-05-06T07:05:00.000-07:00

Question: Should a white author write from a black point of view? I say yes, why not?

Hmm. Okay, that's easy enough.

Here's another question: What is wrong with a white author writing from a black point of view? Ah...That's a much better question. Again I say, nothing.

After all, fiction is just pretend, no? We fiction writers make stuff up. We create future worlds and examine forgotten histories. We live to discover new ways to explain the mundane. We get off on finding the aha! metaphor. We're obsessed with words. Some of us write so convincingly that our readers believe that we write only about ourselves or our nearest and dearest.

So maybe this really is a question for the reader: What exactly is wrong with a white author who writes from a black point of view? Again, with my reader's hat on I say, nothing at all.

Except maybe...

You see the thing that really annoys me...

It's a bit like Victoria Beckham or Madonna (the holy one) singing rap. There's nothing maajorly wrong it. I'd rather have Eminem. Or no rap at all, but you get where I'm going with this. Eminem feels more real.

The rap analogy applies here too. It's like this: If you want to write my story, I mean really tell my story so that even I believe it, then get my voice right, eh? Don't offer up some pastiche/hatchet job, rent-a-voice prose and pass if off as the real deal. That's just lazy. Listen to my voice, my influences try to understand my psyche. Try to find the most authentic story for your unique perspective on my world. Then own it. Own it in your way. Your style, your rhythms. Own it so that it still has you in it, although it is about my world.

Don't do it because I say so. Do it because your readers and the publishing world will applaud you for it.

Uwem Akpan

2007-04-22T01:58:00.000-07:00

Have you heard of this writer? I hadn't.

No matter though because now you have.

And boy does he have a tale to tell. He is a Nigerian Jesuit priest who has sold a short story collection for one million dollars. Yeah, baby. One million. You can download one of his stories, 'An Ex-Mas Feast' from the Net. It was published in the New Yorker. Just type his name into google. Prepare to be shocked and stunned.

The Palm Oil With Which Words Are Eaten

2007-04-16T12:29:00.000-07:00

In Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe refers to proverbs as "the palm oil with which words are eaten".

I think it's true. At least for African stories.

If there is anything that is genre-like about them, it is the existence of proverbs. Even writers who shun the paranormal/metaphysical aspect of African culture still always rely on the odd proverb to make the tale authentic and credible.

That's smart. There is a real poetry to African proverbs.

I once witnessed a huge quarrel between two girls in my school. I must have been about 14 years old at the time, they were the same age. The girls were shouting in a language that I did not fully understand but I still remember being shocked to discover the cause of the bust up later on.

One girl, let's call her A, used a proverb that she herself did not fully understand.

Unfortunately, the other girl, who we'll call B, took offence. Big time. She wept as if someone had just shot her mother.

Girl A told Girl B that her 'shameful bottle had broken'.

That is the literal translation of course. The interpretation, if I am right - I am sure someone will tell me if I am wrong - is that we (humans) all hold our shame in a delicate 'bottle'-like structure. When we lose face that 'bottle' is broken. I'm not sure how Girl B even came to understand the proverb but it was curtains for that relationship, I can tell you. Quite a few of us had to pull them apart.

There was blood everywhere. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little about the blood part. Don't shoot me.

Exaggeration is the ladle from which stories are served....

Anyway, writers are supposed to make stuff up. Even proverbs. Although it's a bugger to create original authentic-sounding proverbs. Still, I plough on. Working on the details, for your reading pleasure.

So in the highly unlikely and unusual event that you don't like my novel, you can rest assured that I am loving writing it. If you think that sounds immodest, or even if you don't, I would like to refer you to another quote from the wonderful, wonderful, Things Fall Apart:

"The lizard who jumped from the high Iroko tree said, I will praise myself if no-one else will."

Single Black Parent

2007-04-12T13:51:00.000-07:00

According to the Office for National Statistics, almost half the black children in Britain are being raised by a single parent. That is, forty-eight percent of Caribbean families and thirty-six percent of African households. Overall, nine out of ten single-parent families are headed by mothers, and our children are more likely to be unemployed, commit crime and leave education early. They are also twice as likely to be homeless.

So we might as well all just give up now.

Because according to this study most of our kids are fucked, whatever we do. Bring on the guilt, I say. We single parents could do with more.

I'm not sure that this report is saying anything new or different. Apart from the ethnic breakdown which is interesting but not really valuable in the broad scheme of things. If and when government social policy is implemented along racial lines then it becomes relevant. Otherwise...

Anyway, the thing that really bugs me is the fact that these statistical studies always seem to focus on the parent (nine out of ten times it is the mother) who stays behind to look after the child.

Why don't they ever measure the IQ/moral code/mental age/ego of the men who leave the job of bringing up their child to someone else? Let's argue that in most cases these men just up and leave: Does society ever stop to ask why they behave in this way (without blaming the woman)? Is there such a thing as a serial child deserter? And should society shun them?

We should ask ourselves these questions. Re frame the debate. Shake things up a bit. Replace, 'single, lone, and one-parent' with, 'responsibility, duty and shared parenting'. That would be cool.

In the meantime, if being a single parent gets me the same sort of publisher's advance as a certain very famous single parent author, I'll tattoo the label on my forehead.

Money for your life

2007-04-09T01:22:00.000-07:00

There is controversy in the air this morning. The media is abuzz with wide ranging commentary at the British Ministry of Defence's decision to permit released naval officers to sell their stories to the media. Some have refused to sell their stories but the single woman in the crew, Leading Seaman Faye Turney, has sold her story to the tabloid press and TV for a reputed six figure sum.

On the one hand I am thinking, good luck to you girl. How can I begrudge you the opportunity to make money? I have not had to endure solitary confinement and scary prospect of never seeing my three year old child again. I was not allegedly 'forced to wear a hijab' or those awful clothes and made to write letters of apology to the Iranian people. And, I would definitely want compensation for having to smile and shake hands with my captor.

But then I'm not a soldier or naval officer or whatever. And that' s the point I think.

These amazingly brave service personnel sign up to represent our interests abroad. They are paid to risk their lives in so doing. They are supposed to be made of sterner stuff than you and I.

This sort of story is best served cold in my view. In a memoir or proper documentary some time after the facts have been chewed over and when it can be placed in context. Given that service men have died and are still serving in Iraq, this sort of quick cash tabloid deal places what must have been an extremely harrowing experience in the same context as a tacky David Beckham kiss and tell.

But who can resist this new reality economy? There is hard cash to be made from it. I will be only slightly surprised if we next see the fair seawoman completely made over on the X-factor post -boob job and nose job, trying to convince us that she is our next idol. So er you go, girl.

Back to me now. Or rather the book. I scribbled away till four am this morning still working on a major edit. Next time, next time, I will spend MONTHS drawing up the structure before I begin. That seems to be hardest thing for someone like me who has never been on a creative writing course. No one really tells you the rules about structure: how chapters function, how to introduce new characters, backstory, voice. But now I know and I'm working on it. Making it sequential, joining the pieces together, taking the reader with me. Maybe someday soon someone will give me some cash for my completed efforts. 'Cos it's a great story. Believe.

African Time

2007-04-08T01:25:00.000-07:00

Easter Sunday and by now the streets of Accra are filled with yellow-blue, yellow-green, yellow-orange taxis tooting loudly; their occupants waving palm fronds shouting 'Christ is risen today, Halleujah! '

Doesn't quite feel the same in old Blighty, but never mind.

I settled down to enjoy the day with a book by acclaimed travel writer, Ryszard Kapucinski.

I was advised to read non-fiction while writing some time ago as it is an effective antidote to those feelings of absolute despair when that bastard Critical Voice within starts to compare my work in progress with the latest New Big Thing on the book shelves.

For me, the latest New Big Thing is invariably a ground-breaking novel about Africa or the immigrant experience in the UK, whose author is too young to realise just how ground breaking their New Big Thing really is. Sickening, really.

So Ryszard Kapuscinski is the perfect read. For one thing he's dead. No disrespect.

For another, he writes breathtaking poetic non-fiction about Africa. I went through the first few pages of his book, 'The Cobra's Heart' thinking yes, yes, absolutely. I agree with everything this man says.

And then I came to a pause. Hmm I thought. Not so sure about this one.

You see, Mr Kapuscinski gives an interesting analysis about what me and my friends call 'African Time'.

On his arrival at a bus station in Accra destined for Kumasi , a swarm of boys rush to him to ask where he is going. He tells them and they lead him to the appropriate bus driver who rewards the boys with bananas and oranges. So far so good.

The potential faux pas comes when the Foreigner looks around and asks, 'when will the bus leave?' To which the astonished driver replies, 'What do you mean, when will the bus leave? It will leave when we find enough people to fill it up.' Kapucinski records this as a moment of potential culture clash.

In his view the European feels himself to be enslaved by time; compelled to meet deadlines and dates, until he is ultimately defeated by time.

Africans (a simplified definition), according to Kapuscinski, view time as a much more fluid concept, influenced by man. Things happen when they do. Asking when something will happen such as a war or a meeting becomes a nonsense. It will happen when people turn up.

In my experience this is fairly, if not infuriatingly, spot on. No quarrel there.

What concerns me though, is the view that Africans are forever patient, ever passive, happy to wait for things to happen. That somehow, our respect for the physical, spiritual and ancestoral worlds makes us more inclined to this type of profound waiting than any other peoples.

History tells us this is not the case. Africans have fought and continue to fight wars that they hope will bring about wide scale change. People are hungry and inpatient for change. But before I get on my high horse about this - bearing in mind that my own perspective may be more than a little skewed by my Western proclivities - I have to say that I am drawn to the idea of things happening when they will. After all, babies do. As does love, death, life, fame, money, restored health.

So on Easter Sunday, as I go back to my book I feel content that its completion will also come when it will. And it will be the right time. Happy Easter.

Religion and violence

2007-04-07T02:05:00.000-07:00

Holy Saturday. Not sure what that means. Christianity seems to be taking a back seat these days. Yet the news is full of the experience of the UK marine officers who were arrested for a number of reasons, including I am sure, religion. Funny that. Then there's this poor pregnant lady who was shot at her doorstep.

Sometimes these news stories are too painful to bear.

Writing till the wee hours, I am struggling with structure and point of view. But it's all good. Working towards an end of 2007 completion date.

Basic ingredients...

2007-04-06T16:46:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the first post of my blog about life as a new (soon to be published to ground breaking commercial success and international critical aclaim) writer.

I always think of writing in terms of food.

Kenkey, fish and black fried pepper is the first dish that springs to mind whenever anyone asks me what I would choose for my last dish on this earth.

Kenkey is a fermented corn dumpling that combines with fried red snapper and black pepper to give a truly Ghanaian definition of comfort food. It's the sort of meal that sits in the belly and tingles the taste buds long after you have washed the sticky white kenkey from your finger tips and picked out bits of fish from your teeth. I love eating it with friends; sitting on the floor in a circle around the food, or in one of those lovely Ghanaian restaurants that encourage you to eat with your fingers. I feel a wonderful guilty pleasure when I eat it on my own, because I tend to over eat, with more kenkey than I need and blow-your-head-off hot pepper, chased down with gallons of water.

I then become so full that I have to lie down, and think.

Either way, the memory of a good kenkey and fish meal lingers for days, weeks, sometimes years.

A good book should do that too. And that is what I am aiming for.

So I first got the idea for the book in 1997.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking:...and it's still not finished?

Believe me, it will be worth the wait. I promise. Just think about kenkey and fish.

Anyway, I diagress. I was on a skiing holiday in beautiful Vail, the only black person in a snowy white resort, unable to walk in skis let alone glide down a moutain, feeling like a fucking fish out of water, home sick as hell.

So I retired to my over priced log cabin and started to scribble.

Twenty thousand words later I chucked my fledgling manuscript into a drawer where it sat obediently fermenting, while I lived.

I dusted off the cobwebs in 2002 and here I am now, still scribbling up a storm. I have had some encouraging responses from Those Nice People Who Will Help Me Become A Published Author. But nothing significant to report as yet. It's a long process. What can I say? I just have to keep on with it. And now those nice people at blog city central are giving me the space to vent on the Internet! I love this life.