Showing posts with label Ghana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ghana. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 25, 2025

The Reach of Hill House

Close to the Masonic Lodge,
Near the order of Odd Fellows
By the Temple of the Goddess of Mercy,
Around the block from the cathedral
With the mosque in the background,
The calls of muezzins and roving preachers
The distractions were many, but one could see Hill House around the way

Where a society of friends would gather in quiet devotion
Mindful of the other faiths in their midst,
   the fierce competition for souls
No exuberant dancing
  as with the nightclub vibe of the new christianity
A meeting of minds in a circle close to the ground,
   theirs was solemnity

Eschewing ostentation, riches were to be expended on the spirit
Sharing thoughts, joyful worship but always in a minor key
The paths that life may take you on, the fateful journeys
Ever outwards, sometimes worlds away, yet reaching back to that weekly home

The comforting silences of friends, the keen observations
Most of all, the peaceful reflections and the fellowship
A region of the mind centered on earth, grace fixed in memory
The enduring appeal, sustaining; the reach of Hill House


hill house achimota



Hill House, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) File under: , , , , , , , , , ,

Writing log. October 8, 2022

Tuesday, November 18, 2025

Mercy is the Gift

In those days we had a choice to make
Whether to raise our voice and be counted
The dilemma in the face of violence
For oppression is a determined foe

And even if silence was our blanket of loss
We marked the times of dread with patience
Consoled that relief would surely come
But always, in faith, we bore witness

Oh the threats we endured,
The heat of cold fury
Such threats that we faced
Those foregone opportunities
Survival carves its blood-tinged imprint
The mold is the human animal

Speak, memory
Of fond flesh departed
Of bonds disappearing
Speak of absences enforced,
This life of ellipses

Speak of unease and timeless worry
Of the heaving bodies we saw drawing their final breaths
Even as throughout, we listened and we stared

But even if a look only deflects the blows of a willful detractor
A burdened soul beholds a shield of grace
Protection that turns into a weapon
For mercy is ours to give

This, the gods have long made known:
Mercy is the gift


...

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals

— The Burning Babe by Robert Southwell



Trees of life



Mercy, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)
...
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.

— The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare

I've always loved the way the Bard echoes Southwell... the quality of mercy is not strained.


See previously: The Voiceless Past, Speak, Memory, Wrath is for the Weak, Truth and Reconciliation


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Writing log. October 7, 2022

Tuesday, October 28, 2025

Intimate Legacies

The height of fulfillment for a Ghanaian woman
The measure of a life well lived
Is to be surrounded by loved ones
Sought out for consultation
And to leave a trunk of fabric
Packed almost full with cloth, new or barely worn
To be shared amongst those she leaves behind

Kente, Dutch wax prints, indigos and batiks
Some with Adinkra designs, and lace too; these are heirlooms
True, some would also cite the beads and the jewelry
Gold sovereigns as befits the site of the Gold Coast
And yes, monies and land, cars - modernity, are fitting contributions
But it is the cloth that is the prized intimate legacy

...

Daa left me some fabric, my inheritance was a sleep cloth
Dark green, a GTP wax print, lightly faded
So soft after years of use that the merest touch
Transports me to happy places
Skin to skin, in contact with her quiet ways
Remembering her voice and her laughter

She left a scarf for our daughter
White lace, a welcome present
She'd held out to meet her, her great granddaughter
The yearslong campaign on her granddaughter-in-law
Had borne a delicate fruit
She carried her with joy that day
And fussed, and gave advice, we listened well
Ineffable joy, she slept well that night
Remembering the long journey, the twists and the turns
Those who had walked along with her
Those now lost, and those who still remained
The happy times - for there were many like today
The reversals, and the times of privation
Internal exile and the hunger seasons
When some had to sell, to empty their trunks
To empty their very souls to provide for their family
But she had made it, and could pass something on
She was ready. She passed it on and carried a glow
She eased through the few weeks that remained of life

...

In this meeting of minds
The foundations of identity
Home, the veins of belonging
Sleep cloths for the children
Memories rest on the fabric itself
Pieces of intimate legacies


Intimate Legacies


Intimate Legacies, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

dutch wax prints and afghan knits from her grandmothers and great-grandmothers


Let's place this under the banner of Social Living

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Writing log: September 22, 2022

Tuesday, September 16, 2025

Drop, Chain and Accordion

Harbingers of malnutrition
The Four Horsemen of hunger season
While the first three duly entered our vocabulary
The fourth, left to shame, was pushed to the recesses of memory

The drop was the most embarrasing of these musketeers
Because, when first encountered, he caught you unawares
The sudden drop of your clothing - you were now half your size
Exposing your nether regions to the fresh air and curious eyes

By the time you got to the chain or the accordion, you'd find yourself spent
Having long made your peace with this state of affairs: eternal Lent
Accustomed as you were to - call it by its name, starvation
After all, you were living through a proper People's Revolution

Marking the spot on your belt where you would pierce the extra notch
Or wearing belts where you previously had none - acceptable loss
Improvised contraptions for your skirts and trousers hopefully holding
Under military rule, we were at a remove from skirt-and-blouse voting

The second horseman, the chain, spoke to tears and sorrow
A cynical description of a neckline that was now hollow
Jewelry of a sort, a macabre, if fashionable, decoration
Thriftiness embodied in your very person, a celebration

The third horseman, the equal opportunity composer, the accordion
Orchestrated skinny rib cages visibly appealing to both old and young
A skeletal music of fatigue, unmet needs and quiet exhaustion
He devised a twelve bar blues, if you will, of quotidian suffering

As to the fourth, rickety, he mainly dealt with little children
Confounding in his physicality as should be readily apparent
Kwashiorkor, quite a mouthful, the dreadful disease
The characteristic bloating, the ironic mark of the beast

Weight loss, hair loss, failure to thrive, and apathy
And then we come to those now-distended extremities
And even with the outrage and the sense of violation
The question still remains, why were these men laughing?

Nature may be a cruel companion, what with droughts and brush fires
Yet it was a man-made disaster, preventable, and caused by these liars
With limited food resources, this had all the makings of a tragedy
Worse, they were warned well in advance at the time yet they carried on stubbornly

Quite bewildering though, and damaging to the psyche
To be branded as requiring all the world's charity
Stalking horses of hunger seasons past, harrowing and dubious legacies
Ancestral memories passed across the ages, fear and survival strategies

The fourth horseman, although it must be said, was rather solicitous,
Didn't lend himself to a coinage that was quite so felicitous
The lived experience was stark and dispiriting, disturbing in its dismay
Awful enough that even that angel Euphemism couldn't summon an uneasy phrase

Drop, chain and accordion, then, were the fateful entries
Albeit History gave unkind placement in the dictionaries
They would be prefixed in the lexicon by his name
To the Flight Lieutenant's great and everlasting shame

Such however is the way of privation, the nature of its exigency
That, even in the darkest hours, in the depths of an emergency
Gallows humor reigns, it calls forth linguistic innovation and whimsy
Proverbial zingers, sharp aphorisms, etched forever in memory

...

Basket cases
Tiny coffins
Circling vultures
Calmly watching

Weeping mothers
Hunger pangs
And the crowds
Scrambling for crumbs

...

Starving children don't cry
Tears waste too many calories
Shame, that so many had to die
Shame, again, their swollen bellies


the soldier politician and the people kodjo crobsen - the taste of power

Hunger, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) Bonus beats: Hungry Belly by Frankie Paul & Pinchers, mainly for the title for this is a story about girl from Flatbush named Aisha. And of course, three live versions of Sade's Pearls, a show stopper ever since she composed it.


...

After Hunger for Sale (Talking Drums, October 3, 1983)

And also for that friend who startled me with the vehemence of his reaction when I teased him about his short stature. "Some of us didn't have our growth spurt during those years, we had Rawlings chains instead". A brief, damning silence ensued before joviality made its return. With my vaunted exile meshed with his explicit denial, our friendship, perhaps, was salved by the balm of the musical imagery. But the bitterness lingered.

And if archeologists can detect the evidence of famines and stunted growth like tree rings, etched in human bones, linguists and social historians can similarly escavate matters. Both earthquakes and man-made disasters leave their marks. Dzorwulu becomes 'the place that dropped', the valley of urban remembrance. Drop, chain and accordion as pointed modes of resistance in our hunger season.

Poetry as cultural memory then. Coinages bear the tide marks of social distress. In any case, this one's for you.

See previously Identification Haircut and, retrospectively, AFRC Member

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Writing log: September 18, 2022

Tuesday, July 22, 2025

The Memorial Lectures

In a time, then, of intense ferment and revolutionary fervor
When bishops were imprisoned, and judges were being murdered
Amidst vituperous outbursts, obscenities, from the leaders of the junta
Who would set upon any opposition their cadres, commandos, and militias

It took personal bravery from this eminent historian
More inclined to dusty archival work than the realm of the politician
But everyone had to play their part, not just the journalists
The man on the streets, even the poets and the satirists

The call still resounded after six years to stand up and be counted
For, even in those days of despair, the challenge had to be mounted
In the face of random, yet purposeful, terror and violence
To confront head-on the prevailing culture of silence
Up stood the good professor to give those memorial lectures

Political parties were banned, so they were couched as educational sessions
Our intellectual life in those days reduced to Green Book study lessons
Featuring long-winded missives from our friends in Cuba and Nicaragua
East German ideologues too gave input, as did theoreticians from Romania

It's fair to say that this minor act of defiance prompted a revival
A reappraisal, in many ways, of Ghana's philosophy of survival
Methodically and deftly explained with his customary sensitivity
What we choose to remember and forget, the workings of cultural memory

He stepped up to outline the essence of these fraught histories
Provided the background to give strength to quiescent identities
We owe him a debt of gratitude, this mild mannered man of qualities
For laying out the Ghanaian context of the sphinx modalities



In memoriam, Professor Alfred Adu-Boahen

masks from Maame



Memorial Lectures, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note. (spotify version)

The Ghanaian Sphinx: Reflections on the Contemporary History of Ghana, 1972-1987 Alfred Adu-Boahen



Part II of Sphinx Modalities, putting a human face to Sphinx

Further reading: The Ghanaian Sphinx: Reflections on the Contemporary History of Ghana, 1972-1987

I nominate this piece for the Things Fall Apart series under the banner of Social Living

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Writing log: September 11, 2022

Tuesday, June 24, 2025

Near the Weeping Trees

Poetic license, a grove of weeping trees
Is said to mark the spot where Babatu's wife perished,
Abandoned by his retreating raiders

Vitellaria paradoxa, the botanists would precise
The creeping shea tree takes 15 years to start to bear fruit
The site of her execution, an arboreal memorial of resistance

The historians would argue about the accuracy of oral history
Questioning how these stories have come down through the ages
That the battle of Sandema most likely took place
Somewhat at a remove from where we now celebrate it
That the invention of tradition prevails

That, yes, Babatu was the prime slave raider in those times
But that the invocation of Samory was a touch of artistic license
Embellishment by the griots,
Born of his fearsome reputation
For the record shows he confined his empire's reach
To the west of the coast

Thus, while Samory's troops did overrun Bole,
They never made it to Sandema
No, Babutu was the prime mover
In what is now northern Ghana

The Zabarima depredations he led
The forced marches, the trail of dread
Spilling over from the East and North - Niger
Shackled, back to the market at Salaga

It follows; the dread that the Gonja faced
Was in the same vein as what the Bulsa bore
The specter of their adversaries
Commingled in the tales of the griots
For it was the same threat, the same suffering,
And the same wounds

And, yes, Bulsa children should run
At the mere mention of either foe
The griots had it right:
What is 200 miles in the grand scheme of things?

So, Salaga market
Or Kasana market near Tomu
Ominous since their founding
The former now a tourist site a century later
With a few exhibits

The footpaths trod by captives,
Marched from Bulsa and Kasena areas
And shackles, so many shackles, symbolic,
And other items that bear reflection
Earth shrines in modern times,
Northern doors of no return

...

We leave faint traces in our stories,
Signposts of intimate legacies
Fumes marking cautionary tales,
The touchpoints and the villains
And heroes too.

Years later, we gather and celebrate the victories
Feok they call the annual festival,
Harvests, and a "time of plenty"
Where warriors gather in performance
And recount the shared memories
And it all happens - historians may debate,
Not too far from the weeping trees


Builsa Feok Festival Sandema


Near the Weeping Trees, a playlist


I recall when the then 3 year old entered the daycare center singing Burning Spear's refrain: "Do you remember the days of slavery?". The looks from the front desk, of those proper, Southern Texas ladies... I decided to keep things light with my playlists going forward. Still, these are living histories, the legacies of men.

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) Bonus beats: a few live and dub versions of these joints

See previously Running Away, my first piece on the tales of Northen Ghana and, just to confuse things, Samory's Old Camp

This note is part of the Things Fall Apart series under the banner of The Bulsa Way.

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Writing log: September 10, 2022

Tuesday, June 03, 2025

Aliens Must Go

Legitimacy and exile
Aliens must go

Papers and passports
Inspection of identity

Stamp of approval
Proof of residency

Overstayed welcome
Fairweather friends

Fiasco
Exigency

Scapegoats
Contingency

Indefinite leave to remain
There's a price to be paid

Fraught deadlines
Tight timetable

Hasty evacuations
Explicit threats

Swift deportation
Fractured boundaries

Unkind labels
Verbal taunts

Herd of illegals
Circling touts

Overnight precarity
Status in doubt

Expulsion orders
Border crossings

Crowded ports
Land checkpoints

Dispersed families
Rushed upheaval

Overstuffed bags
Hurry

Tension, loss
Worry

Official decisions
Informal penalties

Enforcement actions
Emboldened gatekeepers

Entry permits
Mournful exits

Brethren
Neighbors

Rivals
Strangers

State of emergency
Failure of diplomacy

Ancestral memory
Histories of dislocation

Politics of closures
Season of migration

Internally displaced
Traditional evacuees

Modern travelers
Sudden refugees


talking drums 1984-06-04 what makes people leave Ghana - nigeria trials changing the rules in midstream

Aliens must go, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version) Bonus beats: Don't leave me this way by Thelma Houston


See previously Bags and Stamps (Ghana must go) and Expulsion orders

...

Postscript (June 3, 2025)


My current publishing schedule means that what you read above today was written three years ago (Indeed, if I don't pick up the pace, the trifle I wrote today will only see the light in 2038, 12 1/2 years from now). That being said, I am struck that the above musings on displacement, forced and otherwise, that I wrote in 2022 still seem timely.

I was then in the process of digitizing the Talking Drums archive and taking in the reverberations of arbitrariness and the reign of strongmen in khaki in what I read in those pages. The ripple effects continue over the surface of our regional politics.

My friend Senam had just published her dissertation and was sharing some of the stories that she'd unearthed in her excavation of this, our signal topic. Ghana must go has a very tangible legacy beyond Nigeria and Ghana. It is a living history, disclosed often by artful omission and subject to the opacity of our elders. It a family history and, in its sweep, marks its bearers.

More recently, I've been thinking about the exodus from Sudan and what that country has suffered in the past two years, the reign of locusts, if you will. You don't hear much about the strain on the surrounding countries and the fodder for resentment that any old demagogue could harness if they chose to do their worst. I've been thinking of the smaller but no less disruptive waves in the Sahel region where many leaders are indeed inclined to do their worst for fear of losing their positions. Displacement seems to be the rule and many of our neighbors' houses are on fire.

This is a time of brutes.

And here, again, I welcome the US to the Third World. The Stephen Miller incited and Trump led assault on everything is hitting many near and dear to me. Things have long moved far beyond rhetoric. Livelihoods and personal safety are affected, even moreso than usual for those darker than blue. Unspoken threats now explicitly verbalized. And horizons have contracted. Many now adopt a fetal pose to shield from the incoming blows heeding the warning: protect yourselves at all times.

This is a time of precarity.

And exhaustion. Take, say, immigration for example. Many of my cousins are on student or other immigrant visas in the US, and are currently weighing the calculus of just being themselves versus adopting a studied pose of neutrality and normalcy.

No sudden moves is the refrain, don't become a target etc. It looms, that culture of silence. It's present, the retreat to that mask of civility that we wear all too well.

This is a time of erasures.

People disappear, sometimes literally pulled off the streets, bodies are snatched with glee. But worse is the eclipse of the soul. Pieces of identity are being erased. The spark and joie de vivre in many is being extinguished, curtailed by cruelty and disembodied by vindictiveness. I can't recognize so many folk.

Sidenote: one of my cousins was recently accepted by Harvard, all his hard work paying off. After the initial celebrations, however, everyone in the family has been holding their breath as we watch that institution and others being targeted. The saving grace is that he was born in the USA and so is somewhat shielded from the trials of non-citizens. (I'm still somewhat curious about whether the currenly stymied attack on birthright citizenship would notionally affect him, or if that strange interpretation would only affect births going forward). I don't envy him. He gets to wear multiple mantles as a living embodiment of Stephen Miller's worst fears, a foreign student but also an American-African and that's before he even opens his mouth. I really don't envy him. What paradise have we lost?

Anyway... Perhaps, this is all background noise, and, as I'm often reminded, the virus sets the timeline. The ongoing pandemic can make all this turmoil in the world moot, a sideshow at best, in very short order.

Aliens must go. I too will make my accommodations. I continue to focus on small things and move to my own tune. The present collection of toli, being doled out every week, bears a title that is all I aspire to: A Comfortable Unease.


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Writing log: September 6, 2022

Tuesday, May 20, 2025

Love and Death

The slightly stilted language, as if through a veil of translation
The rhythm and cadences came from a different place
Performing with a twinkle in the eye, full of hints and allusion
The marked confidence, the groove, we've got our own thing

Speaking of heaven, but not hell
Singing of love, but not hate
Trickster tales that leave you in the lurch
But, crucially, clear-eyed about death

...

Laments and celebrations walk hand in hand
And comfort lies in the company you walk with
The hidden realms one passes on the journey
The dreamy truths revealed along the way
Hold tight, for friends will one day sway off the road
And, at the tail-end of the journey, your traveling companion will be your shadow


After seeing Ebo Taylor perform at age 89

Ebo Taylor



Love and Death, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

Pat Thomas and Ebo Taylor



I caught Ebo Taylor and Pat Thomas on the former's farewell tour in Austin on May Day 2025. Then aged 89, he relied on his very capable 6 piece band (helmed by two of his sons) to do the heavy lifting. Ageless afro-funk grooves, nasty keyboards and the horns. Pat Thomas's voice too, still had that honey-coated baritone and the vocal range that could hit the high notes that would excite you. They still had it, they still had that ineffable style that emerged fully-formed in their Seventies heyday. Heaven for this exiled soul.

Bonus beats: I captured a few snippets of their live performance with my cell phone: Heaven , Love and Death and Kwaku Ananse, some mellow highlife Ene Nyame A Mensuro, encore

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Writing log: May 2, 2025

Tuesday, April 15, 2025

Expulsion Orders

For some, this was the second go-round, a reprise of the upheaval
The scenes at the ports, palpable despair, teeming, almost primeval
When the land borders briefly opened, a brave few chose that route
A long, dangerous journey with opportunist predators to boot

You would think there would be sympathy for these returning wretched
Yet the provisional government called them "recalcitrant and hollow-headed"
You see, earlier on, most had simply voted with their feet
Foregoing chaos, they'd packed their bags and left the country

Now, exiled souls twice removed, this was their homecoming
Leaving in a hurry, running away with just what they could carry
Tough love from the authorities on both ends, no tears for aliens
And extra scrutiny at the border, "non-Ghanaians are not welcome"

Ghana must go is how the trauma is recorded in folk memory
The damage was done and, worse, it was all so unnecessary
But such is the fraught and bitter legacy of the expulsion orders
As goes the proverb, try not to die when you are surrounded by vultures


Evacuation of Ghanaian deportees from Nigeria


Anybody could have told the authorities in Lagos that is is impossible to evacuate 700,000 (their own estimated figure) under their own imposed stringent conditions, within the period of one week that they opened the land borders

Talking Drums May 1985


Expulsion Orders, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify) Bonus beats: Shame on me by Alexander O'Neal

ghanaians expelled from nigeria returning home to ghana talking drums 1984-09-17 page 10


See previously Bags and Stamps

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Writing log: August 17, 2022

Tuesday, March 25, 2025

Running Away

The lyrics in the songs always mentioned running away. Flight, escape, danger in its many variations. Embedded in the outlook, punctuating the very choruses was a sense of precarity. And yet these were not dirges, these were not laments. They'd long made their peace with the world as they'd found it, nay, they were comfortable even if clear-eyed about this existence.

And they watched.

Running away, heading for the hills and the rocky terrain. Running away, heading for higher ground, for those parts that only those close to these lands would know. The caverns where they could hide, holding their breath, stifling all sounds, covering the mouths of the infants.

And they waited.

Holes in the ground, the entrances disguised, dark caverns where the ancestors were said to have sought shelter from previous predators. At most a dozen could fit in the largest ones so you had to be prepared to seek out other spots, ever calculating as you ran up over the rocks how many had already made it, and if you would be able to use this particular refuge.

Oftentimes it was a gamble.

To enter the hiding places, you crouched, crawled and wriggled. The earth would envelop you, surround you with its embrace. You could expect to taste the slightly acidic crumbs as you pushed your way in, to smell the faint trace of clay. The earth would resist the touch, implacable and stern, until it would yield all of a sudden, plunging you forward into the void of the cavern.

You hoped, you wished for a soft landing.

You had to be methodical even in the heat of the moment, deliberate even as the senses were heightened by the danger. First, to dislodge the covering by pulling at the right spot, the intricate branch structure that only careful hands could pry open, and then to preserve its camouflage so that it would appear undisturbed to the raiders in pursuit. The architecture of escape, the provisional sanctuary.

And they prayed.

No matter how many times they had practiced, no matter how many warnings, no matter how many songs they had sung, no matter how much advance notice they'd garnered, they knew that there would be something lost, that there would be someone lost. It was the nature of life in those times. Something, someone would be snatched from you. Pieces of yourself dispersed, shredded away, leaving only the memories.

And they wept.

Farmers and pastoralists, they never had a standing army. Millet and maize in small fields, custodians of the northern territories, eking out enough to support the clan, to trade some guinea fowl and kola nuts, to enjoy the gifts of the earth, to husband it. This patch of land on the lower Sahel was unforgiving but it was theirs.

And they stayed.

But, at length, there had to be some edge they could wield to surprise the raiders. Running away might ensure survival for many, but more was needed. They taught the youth about all the plants and their uses. Those they ate, those they treated with as part of aromatic bitters, those with properties that were prized, their nighttime potency recounted, astringency debated, and medicinal effectiveness evaluated. And once they proved adept and facile with the identification of the flora, they would learn about what in extremis could be used in the poisoned arrows that were always reluctantly fashioned. Weary, wary, reluctant but necessary.

And so they studied.

The elements of survival were well known. Swift recall, preparation, decisiveness under threat, knowledge of topology, and luck. For the gods were capricious. Even the fleetest of foot, the strongest, and the most agile could be brought low and fall prey to the human hyena that roamed the lands. And Babatu's men were implacable and determined trackers. Tears would be for nought when in their grip. Best to fight when caught, to resist with all one's heart. But, above all, to flee when attacked, to live to see another day, to rebuild and restore when these interlopers would leave, for they would surely leave as these lands only yielded bodies to them.

And they ran away.

Taboo. A famous dirge recounted how one of the twins was unable to stay silent, a hard demand of a toddler, let alone in the darkness of the cavern. Their position having been given away, tough decisions had to be made. Father and the one would give themselves up hours later, when it became clear that this set of raiders would wait them out, they were a patient lot. Mother and the other twin would retreat further into the second chamber, deep in the dank bowels of the earth and stay for three days. It was hard to breathe, it was hard to stay silent and still, and there was only one gourd of water and the few nuts hidden in the fold of her cloth. They clanged to each other, charged with the burden of loss, of memory, of survival. Pieces of themselves lost for good. But they lived to tell the tale, to recover possession of the land.

And they survived.

Strangers have come into our land
Raiders have come for our bodies
Take heed, my brother, and run, run away
Caution, my sister, and run, run away
For we will all, someday, be turned into sand
And all that will remain is our story


baobab by kagyah


Running Away, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note. (spotify version) Further reading:
A later discovery: Beyond Elmina: The Slave Trade in Northern Ghana by Joachim Jack Agamba mined similar terrain to great effect.

Next: Near the Weeping Trees

This note is part of the Things Fall Apart series. Do let me know what banner might be appropriate.

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Writing log. July 24, 2022

Tuesday, November 19, 2024

The Voiceless Past

A terrain of uncertainty
And a time of imposition
It was rough going, to be frank,
Fraught days best left forgotten

We eked out a strange kind of life
The small mercies sufficient unto themselves
When dread was a daily intruder
And our only defense was a stare

Branded itinerant, of no fixed abode
Still we fashioned temporary shelter
Falteringly, we laid our bed of unease
Always wondering when we would next hear laughter

But even in the most precarious moments
We remembered the words of the ancestral songs
And even if we could only sing them softly
We were comforted by their blanket of soul

Serene about the way forward, resolute about the challenge
This interlude shall pass, and we will leave our mark
And the elders' refrain will resound
Full throated, all parts sung in harmony:

In those painful hours, our hearts were hoping
In those silent days, our eyes were watching
In those dark years, our wounds were healing
For even with the tears, we knew our time was coming
The spirits returned our voices, truly the world will remember
And we shall tell everyone the story of those dark chapters
How we never gave up the struggle and proved our mettle
Remember: there is more in the mortar than the pestle


kbaka-water-huts-night


The Voiceless Past, a playlist


A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)
After Talking Drums

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Writing log. June 6, 2022

Tuesday, August 20, 2024

Identification Haircut

There's a dictionary of revolutionary justice to be written
And the Ghanaian contribution should be self evident
Whereas in those heady days, we became familiar with choice terms
"Economic saboteur", "hoarder" and so forth
Far from original, most of these last were imports

Radio bulletins with orders to report to Gondar Barracks
"With immediate effect"
Dismissals from one's decades-long job
Overheard as you worked on the weekend

And then there were those eruptions
Showing just what was thought of our respect culture
Chants of viciousness:
"Let the blood flow", "We no go let them pass"
To strip a market woman naked and make her walk the streets

Shame

Still, our depraved champion was "identification haircut"
The practice might have cruel antecedents but they gave it our local spin
With blunt knives or bayonets, soldiers would shave their victims
The shaved head, scarred and bloodied
The mark of the conqueror

Shame, but linguistic gold
The Ghanaian interpretation of the Scarlet Letter


market women and other economic saboteurs - June 4th revolt


Shame, a Playlist


I can only recycle a previous soundtrack for this note. It imprints something in the mind. (spotify version)


ordinary citizens punished for economic crimes branded as economic saboteurs



See previously

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Writing log. May 1, 2022

Tuesday, June 04, 2024

AFRC Member

Apparently he was the father of the soul singer
The evening's main attraction, it was her release party
She was premiering her latest album at Citizen Kofi
But all I would remember was that he was an AFRC member

Fit, even at his age, a tall man in his sixties
Standing there, we were exchanging pleasantries
Accra's finest, we all waited for the artist
Then, unprompted: "I was a member of the AFRC."

Deep breath. He should know better, shouldn't he?
Looked him up and down, you should tread easily
But you couldn't help the now-sharp arch of your eyebrow
You replied, "Those were tough days. We are much freer now."

"Some of us would like to bring those days back."
He really didn't realize that you were taken aback
You lowered your head. Drew on your well of diplomacy
The other two exchanged looks. He repeated: "AFRC"

Armed Forces Revolutionary Council, that blasted acronym
To uphold it as a badge of honor was really quite surprising
For most of us, it meant fear, upheaval, and terror
Blood and arbitrary sin dispensed in equal measure

There was no denying
   that the present situation was awkward
You kept your counsel,
   there were so many things that you could have said
But, well, his lot were the ones
   who gifted us the culture of silence
After inflicting on us a tyrannical reign of relentless violence

If those days were indeed back,
   no doubt there would be a curfew
We'd be stuck at home listening to martial music on the radio
Back then, the only ones with curfew passes
   were AFRC members
I guess he was envisioning a smaller event for his daughter

Was he one of the soldiers who raided houses in the evening?
Or was he rather one of the ones that ordered the beatings?
Still, the name didn't ring a bell, he didn't look familiar
Was he one of the intellectuals who gave them cover?

Revolution, they said, his cohort of murderous cronies
Destroying all nightlife, culture, and much economic activity
It has taken thirty years to recover from their disruption
And, even now, the soul of our society is a pale imitation

My cousin smiled stoically,
   reveling in the silence as she observed the man
Next to her stood my uncle, same age perhaps,
   a worldly businessman
He nodded, at a rare loss for words,
  for even with his smoothness, he couldn't deal
Never mentioned that they'd been forced into exile by this crew,
   forced to rebuild

The amnesty they gave themselves
   is the only reason this guy wouldn't be in a jail cell
Instead of standing there
   expounding blithely, as he was, full of himself
It was hard to take, those years
   when all we could do was bear witness
We're freer now but we still bite our tongue
   out of simian politeness

So: "I'm a big fan, you must be proud,
   she's done well, your daughter"
There was nothing left to say,
   we moved on amidst the nervous laughter
Later, she came and sang a short set,
   her voice ever delicate and tender
But all I would remember of that night
   was that he was an AFRC member


military we are cleaning the society - trampling on their backs talking drums september 1984



AFRC Member, a playlist


A countrywoman, Rhian Benson, does the honors for this soundtrack. (spotify version)
They put us through a lot. Never again.


See also: June 4th, The Wages of Thermidor, and Truth and Reconciliation


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Writing log. Concept: December 31, 2010. April 19, 2022

Tuesday, April 09, 2024

Talking Drums

I give you the archive of Talking Drums, the West African news magazine, a window into the continent's life from 1983 to 1986.

https://talkingdrumsmagazine.com
Head on over to the site to browse through a few issues and take in a slice of those four years and let me know what you think. As always, I have a few notes...

The Talking Drums Story


We need leaders, We need responsible citizens sufficiently dissatisfied with things as they are and impatient enough to do something about it, intelligently, quietly, wisely. We need critics too, for dissenting is a serious, worthy and honest pursuit.

- Elizabeth Ohene, Ben Mensah, and Kofi Akumanyi in the inaugural issue of Talking Drums (September 12, 1983)
Some forty years ago, three Ghanaian journalists, found themselves in exile in London in the aftermath of the Rawlings-Tsikata coup of December 31, 1981. They had been among the first wave of graduates at the University of Ghana, Legon that had gone on to work at the Daily Graphic in the early 70s. Starting at the very ground floor of the paper, they had progressed to become senior editors, bringing the newspaper to the peak of its influence in the country.

The Graphic had put the Limann regime on notice and a vibrant discussion was taking place in the country - it seemed quite clear that democratic change would be coming to the third republic. The coup put an end to the country's fledgling experiment with normalcy and its aftermath was bloody and full of peril. The junta were hell-bent on a "revolution" and for safety, it was flight into exile for them and their families.

They likely expected a return to civilian rule within short order but they also intimately knew the cast of characters involved in the coup. Their worst fears were realized as they saw them do their worst. The PNDC leaders encouraged and visited stochastic violence on Ghana, throwing the country into upheaval with all manner of political and economic turmoil. The murder of the judges probably crystalized things, but even before that awful event, news became scarce about what was going on in Ghana. The search for facts about life in Ghana that was their very lifeblood had been summarily curtailed - and not just for them, but for everyone.

What was also galling was the coverage of African affairs they encountered from without. West Africa magazine parroted the official line and the media of the erstwhile francophone countries were suitably neutered. And the less said about Western media sources the better. The professional stenographers, say Victoria Brittain in the Guardian, were in full flow, reputation laundering and devoted all their newsprint to lauding the mostly military regimes that were running rampant all over the continent.



And so they wrote their way out of things. There were letters to the editor, there were guest columns and such, they pestered every media outlet that they could. Thoroughly dissatisfied as the months turned to a year, they simply decided that there was a space for a news magazine that presented an alternative viewpoint. And so they embarked on the grand experiment that was Talking Drums.

The ambition was to create a formidable newsroom, to summon accurate coverage of a continent in bad need of news. To conjure a comprehensive record in a time when coverage of Africa was minimal at best, and misinformed in the main. Talking Drums would be positioned as a critical antidote for a region in upheaval.

The excuse that African soldiers traditionally give for throwing elected governments out of power is that they are corrupt and innefficient and even though the soldiers themselves regularly turn out to be as corrupt and chaotic as the civilians they have overthrown, the fact that corruption does exist when the guns far first taken usually means that the promises made by the soldiers sound like music to the ears of the tired and oppressed peoples

- Editorial in the inaugural issue of Talking Drums
The editorial line, such as it was, was skeptical and often scathing. The core of the magazine however was old fashioned journalism: the search for facts and for the story. Reporting in Talking Drums was about looking at what those regimes of strongmen actually did, what their policies on the ground were leading to, pointing out the likely consequences in advance, the obvious pitfalls and the waste and avoidable suffering that would inevitably ensue.

It wasn't quite naming and shaming rogues - for that would imply that shame would have an impact, it was the journalistic impulse at work - telling the story, making sense of the often chaotic raw material and outlining the narrative strands and the motivations behind them.



From that core, they were joined by others and built a newsroom reporting from the continent. They added coverage on all the things one would expect, from politics to economics, science, sports, music and arts.

A few months after they started, the Nigerian military, led by Buhari, took over in a coup on 31st December 1983 again curtailing democracy. The need for an alternative viewpoint became even more urgent. Nigeria had been a relative beacon for the continent with a civilian government that had even conducted elections whose outcome was not disputed in the country. Instead, the men in khaki seemed set on putting their stamp on the country as elsewhere.



Musa Ibrahim would join the Talking Drums from Nigeria and, with his pseudonymous column, Whispering Drums, would lead their coverage on Nigeria. Others would join the newsroom in short order and Talking Drums would start to be the an effective outlet for the kind of news they envisioned. And the audience responded to the challenge, the letters page became quite active and they garnered the informed readers they expected. Some readers even became contributors heeding to the mantra was repeated in every issue.
Don't whisper in frustration. Get if off your chest now! Write to Talking Drums.
The archive is now available. Just under 100 issues are there to enable you to find out what this was all about. Let me know what you think or if there any broken links and such. Enjoy.



An Oral History of Talking Drums


I moderated a session with some of the principals a few weeks ago; I encourage you to read the linked transcript. Unfortunately I failed to record the video feed but the words resonate

I'll be following up in Part 2 which will I hope will feature Musa Ibrahim giving his perspective on Whispering Drums with Maigani, his pseudonymous column that covered Nigeria. I also hope to engage with Tina Akumanyi, the widow of the late Kofi Akumanyi, on his inspired column A Touch of Nokoko that was a constant in the life of the magazine.

I expect too that all those that were part of the Talking Drums story will undoubtedly be writing their own pieces - they can't help writing, and I'll be sure to update the web site as they do.



The Newsroom


A brief guide to the features of Talking Drums and some of those who produced it every week out of those small offices in Madhav House in northwest London.
  • Elizabeth Ohene was Editor of Talking Drums. Previously she had been Editor of the Daily Graphic before the 31st December 1981 forced her into exile. After Talking Drums she would join the BBC African Service. Although mostly responsible for editorials and opinion columns, I can vouch that on some occasions she penned a great amount in other areas of the reporting; "our correspondent" was very busy.
  • A Touch of Nokoko. Kofi Akumanyi's delightful column cast his roving eye on every aspect of life. "The column that pulls your leg" was a good description of what he was going for. It was full of the twists and turns, sharp observations and dancing with the absurd. He was a former Features Editor of the Daily Graphic. Sad to say, he passed away in 2009 of cancer. He was 64. His voice is sorely missed.
  • Ben Mensah was columnist and News Editor of Talking Drums. He was a former News Editor of the Daily Graphic. He covered the nitty-gritty of finance, economics and politics. If you want to know about the trials and tribulations of operating a business in West Africa during this time, you couldn't find a better source.
  • Whispering Drums by Maigani. Musa Ibrahim decided to use a pseudonym for his reporting from Nigeria. On many occasions his weekly insights were the best ways to understand what was going on in the country, the various factions that were making hay out of the country's resources while claiming indiscipline. His witty and acerbic provocations roused the military government who were not used to being so plainly exposed. The feared heads of the National Security Organisation (NSO) and other security men would submit rejoinders to his work, which even provoked a few lawsuits. Suffice to say that he touched a nerve.


  • Science and Technology by Poku Adaa
    Tropical Sciences correspondent filed numerous articles on industry and the ups and downs of development
  • People, Places, Things
    The tidbits or almanac pages were very important to the magazine, compiling a weekly view of the news on a country-by-country basis. In many ways this was the meat of the reporting and many readers would hang on the revealed details.
  • What The Papers Say
    A periodic look at the media on the continent. Oftentimes African newspapers were serving as government mouthpieces but occasionally one could find journalists trying to assert their independence - this would typically be on foreign affairs. Sometimes they even strike a nerve, you can get a sense of why mild mannered The Catholic Standard, of all papers, came to be banned by the PNDC.
  • A Stranger's London
    Billed as watching the natives in their natural habitat, in later issues it was retitled A Stranger's Britain.


  • Sports, Music and Arts.
    Ebo Quansah, Kwabena Asamoah and Staccato were the main correspondents turning in acute reporting on sports, reviews of African music concerts. The cultural scene was quite vibrant many artists were turning in prime performances despite their troubles at home (see Fela for example who would face jail and harrassment from the military regime. For what it's worth there's a Talking Drums playlist, a selection of some of the music reviewed in these pages.
  • Short Stories
    From the beginning the magazine solicited and readers contributed short stories. Some were very well executed including a few fascinating stories from Hassan Ali Ganda. I was surprised by the variety of styles and topics.

    I've long bemoaned that our writers have not really tackled the story of the Rawlings years so color me corrected as I read several short stories covering the judges's murders and Ghana must go. Beyond personal memoirs, it seems the writers were aiming at capturing the essence of the times. And the same goes for the stories from Nigeria and Cameroon, some of the stories were expertly crafted miniatures.
  • Poet's corner
    Starting with the work of a young Lasana M. Sekou and later expanding considerably as readers felt the muse.


The masthead shows a long list of contributors Prompted by the lively letters column, the submissions came in fast. Some correspondents initially just wrote letters but were then compelled or outraged by the content they read and came to submit their opinion pieces. Fondly for example, Anis Haffar and the late John Randall.

Tehtey was a striking correspondent at large. Kodwo Mbir Bullard and Colonel Annor Odjidja provoked debate. J.H. Mensah in exile penned a few pieces as he attempted to marshall the Ghana Democratic Movement from exile.

A like minded soul also stepped up; Kodjo Crobsen published Power to the People, his biting satire of Ghana's history and would contribute the occasional cover and cartoon.

Towards the end, Jo Mini started to send some of his cartoons and others like Andrew Scott Stoker weighed in the weight of the Flight Lieutenant.

And for good measure you can also read a few speeches: Shehu Shagari just before he was ousted, a typically rambling Rawlings, or a waffling Kwesi Botchwey dancing around the IMF and World Bank policies he implemented.



"This weekly magazine which has been on the newstands from September 8, 1983 reports news and events and creates a forum for reasonable discussion of the problems of the West African region which are usually written off with simplistic explanations in western media."

- masthead on the back cover

Covering A Region in Turmoil, The Talking Drums Years


The history books talk of lost decades. The majority of living Africans are under the age of 18 and even those hitting adulthood this year will have known only the 1980s from their parents. Simply stated, the Eighties were a disastrous decade - more disastrous even than the Seventies. The early 80s were the nadir for most countries (modulo Rwanda, Zimbabwe and Congo); suffice to say that the Talking Drums years were trying times. Herewith, then, some notes on these troubled times and a timeline of sorts...

(sidenote: 1989 was the year that saw things begin to turn around in most of Africa but "in 1989 only three countries in Africa could claim to have democratic governments." The major damage was done earlier in the decade)

Of Strongmen in Suits, Military Men in Khaki and Rogues in Flowing Robes


The spectre of coups would lead the way but, before we get onto those army minded people, we can perhaps start with the more refined beasts that were laying waste to the continent.

The archive is full of priceless nuggets - take this one for example:
Gabon - Bongo defends one party system
The sixteenth anniversary of the founding of the Gabonese Democratic Party was marked last Wednesday with a speech by President Omar Bongo in which he once again justified the adoption of the one-party system. The first reason, according to Omar Bongo, was the unfortunate experience with the multiparty system in Gabon from 1960 to 1967 which accentuated tribalism, regionalism and clan division.

The second reason given by President Bongo was that the multiparty system is foreign; it belongs to the whites, therefore it is not adapted to or rather it is in opposition to the realities of African politics...

While I am President of this country, there will be no multiparty system.
He was certainly right about this, and he proceeded to suborn and corrupt even when forced by the donors into an ostensibly multiparty system in the nineties - complete with rigged elections. Omar Bongo died happily in power serving as president for almost 42 years. He was succeeded by his son who was carrying on in much the same vein until a recent palace coup.

The rulers that weren't ostensibly military were nevertheless authoritarian and didn't tolerate dissent. In many countries, there were one-party states or, at best, a simulacrum of democracy. Dissent was thoroughly and vigorously neutered. The Francophone operators were particularly smoooth operators - Houphouët-Boigny and others reigned in a similar manner. Siaka Stevens of Sierra Leone saw no reason to divert from this vulture trend perhaps setting the stage for the country's descent in the 90s.



A Company of Coup Makers


Coups are inherently unstable affairs as seizing power often involves the use of force. Even for the more efficient coups, the threat of force comes with the territory. Once in power, one needs to stamp out any signs of dissent lest the unnatural situation one has placed the country in be seen as intolerable. Blood is spilled as a matter of course by the various groups that are jostling for power. An era of coups is full of random and arbitrary violence, oppression of the populace, suppression of dissent, intolerance of criticism and vendettas pursued without restraint.

A priori, coup makers start with conspiracy in mind and their mindset is full of conspiratorial lore; they are prone to plots and the thin-skinned among the cabal are wary of losing their place (and perhaps their life). Falling out among the members of the cabal is not unknown. Violence, then, is pervasive even in the most disciplined of juntas. The coup drill is well known: ban on political parties, dissolution of any pesky institutions or norms, troublesome constitutions, nagging judiciary and so forth. Journalists should be stenographers repeating your latest utterances. If you have an agenda - and some of most prominent in this age thought of themselves as revolutionaries, you are throwing a society into upheaval and should expect resistance.

And threats can be both internal and external. Your opposition may have relocated across the border. To clamp down, you would often resort to border closures. The 80s would be full of such dislocation with the consequent effect on trade and normal migration. Sometimes too, the rulers would resort to expulsions of foreigners, mostly as scapegoats and threats to your country. Saber-ratting with your neighbors was all too common. If you were Sekou Toure of Guinea, your legacy would be your increasingly brutal reaction to a series of plots. Late, unlamented in his passing.



The Ghanaian coup makers, the Rawlings-Tsikata lot, were not scared of blood and indeed welcomed it. To read the pages of Talking Drums is to take in the minutia of their project. Public tribunals dispensing revolutionary justice, soldiers on a rampage delivering arbitrary justice, market women targeted and shaked down, curious ideas about land ownership laws, closure of newspapers and the list goes on. There was resistance albeit with a culture of silence but there was resistance nonetheless. More importantly, the background of violence never really stopped in their first decade of rule, one keeps reading about disappearances, beatings and torture almost every week.

The report on the judges's murders had been released confirming that the new regime were deeply implicated. But the melody lingers on and many other articles covered the continuing atrocities and impunity of the very violent cabal that was determined to cleanse and conquer the country bringing their confused vision of marxist utopia.

Ghana had been living under a curfew since the coup - the curfew was only lifted after two and a half years. (sidenote: the curfew destroyed all nightlife and it has taken decades to recover. Burger-Highlife came into being as musicians went into exile. John Collins has noted that the PNDC's imposition of a luxury goods tax of 160% on musical equipment changed the very instrumentation of that music, enter the Casio keyboard)

Many journalists were detained, including John Kugblenu, Mike Adjei, and Tommy Thompson the proprietor and Managing Director of the Free Press. The former two spent a year in detention without charge.
Reports from Accra indicate that the two are in reasonable health considering the one year ordeal but those who have seen Mike Adjei say that he is half his normal size.
John Kugblenu died just two months after that release. Tommy Thompson was a "guest" of the authorities a number of times And these were the luckier ones... Kankam da Costa, former deputy defence minister in the Limann administration, was only freed after 4 years of detention without charges and then only on medical grounds (read: he too was near death).

Government through mob action then. A typical intervention
Under a new law enacted by the Provisional National Defence Council (PNDC) in Accra, on August 30, offences involving the diversion of petroleum products and drugs will carry the sentence of death by a firing squad.

Diversion of goods, including food items, earmarked for educational institutions, hospitals and the general public will also carry the same sentence.
The May 1985 column on Ghana must go decried the hazardous exodus from Lagos, but noted also on its cover Ghana being carried out on a coffin with the comment "victim of the war declared on the economy by General Acheampong".

Sad as it may be, the PNDC were not the only violent actors. Intercommunal fighting between Mamprusis and Kusasis broke out in Bawku. The army wasn't felt to be neutral and could barely put a lid on the bloody conflict that contines to echo to this day.



Ghana's Catholic Bishops would call for representative government - this was in 1984 when people were still being routinely disappeared. The churches were the sole voluble opposition - indeed the only tolerated civil institution since political parties were banned. (sidenote: the universities were closed down for years at a time when students demonstrated against the regime)

This of course prompted vitriol - Rawlings would have many a foul-mouthed outburst against Bishop Sarpong and others he felt slighted by. There was a lot of "who will rid me of this priest?" rhetoric. Indeed a Catholic priest would be murdered in short order just to let people know what was what. And that was that, our truth and reconciliation committee had their work cut out; a lot of blood was shed on Rawlings' watch.



Thomas Sankara had been installed into power in Upper Volta by Compaoré's unit in August 1983. He would eventually acknowledge the main backers of that effort: Libya and Ghana. It turned out that Rawlings had exported his coup to Upper Volta. Not for nothing, June 4th was declared a public holiday "throughout the country, to enable the people to commemorate with joy this historic event along with the Ghanaian people".

The country was soon renamed to Burkina Faso. Sankara is much feted for personal probity and his drive against corruption and imperialism etc. but a number of the various social changes he tried to impose on the country (Defence Committees And People's Tribunals etc.) were resisted vigorously by civil society. Take his decree on the abolition of individual land ownership. Protests would ensue.

He was also quite capricious, for example sending almost his entire cabinet to work on farms (other than a few, including a name who we first read about, Blaise Compaoré - who would later liquidate him - perhaps he wanted to preempt being banished to the farm on a whim)



In Liberia, the erstwhile Master Sergent and now Doctor Samuel Kanyon Doe was particularly paranoid, finding real and imagined plots all around him. To be a vice president or deputy of some sort under him was to live a tenuous life, precarity would be your closest companion.

As he was prompted by Ronald Reagan and company to make nice, he made it very clear to the rest of the country what would happen if you tried to form a party and run against him. Jail and a beating were the lesser fates for many would-be rivals. Dr Amos Sawyer would repeatedly face arrest and detention.

The poor academic. For good measure, the University of Liberia was closed down following student demonstrations for months on end.

Statements were ominous even when Doe tried to make nice
Meanwhile, the government has announced that Dr Amos Sawyer is not a wanted person and therefore should not be molested by soldiers or security men. According to an Information Ministry release, anyone violating this order will be seriously punished.
He would issue a dire warning against socialists
Dr. Doe said Liberia would never become a breeding ground for socialism. He also warned parents, teachers and students against the evils of a socialist form of government. He said all those with the idea of socialism would not live to tell the story. This is the second same warning against socialism in a week. He said the PRC appreciated the support by students and teachers, but it would never allow anyone to bring misery to Liberians by bringing socialism to the country.


And then there's the case of Nigeria, Shehu Shagari had won a second term and Nigeria was standing out as a beacon in the region on the eve of the Buhari coup. Said coup was calamitous and the military intervention was a traumatic upheaval plunging Nigeria firmly into turmoil. Nigeria's military really put their countrymen through the wringer. Indiscipline was said to be the enemy and so a war was waged. All manner of outrages were visited on the populace: public whippings, beatings. Beyond this vague notion of corruption and indiscipline, the junta didn't really have any grand ideas or program to put forth save the abolition of private universities. They just wanted to be the ones who dispensed the loot in the country

Buhari's so called war against indiscipline was exacting. Retroactive decrees were passed when the judiciary were not being complaisant. More decrees were passed when the once boisterous press wrote questioning articles.

The soldiers were fully unleashed on civil society. Maj-Gen Tunde Idiagbon, Buhari's right hand man, was a particularly bloodthirsty leader
The other day, the Sunday Concord published a very startling story. It quoted authoritative sources as stating that an order had gone out to all police commissioners in Nigeria to arrange the execution of 828 condemned persons on death row within two weeks.

The order for the nationwide executions was said by the paper to have been given by the Chief of Staff Supreme Headquarters Maj-Gen Tunde Idiagbon just before he left for the funeral of the assassinated Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi.
Again, as in Ghana, the military leaders did not have the monopoly of violence. The Maitatsine that had been relatively quiescent broke out into fiercesome rioting. The over-the-top reaction of the soldiers to the religious movement would provoke a disaster in Gombe in 1985. The seeds of Boko Haram were sown in what took place there.

Fela's jail troubles were to be expected. The military rulers would not stand his kind of dissent, even if it came in the form of funky afrobeat.

Eventually a palace coup (long rumored) would take place and Ibrahim Babangida would take over (the Buhari/Idiagbon combination was too toxic and bad for business)

Deliciously there was a night of songs for Idiagbon when he was sent to prison - how the mighty fell
inmates were said to have held a night of songs for the deposed army chief.

The report said that although the prisoners did not rehearse the songs prior to the night, they were able to sing uniformly from their cells, such numbers as "no condition is permanent in this world, he who lives in a glass-house should not throw stones, life is like a boomerang, whatever goes up must come down."


Paul Biya would emerge shaken after a failed coup in Cameroon, evidence of how a coup could be resisted albeit with a big death toll. In surviving, he would never look back, but he also didn't resist vindictiveness and the thrall of the security services
Officially, 1,053 people were arrested in connection with the coup plot, 617 were freed immediately, 436 cases were heard by a military court, 46 death sentences were passed, three in absentia, two sentence of life imprisonment, 183 received prison terms of between two and 20 years, another 183 were freed while 22 had their cases referred for further investigation.
He would confidently say a year later that Cameroon was a land of plenty and he has certainly enjoyed plenty of what it has to give - he remains in power to this day.

Suffice to say that military-civilian relations were universally poor throughout the continent. Or if you want a graphical illustration of what was in the zeitgest, here's a word frequency visualization of a region in turmoil.
a region in turmoil


Simply consider the consecutive headline stories one week in Ghana: June 3 1985, Note: this is a full three and a half years after the PNDC came to power
  • 2 majors executed
  • 3 executed for fraud
  • 4 sentenced to death
  • Links with dissident - six to die
  • More death sentences
As a later article would put it Africa was a land of political volcanoes

Natural and Man-Made Disasters


Against this political backdrop, nature also worsened things considerably bringing the most dramatic drought in the region in 40 years. 1982 to 1985 were tough years in most parts of Africa. Bush fires all over the Sahel caused crops to be destroyed. Food emergencies would be the order of the day even without governments who were actively sabotaging the basis of their economies in the name of a revolutionary reshaping of their society. The food crisis was pervasive on the continent and at its worst in Ethiopia, famine was rampant as predicted, we saw the callous indifference of the government. As well as the images that roused Band Aid, Live Aid and other charitable relief efforts - Bob Geldof (who would be satirized in these pages)



Structural Adjustment


There was almost too much history in 1980s Africa. Beyond the backdrop of drought and famine, the violence and political turmoil, the economic upheaval was also significant. Some might say that the economic distress did as much violence to Africans. What was pitched and experimented on many countries was later rebranded as "Structural Adjustment with a human face". The implication, then, of what became known as the Washington consensus is that what African countries faced in the 80s was the raw, unvarnished, cold blooded treatment.

Many countries had to negotiate debts incurred in the 70s while dealing with failing crops and political change. A certain amount of hypocrisy govens the dealings of the IMF and World Bank with African states for the former were reliant on authoritarian governments unaccountable to parliaments and willing to run roughshod over their populace's interests.

Many regimes would dictate half baked policies and force through onerous burdens on their countries. the countries that were in distress were often not even really negotiating with the donors - Africans who working in the IMF and World Bank would implore the Finance ministers to come prepared and at least argue for better terms. In many cases, however the countries would simply accept wholesale the trial balloon they were pitched.

Ghana would undergo "the steepest overnight currency devaluation in recorded history". Certainly the steepest devaluation since the IMF's founding was an overnight shock to the system.

Cote d'Ivoire and Nigeria would also face similar devaluation and debasing of their economy, opening great vistas of hardship. True the various regimes didn't help but the human toll was severe. Sample headline that would follow Porter dies in bank queue waiting to withdraw money for two days.

There would be many articles quietly observing the effect of devaluation and deprivation, a kind of inflation calypso in day to day life

After a while, no explanations were asked or given, a little sad and knowing glance, muted tones "how much?...... Five? Okay, I'll see what I can do. Will you take four?. Please make it four and a half".

Transaction concluded. For each figure mentioned, simply add a thousand, Ghanaians had become so embarrassed by the worthlessness of their currency, they do not bother to add things like tens, or hundreds any more, if you ask for the price of something and you are told "five" do not make the mistake and think the price is five cedis; "five" is understood as "five thousand cedis". It is this practice of selling personal goods that has come to be known as "affect".


Greater Africa


The OAU was a dysfunctional mess to say the least. The only point of consensus was on the revulsion against the South African apartheid regime (its dire policies inside the country and the repeated raids into neighbouring Angola, Mozambique and Lesotho) and the anti-colonial struggle in Namibia. Thus, Cuban assistance was welcomed. Mrs Thatcher and Ronald Reagan's supportive stances on apartheid and against sanctions were duly savaged by all parties. Pik Botha's visit to London was denounced. The anti-colonial message drew countries together but it was a case of see no evil when neighbors were oppressing their own people - so long as the damage was contained within borders no leader complained

Unanimity was lacking in other areas, the once formidable boycott of Israel was breeched. Liberia would resume relations and then Nigeria's new military rules would collaborate in clandestine ways with the Israelis (the money was too good to pass). Morocco threatened, and then pulled out of the OAU over the Western Sahara issue.

Eyadema, the prince of darkness himself, is the emblem of diplomacy and acts as an elder statesman leading negotiations over Chad
"You also know of the proverb which says that when a wall has no crack, lizards cannot enter through it in the evening. The wall, at the moment, has a crack. What I mean is that the intervention of foreign forces today is a result of the leaders' differences.”
A similarly bloodthirsty Colonel Mengistu who never shied from confrontation was made chairman of the OAU and meant to lead negotiations over the conflicts in Chad and Western Sahara and bring peace those areas.

Colonel Gaddafi had previously been OAU chairman but was not a disinterested party as he was propping up one of the sides in the Chad conflict. The French intervened on the other side.

Gaddafi of course supported the coups in Ghana and Upper Volta and was exporting his Green Book ideology across the continent as he would do until his death. Green Book study groups would meet in many countries.

Guy Penne of France visiting his client states. If Francafrique was not his creation, he worked hard to ensure its smooth running, the circle of patronage and back scratching between Paris and the dicatator's club was complete.



In Uganda, Yoweri Museveni's guerillas were battling with the troops of General Tito Okello in their civil war. By the end of the magazine's run in 1986, Museveni had won. Talking Drums would continue to warn about the traps that lay ahead that military men often fall into. Decades later, Museveni continues to rule - power corrupting the men in khaki as it almost always does.

At the same time, there were signs that the culture of silence in Ghana and Nigeria was cracking - the students had turned against the regimes with big demonstrations against the depredatory IMF and World Bank structural adjustment programs that had been imposed; Paa Willie's lecture series at the Danquah institute changed the perspective.

In the foregoing, I have picked out a few obvious threads but there are many others that can be woven in the archive. Beyond the heavy political writing, there is much of note in the cultural realm. Any issue has food for thought, consider reflections on the US invasion of Grenada Operation Urgent Fury, waking up to disaster IRA bombs in Brighton, whether Ghana and Poland were poles apart or correspondents asking whether Desmond Tutu should reject his Nobel Prize or try tracing later names of interest, Abacha, Abiola, Compaoré etc. or say perceptions of AIDS - then viewed as a first world disease. Or read some short stories and columns, there's something for everyone in those pages.

I welcome your own readings.

Creating the Archive


It is fair to say that Talking Drums was a family affair. My first job, as it were, as a teenager was helping my mother and her colleagues label envelopes and stuff magazines in them to mail out our weekly subscriptions. I spent my summers in what passed for a newsroom at Madhav House, soaking in the atmosphere as news developed, taking calls with stringers asking them when they were planning to send their reports, proof reading and editing copy and occasionally helping shape the articles that would be conjured up just before deadline. I always marveled at how the issue would materialize in those few hours before we would go to press.

The magazine punched above its weight, was widely read and influential, albeit run on a shoestring budget. Its biggest impact was in telling an alternate story of Africa for those four years. It kept those others, the West Africa magazines and the Jeune Afriques of the world on their toes. Western pundits that would normally blowviate in the pages of The Guardian, Times or Telegraph would pause before glossing and delivering their bromides - everyone was on notice. The energy of the journalists involved amazed me at the time and I trust you'll find lots to savor as you browse the issues.

talking drums collage politics


The archive, such as it was, had been sitting in my mother's garage, having made its way from London to Accra sought out by researchers almost to no avail. Back in 2011, I scanned the covers as a first step to digitize the magazine when I came across them in our garage. The covers alone told a tale. Occasionally since, I'd scan a few articles to illustrate some point. Then, prompted by the pandemic, I finally decided to help rescue the rest to bring it to the web. For a few hours in the afternoon before I would catch a flight back to my current home in Texas, I simply took photos with my camera of as many pages of the magazines that I could find. I found that to be more expeditious, if less professional, than using a scanner.

My next tool was Google Lens to extract the text from the 2,500 odd images which I then used to manually craft this web site - hand writing the html with a trusty text editor. Blame any errors on my lack of photographic prowess and my poor man's toolchain. Similarly the design aesthetic is by necessity low brow, the writing is what I thought mattered.

talking drums word cloud


Some statistics: I came across 99 issues in my endeavors but, for a few issues, I only seem have photographed a few pages besides the cover. I will try to fill in the rest if possible when I next get to the hard copies. I believe Stanford may have some copies - judging by what is on Google Books. If you manage to find any additional issues, I'd be grateful to add to the collection.

I'll let the search engines archive things and add a search page to augment my poor man's indexing. Do let me know if you spot any cobwebs on the site.

I've started to flesh out a few features to highlight a few interesting topics, the first: we're coming up to the 40th anniversay of the Umaru Dikko affair. I hope to add a few more. This being said, I believe there is grand body of work that deserves a wider audience.

Forty years on, Ben Mensah effortlessly recounted the vision that guided those that created Talking Drums:
We said there was a need for visionary leaders... we said there was a need for an informed public... And there was a need for critics as well. Because the work of dissenting is also a serious business. That came to be our motto.
Words to live by and a manifesto of sorts.

Welcome to Talking Drums.

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