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

Mercy, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Mercy Mercy Mercy by Cannonball Adderley Quintet
• Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology) by Marvin Gaye
• Mercy Mercy by Don Covay
• Somebody Have Mercy by The Memphis Horns (ft. Bobby Womack)
• Have Mercy by Mighty Diamonds
• Somebody Have Mercy by Sam Cooke
• Mercy Mercy by Wilson Pickett
• Mercy Mercy Mercy by Caleb Quaye & the Faculty
• Quality of Mercy by Michelle Shocked
  Ending with a devastating take on the immortal line

...

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


File under: culture, memory, observation, perception, strategy, displacement, mercy, empathy, Ghana, dissent, Africa, reconciliation, philosophy, Social Living, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 7, 2022

They Don't See You

He started muttering to himself in French
Because that's what you do at such times - sigh
Then switch to your native tongue or thereabouts

"They don't see me
... Again ...
They don't see me"

The tiredness of an immigrant
The tiredness of an African
The tiredness of an older black man
The face of someone who has seen too much

"No, they saw you. I think they'll serve you... eventually"

Surprised that someone had understood what he'd said
Someone from the old country or thereabouts was here
Speaking his language
The hint of a smile began to broach his weary face - well-lined

"I know. They saw me but they didn't see me.
That's how they are.
They don't see you in this country. They don't see you.
If you only knew what it takes for them to see you..."

He was getting into it, winding up, getting ready to make a scene

"Well I see you, my uncle. I see you. Have faith. I see you"

Tonton, he appreciated that. That I named him. That I saw him

"They don't see you. Ils sont impolis dans ce pays. Impolis..."

Raised voice

"Well now they've heard us. They know we are waiting. Now they see us"

He chuckled.

"They don't see you. Really...
They don't see you.
They hear you, but they don't see you"

There was movement
The young man roused himself
Slowly making his way from behind the counter
To attend to this foreign crew now chatting away at the front
The old man was purposeful when he was finally addressed
And deliberate. He made him wait
He finished telling me his story before he turned
Then he cleared his throat,
And tried to summon up the English words
He started to explain whatever it was that had brought him to this place
As I went my way moments later, he again interrupted himself

"Au revoir, mon fils"

Then, loudly again, in English this time

"They don't see you"

They Don't See You, A Playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• You Don't See Me by Amel Larrieux
• Invisible by Alison Moyet
• Breakfast at Denny's by Buckshot Lefonque
• Invisible by Courtney Pine
• Don't Keep Me Waiting by Kwesi Arthur
• You Don't See Me by Al Jarreau
• Don't See Us by The Roots ft. Dice Raw

See previously Defensive Accounting and Normalcy Prohibition

File under: immigration, culture, observation, perception, life, race, USA, displacement, Buyer's Remorse, poetry, toli

Writing log: September 20, 2022

Blast Radius

Ground zero
The moon tower marks the spot
Not too far from the state cemetery
At the intersection where cable cars used to stop
A block away from the offices of the N.A.A.C.P.
The mural is being restored as a kind of testimony

The blast radius
Gentrification spreads outwards
Progress, as viewed from one perspective
For many parts, indeed, had fallen into disrepair
But what is the fabric of communities?
And how much hollowing can a place bear
Before it loses its identity?

Change is turbulence
For the reverse is also true
Things - and places, are to be used
The inexorable logic of our economy
The foundation of land use theories
Displacement, a shedding of skin
The debates are about the nature of this new molting
Prosperity's impact on demography

Soundtrack for this note

• What Happened to Austin? by Lench
  A little heavy handed but quite accurate.

File under: gentrification, Austin, change, urban, city, displacement, development, culture, observation, perception, economics, USA, poetry, toli

Writing log: September 22, 2022

This Fourth

This Fourth of July
Tariffs and a trade war
Inflation rising

Calls for regime change
The folly of wars of choice
The sound of bombs dropping

Rogues and damn scoundrels
Doing their worst, unrestrained
God bless America

But they got their tax cuts
And Supreme Court justices
The spoils of the feast

Big, beautiful bombs, then,
And bills signed in blood
And fraught with impunity

The half-life of dreams
Decay by design
A body drained of integrity

This Fourth, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note courtesy of Sault (spotify version)

• Glory
• Sorry ain't enough
• Why why why why why
• Warrior
• Living in America
• Fear no one
• Threats
• Valley of the ocean
• Free
• Wildfires
• God in disguise
• Masterpiece

Bonus beats: There will be no crying by Cleo Sol

...

The Strait of Hormuz
Motherhood and apple pie
Time for a ceasefire

...

No nation sinks to greater depths than when its government is obliged to listen silently to moral sermons preached by obvious scoundrels

— Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

See previously: A Very Beautiful Thing!, Facilitate, You Voted For This (And Other Songs), and An Abundance of Caution

File under: hatchet job, humour, satire, rogues, politics, USA, culture, observation, perception, values, displacement, Observers are worried, Buyer's Remorse, poetry, toli

Writing log: June 23, 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

Aliens must go, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Gone baby, don't be long by Erykah Badu
• Uptown by Raphael Saadiq
  The plaintive refrain and coda is the sound of wist: "I'm leaving this town"
• I gotta get away by Gloria Barnes
• Pack'd my bags by Rufus ft Chaka Khan
• Leavin' by Tony Toni Tone
• I gotta go by Lizz Fields
• Don't talk to strangers by Prince
• Gone baby, don't be long by José James
• Don't talk to strangers by Chaka Khan

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.


File under: Ghana, Nigeria, culture, immigration, displacement, exile, memory, Africa, history, politics, dictator, coup, loss, observation, perception, refugee, Things Fall Apart, Ghana must go, poetry, toli

Writing log: September 6, 2022

A Comfortable Unease

Ambitions are somewhat tempered
In this autumnal season
The earlier aspirations slightly tarnished
But still remain well within reach
Clear-eyed about the task ahead,
The obstacles will be surmounted
The searcher's gaze resolute and firmly set
Focused on the promise of better days
Traveling light, with bags at the ready
The journey presents itself as ever
Proceeding on the road to freedom

II.

Off kilter living is our lot, it seems
A pose of preemptive cynicism readied

Prescience perhaps, and lessons learned
And so we make the best of things

Caution, my kin, take heed
For fairweather friends loom

Such is our jaundiced perspective
The sense of dislocation prevails

That we are guests in our own lives
And truly behold the shock of the familiar

We make homes for friends alike and visitors
As we cross these boundaries seeking shelter

Weapons of restraint. Contra provocation
We turn to conversation, and quiet reflection

Yet we were left unrequited, aching with yearning
While, beneath the surface, understanding was on hand

We were promised: our liminal dreams would be fulfilled
Still we engage in the struggle, if they would only listen

The burden of early sacrifice, in this, our quiet revolution
Has left an impact that can only be discerned in the stillness in time

The broad outlines emerge of a duty of care, if not a philosophy
And so pause, momentarily, to trace the reflections in the mirror

It's fine to affect hospitality, for it doesn't cost you none
Most of all, speak softly, my friend, speak softly, your time will come

III.

The sad fact of our fraught modernity remains
Our sole assurance in this life of precarity
Is to live out elusive dreams of normalcy

Good enough, some say, good enough
Hold them to their precious words
We heard of liberty and equal protection

Yet experience has taught us harsh lessons
All their rules were made to be broken
And the inconvenient ones rewritten at will

Who do the laws serve? We deserve an answer
Justice and freedom are the heart of the matter
The rhetoric ought to be more than propaganda

Presented with the reality of a fickle state
Replete with escape clauses and underlying conditions
We recognize that we tread a fine line of liability

So we made our peace with this life
Consoled with a comfortable unease
But vigilant, we will bear witness

A Comfortable Unease, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note. (spotify version)

• (If You Ain't) Comfortable by Lynden David Hall
• Welcome to the Colored Section by Donnie
• It Could Happen to You by Ahmad Jamal
• Blue 7 by Sonny Rollins
• Electric Relaxation by A Tribe Called Quest
• The Colored Section by Donnie
• Umi Says by Mos Def
• Cry Together by The O'Jays

See previously: The Fleeting Canvas

File under: culture, observation, perception, displacement, immigration, poetry, toli

Writing log. June 2, 2022

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

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

Talking Drums, May 20, 1985

Expulsion Orders, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify)

• Exodus by Bob Marley & the Wailers
• We trying to stay alive by Wyclef Jean
• Refugee Rolling by Sierra Leone's Refugee All Stars
• The Exodus has Begun by Prince & the New Power Generation
• Get out of Town by Ella Fitzgerald
• Refugees by Gerard Musgrave
• Go Home by Gerry Mulligan & Ben Webster
• Pitche Mi by Youssou Ndour & Super Etoile de Dakar
  stately and mournful from the excellent contemporaneous album, Immigrés

Bonus beats: Shame on me by Alexander O'Neal

See previously Bags and Stamps

File under: Ghana, Nigeria, culture, immigration, displacement, exile, memory, Africa, history, politics, dictator, coup, loss, observation, perception, refugee, Things Fall Apart, Ghana must go, poetry, toli

Writing log: August 17, 2022

Blues Grinder

Nose to the grindstone
The mortar of regret
The days stretch, unending
Shackles untethered,
Healing foregone
A sameness, repetition
The blues grinder in effect

Late at night, exhaustion
Barely able to catch a breath
Restless spirit, searching
The feeling of being alone
Hopeless cause,
Unbearable odds
Still, the truth is our sanctuary

Blues Grinder, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Blues Grinder by Ronny Jordan
• Chains and Things by B.B. King
• Grinder Man Blues by Memphis Slim
• Confirmed Truth by George Freeman
• Hey Lordy Mama by Abbey Lincoln
• In the Wee Wee Hours by Junior Wells
• Blues Grinder (live) by Ronny Jordan
  I once had the pleasure of seeing Ronny Jordan live at the Jazz Cafe in Camden Town. It was exhilirating as expected; he is sadly missed.

A few remakes to round off the blues grinder. Keep your head down, your time will come.

File under: culture, observation, perception, displacement, poetry, toli

Writing log. August 16, 2022

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

The Voiceless Past, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• We're Gonna Make It by Alyson Williams and Ted Mills
• Tryin' Times by Donny Hathaway
• When We Get by by D'Angelo
• Hard Times by Baby Huey
• Stare and Stare by Curtis Mayfield
• Hard Time by Gregory Isaacs
• Protection by Massive Attack
• Time Tough by Toots and the Maytals
• Protection by Gregory Isaacs
• Tryin' Times by Roberta Flack
• Remember by Hank Mobley

After Talking Drums

File under: culture, memory, observation, perception, strategy, displacement, Ghana, coup, Africa, poetry, toli

Writing log. June 6, 2022

The Ingredients of Catharsis

Release, when it comes, is best served with a grain of salt
For it's been so long brewing that anticipation is pungent
Sweeten to taste with local honey, something fit for a prince
Or substitute with some unrefined beet or cane sugar

Grind slowly in a mortar of regret
Using a solid pestle for the best blend
Crush and pulverize the sense of alienation
If need be, pound heavily and enjoy the sensation

Simmer until the stock in trade has been clarified
A half cup of consommé should be more than you need
Bitter fruits are to be avoided if at all possible
Not every guest can handle the likely fermentation

A few drops of concern should be sufficient to allay any anxiety
Pair with a tart topping of wist to highlight the sourness
Loneliness should sizzle to properly savor the contrast
If you prefer astringency, serve medium rare but use only the freshest cuts

Consider the sense of purpose and remember your roots
Answers emerge languidly from the recesses of the mind
Albeit golden memories make for the perfect pairing
Don't restrict yourself, indulge your imagination

Someday soon you'll surely return home and recapture the feeling
When you can drop the mask and, unfiltered, embrace normalcy
And testify in earnest conversation, a return to innocence
Relief and equanimity, the main ingredients of catharsis

Ingredients of Catharsis, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Kinshasa Mboka Ya Makambo by Franco
  A striking mood piece, if this was a concert opener, you'd know you were in for a very special treat.
• The Ingredients of Love by Angie Stone and Musiq Soulchild
• Salt by Lizz Wright
• I Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl by Nina Simone
• Testify by Sounds of Blackness
• Been so Long by Anita Baker
• Just don't want to be Lonely by The Main Ingredient
• I Shall be Released by Nina Simone
• The Pressure by Sounds of Blackness
• Nice 'n Greasy by Lou Donaldson
• At Last by Etta James
• Release by Hil St. Soul
• Kinshasa Mboka Ya Makambo by Franco (live)
  The live rendition always stops me in my tracks, the simplicity of the performance, the way he grips the audience taking his time to cajole, lament and celebrate his return. He never forgot his roots, his people and this city of many troubles. Franco is sorely missed, a legend in African music.

File under: culture, observation, perception, displacement, poetry, toli

Writing log. June 3, 2022

Solemnity Premiums

Buried on Ash Wednesday, the reading was from Revelations
"Come", said the preacher, the message was an invitation
But to the funeral goers, the reference to Lent was no consolation
When in the throes of grief, there's only frustration
We sang Abide With Me, but there was no returning
For the loss was so keenly felt, it was all consuming

The tributes were read, brief and poignant
She'd trained us well, we were considerate
No one lost composure, the mask didn't slip
This was in Bristol, after all, stiff upper lip
Thousands of miles from home, with a virtual audience to boot
All of us dressed tidily in the most sober of black suits

Something was missing, however, it was the sounds of cries
If we were back in Ghana, clearly not a single eye would be dry
Imagine! The queen of Makola market,
   a woman so redoubtable
We were duty bound to celebrate her life
   by causing good trouble
To make a scene, bassa bassa,
   to weep uncontrollably on the side
For when your heart is so rendered,
   there is no keeping the soul quiet

Solemnity Premiums, a playlist

A stiff upper lip soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Please Don't Make Me Cry by UB40
• Keep it Inside by Cherrelle
• One Last Cry by Brian McKnight
• All Cried Out by Alison Moyet
• Warriors Don't Cry by Beres Hammond

See previously: Another Zoom Funeral

After Auntie Naa Abia Mary Mould

This note is part of a series: In a covidious time

File under: grief, funeral, culture, observation, perception, displacement, mourning, family, loss, Ghana, Africa, poetry, covidious, toli

Writing log: March 10, 2022

Prone

Trained officers
A tough job, we all know,
Policing

Jogging
Uppity
A stare
Traffic stop
Or sometimes just reaching

One wrong move
And your life slips away,
Your chest is heaving

Pleading for God and your mother
Or simply lying there
Bleeding

After the killing of Daunte Wright.

Soundtrack for this note

• Breakfast at Denny's by Buckshot Lefonque
• For Trayvon by Jose James

...

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

See previously: Goody Two Shoes

File under: outrage, murder, violence, guns, USA, police, death, grief, race, displacement, rage, culture, observation, perception, loss, waste, poetry, The Rough Beast, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: April 13, 2021

Goody Two Shoes

People who use the word stakeholders with serious intent
Said with a raised, furrowed brow of discernment

People who want to be there for you, to be your ally
And look, for all intents and purposes, as if they're about to cry

People who want to step out of their comfort zone
Who want you to know that you don't face this struggle alone

People who live to create that shared, teachable moment
Who need us to stand together, and face the challenge of the present

People who could never feel your pain,
   and are scared to transgress boundaries
Who recognize the terrible legacy,
   and those matters of historical iniquities

People who want to atone for the system's structural inequality
Who seek to address important matters of diversity and justice

People more liberal than thou, more ethical than thou
Who are more caring, more thoughtful than thou

People who are empathy personified
Who point to all the common ground you share

People who are similarly, if not more, outraged
Who are deeply concerned by the situation, and, above all, who care

...

I'm tired. Sometimes it's best to keep mum.

I see you. Sometimes it pays to just listen.

I hear you. You don't need to relieve your anxiety for my benefit, nor indeed for yours.

I'm tired. I can hardly summon up the energy to don the mask of concern.

I'm tired. The mask of civility I wear already weighs a ton.

This country will chew you up, drop you for nothing, we both know this.

Today's atrocity joins a long line of rank murder and injustice.

I'm tired. As you can see, my skin is no protection.

I'm tired. Rather it's the reverse, an oft fatal affliction.

I'm tired. And remember, my children have to walk in these same frayed shoes.

My friend, give me a minute, bear with me, Goody Two Shoes.

Just one moment, a little space. Please. Just a few minutes for mourning.

I'm tired. Internally displaced. It really doesn't bear contemplating.

After the killing of Daunte Wright.

Tired, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note. Musical relief of sorts. (spotify version)

• Tired Little One by Alice Russell
• Then I'll be Tired of You by Stanley Turrentine
• Tired by Kelly Price
• Born Tired by Jhené Aiko
• So Tired by Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers
• I'm Tired by D.O.7. Shirati Jazz

...

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

See previously: Defensive Accounting

File under: culture, observation, humour, perception, empathy, satire, race, liberal, concern, sympathy, strategy, grief, mourning, USA, violence, alienation, displacement, immigration, Observers are worried, toli

Writing log: April 13, 2021

The Torrid Zone

Journey with me to a far region of the mind
Ponder the daily reality lived by so much of mankind
There's no escape from these ongoing acts of violence
This disturbing tranquility we face, the rest is silence

Certainties were turned to dust, we learned, back there yonder
The quiet revolutions that were launched so quickly foundered
Despite the debts foretold, many enjoined in mindless speculation
With the inevitable result: functional defenestration

They were early to despair, those who keenly felt the weight of ideas
Swiftly disabused of the notion that the burden of loss would be shared
Justice was a mere concept, a quintessential abstraction
And freedom was a feint, a rhetorical misdirection

The suggestion was displacement to the heart of darkness
Secrets and lies, the new formula, method to the madness
Secret lives, newfangled norms, and forbidden encounters
Artful omissions, ellipses, the purposeful restraint of actors

Things fell apart as we entered the new normalcy
Of pulp fictions and the B-movie theory
We did well to wear our masks of civility
Even as our underlying emotion was incredulity

These were strange days full of chaos and disorder
Rituals from time immemorial upended in short order
The lunchtime heists of fond traditions would cause unbounded loss
Remember: the dark matter of communities lies in the least of us

Strange bedfellows, with impunity, were wont to make the road fearful
Their grim militias were unleashed, while their leaders stayed cheerful
Without restraint, they shattered all records in due course
The question remains: what paradise have we lost?

Useful idiots arrived on the scene with their wishful thinking
Causing confusion with their cacophony of prevarication
Meanwhile the codes of martial music were playing a grim drumbeat
As the tanks and the khaki men made their way into our streets

Whether to engage in the battle, ultimately, the choice is yours
Be mindful of a shadow's burden and the spirit's rhythm of loss
To survive the shell game of life, hew closely to the skeptic's credo
The alternative is to sing the inflation calypso and dance the corruption tango

Observers were worried about all this as you must understand
For absolutely everything turned out to be written in sand
But the muse wills what she wants, you made to follow her demands
All the while singing the old spiritual, the creator has a master plan

The indignity of the great game, soul insurance proved to be a fiction
The normalcy prohibition you faced informed the great longing
Your tribe was denied relief in practice,
   and even in their hypertext dreams
The great historian was mistaken about the end of the age of extremes

The cowboy boots of the colossus stood astride the dark continent
The scramble for black gold and trinkets
  destined to adorn the crown jewels
What was manifest was that
  there would be neither truth nor reconciliation
There was no forgiveness and love in this land,
   there were only resource actions

The elephants fought to standstill, it was a split decision
They decided on rewriting the script to resolve the contradiction
Things would be better for them if we got on with forgetting
Far better than reparations, they disdained the act of forgiving

It was your duty of care,
  you turned to social living to get out of the mess
Mindful as you were of the mosquito principle,
   you were determined to bear witness
The interplay of the conflicted legacies of men
  resounds throughout history
What we choose to remember and forget
   is the essence of cultural memory

For want of a bolt, you had close encounters with collateral damage
Where others feared to tread for fear of the noble savages
It was an obstruction of justice, there was no easy way to assign blame
Detached as you were from a land that had herd immunity to shame

You were left to learn by bitter experience the laws of grief
The writing was on the wall, no one was coming to give you relief
Unable to salve the wound, you would face the challenge on your own
Stranded as you were, the Gods bade you welcome to the torrid zone

Africke hath ewer beene the least knowen and haunted parte in the world, chiefly by reason of the situation thereof under the torride Zone; which the ancients thought to be unhabitable. Whose opinion, although in verie deede it is not true, bicause we knowe that betweene the two Tropickes there are most fruitefull countries.

— John Pory, 1600.

In his translation of A geographical historie of Africa by Leo Africanus

Soundtrack for this note

Mountain of When by Amel Larrieux

...

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

This internal displacement is part of a series: In a covidious time.

File under: culture, observation, poetry, perception, displacement, immigration, identity, exile, memory, Africa, Observers are worried, covidious, toli

Writing log: March 30, 2021

Liminal

Liminal - subsurface unseen
Mythical - the great longing
Society - a garden in eternal need of tending
Tacit - the ellipses will be filled in
Understated - a strategy for quiet revolutions
Knowledge - I have heard and kept it
Retention - safekeeping in the depths of experience
Wisdom - the distillation of lived experience
Concealment - masks of civility
Revelation - truth telling to friendly eyes
Evasion - favored survival tactic
Deception - affinity bias for misdirection
Liberation - a confident awakening
Tolerance - elevating the least of us
Respect - between tradition and modernity

Liminal - in plain sight, but underneath
Pride - the temptations of inequality
Nationalism - favored refuge of rogues
Darkness - normalcy in the torrid zone
Anarchy - the indiscretions of gremlins
Parasites - nature's tax collectors on complexity
Grief - the eclipse of the soul
Comfort - the music of a smile
Greed - a combination missionary-hunting expedition
Rage - a flirtation with an unwieldy and fatal attraction
Nostalgia - an irresistible, high-functioning affliction
Love - even unrequited, a welcome seduction
Courage - an instinct that disdains denial
Freedom - journey on the road less traveled
Wist - the hope for paradise past
Shame - memories of the voiceless past

Liminal - the quiet revolution before it's seen
House - the comfort suite of material shelter
Home - return of the internally displaced
Sensual - the taste of tomorrow's promise
Emotion - the trials of feelings in upheaval
Ecstasy - inhibitions temporarily discarded
Kiss - to dissolve in another
Desire - a present of no restrictions
Lust - the body's ache for a touch
Solace - finding home in an embrace
Resolution - restraint from a shadow's burden
Clarity - the soul's agenda unraveled
Dignity - the soul's liberation
Absurdity - the theater of modernity
Joy - to eat a pineapple in the gardens of Aburi
Interplay - the cement of society

Liminal - the undercurrents of a dream
Absence - a temporary inconvenience
Presence - a permanent imposition
Opacity - a belief in the weakness of exposure
Transparency - a belief in the strength in sharing
Restraint - unrecognized prescience
Impulse - preempted prescience
Displacement - a season of migration
Exile - the fraught journey to the land of concern
Comprehension - beholding the contours of daily mysteries
Education - the impulse for discovery and sharing
Remembering - summoning, as if from a dream
Forgetting - misplacing in a dreamscape
Alienation - the spirit's rhythm of loss
Whimsy - the joy of small things
Mystical - the pieces of a dream

Liminal - underlying condition
Mandate - the determination to bear witness
Principle - social living is the best
Constraint - the necessity of permanent outrage
Perception - the gaze of the modern traveler
Observation - the compulsion for storytelling

Liminal - subsurface unseen

...

Mate Masie, the Adinkra symbol from the Akan saying about knowledge, wisdom and prudence, "Nyansa bon mu ne mate masie", literally rendered in English as "I have heard and kept it". The saying emphasizes the Akan love of learning and understanding of the world. There are many different variations of this symbol. Conventional readings focus on the comprehension, acquisition and retention aspects, but there are other takes that focus on disclosure, opacity and revelation. The tension that exists between concealment and evasion on the one hand and revelation and transparency on the other. As a child of the web, I favor sharing but wear my own mask, and am happy to navigate the torrid zone in a liminal mode, subsurface unseen. Such is my asylum.

Soundtrack for this note

A liminal playlist as befits pieces of a dream. Subsurface unseen is how this toli monger moves. (spotify version)

• Pieces of a Dream by Pieces of a Dream
• Pieces of a Man by Gil Scott Heron
• Dreamin' About U by Prince
• Pieces of a Dream by Incognito
• Soul Sanctuary by Prince

See also Hypertext Dreams

Timing is everything
Observers are worried

I nominate this internal displacement for the Things Fall Apart series under the banner of Social Living.

File under: poetry, culture, observation, perception, sensory, lyricism, whimsy, displacement, emotion, life, knowledge, toli, Observers are worried, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, covidious, toli

Writing log: March 28, 2021

Internal Exile

The ellipses in our family narratives always get filled in eventually
It is this unhurried and meandering discourse that frustrates outsiders
Yet to us, who seemingly navigate these blind spots
   with unerring accuracy,
The discursive vagaries of the oral tradition lie at the heart of the matter

Nay, we have the certainty that the story will indeed be told
Will be shared in its own time and place, before we grow old
Truth and reconciliation will overcome secrets and lies
So it was that I learned about the matter of internal exile

You see, it is a matter of fact that the man known as The Founder
Sometimes called Osagyefo, His Messsiahship, Ghana's first leader
Issued an executive instrument ordering that my grandfather
And four of his friends, then at Mawuli - they were school teachers
Be sent into internal exile, abruptly and without giving a reason
They were no longer authorized to live and work in the Volta region

Sixty odd years later, I'm still rather inclined to take it personal
I've been told to let bygones be bygones, that it's not my battle
I hear the rejoinders, the man was fighting imperialism
The liberation struggle and other exigencies, colonialism

It's ancient history; those were heady days. Perhaps it was random
We know all too well what he said: Seek ye first the political kingdom
And it was internal exile, they'll say, as if to restore the balance
At least it wasn't preventive detention or, worse, a disappearance

I pieced it together, that's the reason why my Aunt was born in Kyebi
And why my Uncle will squint and snort heartily
And then will bring up rogues and Young Pioneers
And why Mum always pauses
   when you start going on about the man and that age
And tells you that she had already started at boarding school during those years
And how she was determined to not go to ideological college
And those training camps, and declare allegiance to the CPP party
And the deafening silence in my grandfather and grandmother, it still rings
They would shrug and move the conversation on,
   they made the best of things

Our view on The Founder is thus born of an intimacy with his failings
We have no patience for apologists who deflect,
   and mention his weakness
Pointing to machinations among his entourage and political stress
They have no leg to stand on, he was right there in the middle of things
Personally applying his stamp on policies, he gave his endorsement
For better or worse, to the conflation of state, party, and person

Whether it is being advised daily about Danquah's prison routine,
Involvement in university appointments or meddling in nutrition
The historical record shows him as the decision maker
   who signed the decrees
The starvation diets that were designed for those he refused to free
I've seen the squalid scrawls in the margins
   of bureaucratic memos of his pen
So it was unsurprising that there was rejoicing
   when his reign came to an end

Heck, I hear you say, with a rather knowing smile,
Dostoevsky and Solzhenitsyn famously bore internal exile,
And many others too, it couldn't have been that hard
The world got Crime and Punishment and even Cancer Ward

After all, those years in Kyebi were a life removed from Siberia,
Papa, Da, and your aunts and uncles didn't get burnt by the sun
Well, Lenin too got in on the act, I'll have you remember
And generations learned bitter lessons about what is to be done

And so we come to the former prisoner's dilemma
Whether to forgive and forget, move on and write new chapters
Or whether to bear the grudge,
   as not everyone can be like Nelson Mandela
My grandparents decided that it was best to deflect with silence and laughter

...

Some time ago, I had a discussion, it was late one night
With two men, acquaintances, about Bloodbath, South Carolina
I probed and questioned them at length, seeking their insight
About all manner of blind spots and the weight of trauma
We honed in on the discomfort of the skin that they were living in
Now that I think of it, I was being holier-than-thou about matters of sin
I had quite forgotten about my own family's misgivings and traditions
That I wasn't too far removed from similar deflections and misdirection

I won't flinch from the rough beast, as if in denial
I'm quite prepared to bear the costs of internal exile
Rather than turn my back on the conflicted legacies of men
For soul insurance, there's no limit to what I am prepared to spend

Internal Exile, a playlist

Sade and Cameo provide the soundtrack to alternately haunt and invest our skins and memories to equip us for life in the torrid zone. (spotify version)

• Haunt Me by Sade
  Paradoxically this was the lullaby that I sung the most to my children. It is etched in their psyche as bedtime music despite the lyrics. Irony is indeed the key register of African life.
• Skin I'm In by Cameo
  The horn section is unparalleled, I could listen for hours even as the lyrics sink in.
• Turn My Back On You by Sade
  A shadow's burden never sounded so sweet.
• Back and Forth by Cameo
  Everything is written in sand

I nominate this internal displacement for the Things Fall Apart series. Do let me know what banner might be appropriate.

File under: displacement, exile, politics, Ghana, Africa, history, memory, culture, observation, perception, outrage, dislocation, rogues, dictator, alienation, family, personal, Observers are worried, Things Fall Apart, toli

Writing log: March 14, 2021