Flight of the Hummingbird 1/6/09

Be careful ... the earth is dying. The sea has mourning sickness. Loved ones are leaving. Trees heave truth at those (lie)ing in paynes destroyed during the storm. Unhealthy tradition says economic crisis has been a part of the artist's life. At this point shock should be minimal. Disappointment does more damage. Improvisation is mandatory. It doesn't have to be a downward spiral because I'm a black girl that dances. There is a hummingbird in my chest and at the same time ... the most beautiful things are happening.

I should've known it was Oya's year when the first dance was for her. I saw her on the platform in the Powell street BART Station. She said, "You know this means the ancestors are walking with you." She winked and smiled as I walked away. R.I.P. Oscar Grant.

The corn at the Amoo's house when I left.
(Accra, Ghana 12/29/2008)

I'm balancing on the border between broken and fixed again. Whole ideas delivered in fragments. Soaked, stained, and stretched canvas painted blue and purple. I've done this before. Falling apart takes too much time that I'm not down to waste or spend complaining. So down to memorize and move. No more drowning in the sea of confusion. Concentration is the keystone. There are more than 700 Palestinian ancestors now. Oceans and land masses away my love is with their families. No one is holding back about anything. Productive and destructive are making love and war on the kitchen table. The house is in shambles. Palo was the second dance, but I had to sit out on that one. It made the hummingbird fly into my throat.

Somebody put hate in the pot. It won't stick, just heat up and evaporate. Aftershocks whistle work songs into empty relief silos that once held provisions. Cinnamon sticks can still snap flavor and fragrance into food with broken fingers, just not as loud. There are too many ancestors working to help all of this become anything but a "Love Supreme". For now most of us are sitting in the waiting room anticipating the news of who became one and who didn't.

I've started having migraines again. (I think I might need glasses). The hummingbird likes to fly back and forth between my eyes when I'm listening. It makes me dizzy so I have to wait until it settles down to chase it back into my chest or out of my throat.

Today I thought about the first time I saw my mother cry. I was 9 years old. It was at my grandfather's funeral. He was a preacher. I called him "Pop Pop".

The time is calling for silence in days, minutes in prayer, and marriage to the most precious and power filled things you believe in. Read a lot. Everyone's holy books hold all the information you need to write your own. Cry into songs that sing away sorrow. Take flight in others. Anticipate the movement so you don't get hit. Go home. Buy seeds. (Make sure they're the kind that can grow more seeds). Abandon institutions that manipulate your muse. Harrness the ability to aim, shoot, and fire those that aren't down for the cause and effect of what you have to offer. Demand and attract greatness. Surround and submerge yourself in spiritual ecstasy that will lift you to the clearest part of empirical reality. Make it plain. There you will find your center. Then you can really begin to move.

I took my grandfather's handkerchief to Alicia's services. It belonged to my mother's father. He was a brick mason. I called him "Grampa Willie". Lots of boy children are being born. Passive aggression has become direct. Most of the time I feel like popcorn is popping between my ears. And the hummingbird is still in my chest.

Medasi (Thank You) 1/4/09

The flight home was 11 hours and 25 minutes. I slept most of the time. My exit from Ghana was swift. No tears fell from my eyes. As the plane approached JFK airport, we hovered like the dragonflies over the well at the Amoo house. There was too much traffic in the air. I wasn't mad. New York never looked so beautiful to me. On the ground, huge snakes of light slithering thru a cold and dark canyon of noise. I couldn't wait to hear it. Soon I'd be standing on the subway platform watching dirty rivers, rats, and smaller snakes of light burning into the metal rails. Ogun gleaming and barreling towards me. NYPD standing in front of the doors as they open. All I could do was smile. From the land of boys called "Bright" and girls called "Gift", White Jesus, Lil Wayne, T-Pain, and brown British folks ... I had made it home.

There is so much to do. Two queens left and two little ones came while I was away. Miriam Makeba, Eartha Kitt. I'm sure there are more. Akwaaba Ajani and Madison. I'm sure there are more. Rest well Reina and Alicia. Your loved ones will need your strength to help them thru this New Year. Sanai, Majesty, Saida, Asher, Nnamdi and Djali "Hey my boos!". ASE yall know it's on. This morning the twins slept girl, girl, boy, boy next to Akushia and her sisters. My parents, my man, my teachers, the Jerome Foundation Travel and Study Grant, the Future Aesthetics Artist Re-Grant, my communities in the Bay Area and Brooklyn made this happen. Kelly Tsai, Zakiya Harris, and Jennifer Archibald thanks for the love. To everyone I extend my sincerest gratitude for supporting this trip to Ghana. I will go back in the future. There is way too much to learn. It was the beginning of serious rites of passage in my life. I will work my hardest to do you proud.

Me and my teacher Robert Fugah.
(Accra, Ghana 2008)

Special Thanks to; Jill Crosby, Mr. Carlyle Leach, Harold Okyerema Akyampon, Robert (Kofi) Fugah, Portia Nana Amankwaah, Mr. Baba CK Ledzekpo, Kokou Katamani Soglo, Phil Atlakson, Dr. Willie Roscoe and Rene Whitaker, Barbara Whitaker, Lark Thomas, Linda Rapp, Jane Schisgal, Leon Pera, Sekou Alaje, Donna Lee McEwen, Devin Dougherty, Benjamin Rojas, Ana Bravo, Geraldine Chisolm (Ms. Gerry), Jamal Lucas, Woza Vega, Amara Tabor Smith, Michelle Sylvain, Askia Whitaker, Lealon Martin, Nicole Inabinet, Donna Rodgers (Aunt Dru), Amena Doss, Kevin Douglas, Bernard Remaud, Lonnie Harrington, Cecily Shores, Osei Wlliams, Nana Kodia Williams, Nana Hansa, Dr. Halifu Osumare, Dr. Anne Adams, Dr. Albirda Rose, Alicia Pierce, Brian Polite, Micah Lee, Mr. David Amoo, Obroni Amoo, Jacob Amoo, Godson Atsu Sokpor, Richard Ashiaku Amoo, Edmund Otu Amoo, Erinn Ransom, Asia Leeds, Goussy Celestin, Jovan Clay, Melana Lloyd, Sheila Akushia Amoo, Aisling Livsey, Joy Bell, JoiLynn, Kyle "Sanaqi" Smith, Guy and Petrina DeChalus, Courtney Killingsworth, Maria. E. Rivera, Kelly Seph White, Milton Jemmott, Amatus-sami Karim, Kevin Powell, Tajeme Sylvester, Olivia Malabuyo, Valerie Winborne, Sarah Baltazar, Sabia Pinheiro, Katherine Moore, and Mamie Scott.

And How Shall I Return ... (A response to B-Polite's "And How shall I Send Thee...") 1/2/09

Door of No Return. Elmina Dungeon.
(Ghana, 2008)

And how shall I return to thee from the soul mines and ironic gates.

Thin and sharp. A butterfly knife blade ascending behind brass knuckle wings. Tongue cut and laden with shattered glass from the light bulb shoved in my mouth and broken. Poison melting into my flesh. Dying to re-emerge as the next. Descended from the first blood (die)monds to leave Africa, I have come to bring back the drums that were taken away.

The gift of freedom IS the sacrifice of slaves. I will return to thee awake and full. Our mother is sick. She slapped me in the face when I caressed her cheek. She doesn't recognize herself in me anymore. She can only see the white man that raped her. Wonder and chaos are no match for disgust. They can't find a cure. Doctors say she's been ill for too long. It's only a matter of time.

Butterflies and black bees carry gossip and greed. They boast in floats and stings. The skinned knees of stones skipped across the Atlantic bleed gold. Knee grows rock memories of lynchings around their necks and the children of the Africans that sold us will NEVER run out of money. They are "Well to do." But what do I do now that I know her body is gone? Where will I go to pay my respect?

Like Ibos flying over oceans landing home after generations of exile, I will smile for the ones who carry dreams of the Diaspora on their backs like snails over land. The Africa that was my mother died a long time ago. Everyone thinks I should've known, but I'm just now getting the news. I will go to the women and men that taught me who she was and pay respect to her memory there. She lives in my dreams, in my blood, in my body, in my work. I am the grave site. Flowers should be left at my feet. Homage and respect is paid here first. I am the response.

My mother need not be mistaken for that bitch who slapped me in the face. Everyone else knew it was a prank call except me. Family still, my aunt and cousins are complex. Strong and beautiful, but wounded in ways I was not ready to understand. The venomous snake bite against our mother's greatness. Blood is blood.

And how shall I return to thee? ... with many happy sojourns and rope burns from where thou hast sent me. Bow and arrow shooting lightning rods from the throat of the sun. I will SHOUT the seasons into change, burst, and glow. Never forgetting that I am branded by loved ones lifting me towards destiny, ancestors unsettling the dust in me, and children that will come.

Inside the Rhythm 12/28/08

Music go ... Breathe. Close eyes. Open eyes ... Dramatic pause ... Clear throat.

From a garden of extremes grows the most beautiful and wild flowers. Dragons snapping at Venus while she places gardenias in her hair. Everything smells buttery and sweet. Honeybees fly thru soft fire heating porridge. I run thru the garden everyday. Today I will walk slowly, take my time, and notice everything. I have two days left in Ghana.

When I heard the first broom today, I smiled and opened my eyes. Five more would follow. A face for each one. At this house, the women wake the dawn. Lights go. The carpenter plays the first break to call in the rhythm. The choir congregates on the bench under my window. Two sets of twins were already there. Girl, boy, boy girl. Little black stars twinkling and trickling in. One set is 8 years old. They're little brother and sister are 6. Same mother. They rub the top of my hand to say "Hi".

Twins. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

The sun has not made it all the way up yet. Stools rumble. The cheifs begin to move in whispers. A squeaking door, a nail clinks a pipe, then scratches. A plastic bucket bangs against the side of the well. Vocals go. "Kwe!" The bells have entered. They usually come first, but today the second drum called his third daughter first. She was then given permission to knock and enter. She plays the most high pitched bell. When the sun is all the way up her father will be the loudest. Percussion cue. Sound of a war drum.

A clap. A spanking switch playing tradition on the bench. The oldest girl twin scolds her brother. She's the boss. I bet he was born first. If the bell gets off then the entire rhythm falls apart. There are two. The niece/third daughter and the nephew. The fourth and fifth daughter join the choir. They lead the vocal warm-up because they're older than all the sets of twins. A sneeze ... Another dramatic pause, then ... slow motion, two Sirens giggle in. The third will come later. She's the Beyonce. A soloist struggling to play herself down for the sake of the ensemble.

Crossfade ... amber wash downstage right. The sun has risen higher. The carpenter begins to play louder. He and his brother (the second drum) build the conversation in their banter. Flip flops drag the rattles closer. A train is passing far away. She sounds her horn. I know she is well. Better than she was when she lived here. They stand back and watch her blaze past. They hope she'll look back over her shoulder and give them a nod just one last time. She doesn't. Their hearts are broken. All that's left is a trail of smoke. No one got hurt. They wait for the next one. (R.I.P. Alicia).

Tin plates clatter. The fossit is on. The mother calls in the third Siren. (Call) "Kwe Aranya!" (Response) "Yes Ma!" begins the song. The first two Sirens salute. A first born son struts into the yard. The choir begins to sing. They have trouble finding the harmonies, but end up making it work.

Sirens. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

(Call) "Akushia!", (Response) "A 'pa!". The carpenter is conducting. Both brothers rock fisherman hats. The second drum is growing louder. A door slams ... something about Circle in the phone call. The first visitor arrives. The rhythm gets caught in a plate. Hand signals say more than I understand. I will go and come because I have learned plenty about increasing the volume small.

I like! I like! I like YOU! Ampey is in the street. Decrescendo. Spotlight. (Larium, liquor, and too much direct sunlight to the dome have made me a poet on myspace. lol).

(Greeting) "Obibini!" (Call) "Can I buy a big, Voltic water?" (Response) "80 paysways." The third drum comes in. He has seniority. Ampey is in the house. Running Flick. Laughter Flick. A plastic toy gun with a golden barrel is the prize. Possession is the most blinging bullet. (Call) Bang!

(Response) Kwe! The spirit enters the third Siren. She begins to weep in a hum. The niece/third daughter and nephew come forward with the bells. The third Siren disappears. It's time to dress her. The choir picks up notepads to improvise a sound scape. The drummers fall back and wait. Smack! The second spirit enters the second Siren. The first Siren calls the third. Boom. Knock out at Green Hand Junction! The spirit of an angry slave to the British enters the youngest boy twin. The third Siren returns dressed in blue and white cloth. She begins her solo. The garden bubbles and bursts. A perfectly organized orchestra pit in the middle of the most proper moments of hood behavior. Both house and field pulsate as the stick hits the drumskin. Every beat is precise. Fa Diggie Doo Doo! Wop! Wop! It's almost tomorrow and the day has just begun.

There is a Ghost Riding the Whip 12/27/08

Dear Ms. Primus,

Arriving at the Cape Coast. (Ghana 2008)

I went to Africa. I tried to leave my burdens on the shores of the Atlantic, but there is a ghost riding the whip that beats me into my blessings. A junkyard is at the entrance to the graveyard. An old woman with a gentle face is sitting on the ground. She extends her hand to ask for money. The chief lives behind razor wire and painted walls. Protection. His son drives a benz over the back of my ancestors. Wow ... coconut colored skin can come with chocolate freckles, bright orange hair and eyelashes. Just like when the terracotta clay roads glow at dusk. She could be Ewe, Fonti, or Ashanti. My frame looks like sugarcane more than ever. I finally saw the bats sleeping in the day at 37. They look like dead flowers on trees. It was actually pretty cool. I'm not scared anymore. Now I laugh at the lizard with the black body, red face, and tail. Me and the not so small spider dance around each other. Both trying not to interrupt.

I ate snails because I need to be more like one. That's why I got sick. I was moving too fast.

Adia and Asia at "Bless the Mic" on Christmas Night.
(Accra, Ghana 2008)

Bricks and stones may break my throne, but all that heals me, heals eternity. Yes ... because if you heal a woman you heal a nation ... when the queen is sick the village is sick ... so I'm going to stop it, screw my lid on as tight as I can without getting cut and do everything I can to get well! Most things are easier said than done. Respect is recognizing greatness, practicing honor, and demanding truth. Everything is earned.

Brotha Shabazz says that crabs don't let go of whatever is in the first claw until they have latched on tight and are sure about whatever the next thing is in the second claw. Even then we might not let go easily.

Dear Ms. Primus ... help me to let go.

Ripping Rainbows and Shoving Sky 12/26/08

Dear Ms. Dunham,

I will have been in Ghana for 53 days when I return to New York on Monday, December 29, 2008. 50 days today.

Africa took my breath away and gave it back to me in 10 million pieces. One for each African at the bottom of the sea and 5 more for every time crabs pull each other down in the barrel. It IS hard to yell when the barrel is in your mouth. I'm not sure when I'll catch it again, my breath. It's running so fast these days. Nature slows it down. But I feel like that's moving faster too.

Ms. Dunham ... I've seen it from the other side ... from pretty words that fly like birds to lessons learned that hurt me. The brown dog was guarding the gate last night. He let me into the yard, but when I tried to return to the house from the toilet/bath house he didn't recognize me. At 3:00 a.m. in Ghana, his job is to guard the house. I went to bathroom at 2:58. Every time I tried to return to my room, he would bark and prepare for attack. Kelly saved me from him in a dream once. I sat on the lid of the toilet for two hours until he fell asleep. The rooster yelled twelve times. The Muslims called me to prayer. It was a serious meditation. To my credit, I tested the waters several times before I submitted to the process. I just hella loc'd up like "What Fool! Frisco!". He chased me right back up in the toilet. Lol, I crushed the cardboard in the toilet paper roll, thru it out the door to see if he would fall back. Nope. At about 5:00 a.m. he just chilled out. It was comedy for like 20 minutes ... then yeah ... I made a cup of water to throw just in case he woke up. Slithered back up into the room. Osun won the war with song and dance. Not in front of the dog or the gate tho'. I had to bend and squeeze myself around the the house to get back in ... to return.

On the shores of the Cape Coast. (Ghana, 2008)

This has been the tale of my Sankofa. The story of understanding patience before the pass. Dr. Halifu says, " A tiger doesn't have to tell you it has stripes." Alicia taught me not to throw my pearls to swine and that everywhere the African steps he/she sees God." Wisdom washed and passed down in the lineage of your legacy. You have done amazing work. I wish we could've hung out. My birthday is on the 22nd too. A month after yours. Asia, one of the sistas that came with me to Cape Coast was born on the same day as you. And I was born in Chicago, Illinois. I know you did a lot of work there. (in Illinois).

Dear Ms. Dunham ... I went to Africa. I ripped rainbows and shoved sky.

Near misses. White dust on the faces of children playing in baby powder. The ancestors speak in everything. And everything is so close. The flash of my spirit is a lighthouse learning to live inside the Veve. Sequins hold the magic of mirrors and I am repelling warfare by speaking to the wind ... and waiting, and weighting, and waiting. Sometimes I wonder if this makes sense to anyone else but me. One of the uncles said the dog didn't recognize me because I was carrying a bad spirit. That's what he was barking at. When it left he let me pass. Nothing happens before it's supposed to. I don't know why that's so hard for me to remember.

Christmas Mourning 12/24/08

Look slow ... Move fast ... The ground is on fire ... but I don't even worry myself with that anymore. If I was at home I would ask if the fumes were toxic. Now, toxic is relative. It's Christmas in Ghana and Jesus Christ is nowhere to be found ... except on the back of tro tros stuck in traffic. Today there are none. ...

Alicia Pierce became an ancestor yesterday. ASE. She was one of my Mamas. A silent cyclone shredding thru dawn. The most refined cloth. Gold buttons down the front of a freshly ironed linen dress. A purple and black second line umbrella with silver trim. Like low country swamp water swimming thru the dirt on a crocodile's back. Eyes like honey. Hips like mountains, rivers, and streams. A solemn and humble prayer to Osun. A beautiful, respected elder that laced me on hella game ... like a ridiculous amount of profound knowledge, love, and support. She taught me how to unlock my back bone like a gangsta and drop it like it's Africa!

Respect to you Queen. From the inside out 'til the wheels fall off. I am so grateful for your life and legacy. My teacher ... May your transition be smooth, safe, and filled with light. I will miss you so much.

Cape Coast Dungeon. (Ghana, 2008)

I Get It Honest 12/23/08

Where clear crabs slide sideways across broken sea shells and glass, there is a magnificent tossing and turning. To get there I escaped a traffic jam and ran past a cemetery to the North Kaneshie STC bus yard. "Do Not Urinate" was painted on the wall. A man was peeing there. Dead shrubs and trash were all around. The tombstones were broken and covered by bushes. I was afraid the bus had left me, but I arrived just in time to link with the two sistas from the States. I met them at "Bless the Mic" the night before. Erinn and Asia. Inspiring scholars, genuine, kind, and moving with the same purpose as myself. The bus to Cape Coast pulled up, we got on, and before I could really wrap my brain around where we were going, we were there. A guest house called "One Africa". My first full breath in six weeks was situated in raw and violent piece. There is a Diasporan community there. Brotha Shabazz made us feel so welcome. Finally, I wasn't alone. It was "The Africa of the African-American imagination..." as Erinn calls it. This was the thing I needed to help me remember the love.

The condemned cell at Elmina Dungeon. (Ghana, 2008)

Still, the coffin was churning and busting thru sky. A stampede of white stallions trample screaming angels and choke a catarwauling into the sea. They took the Ochosi charm that Kelly gave me from around my neck and placed me on the tip of an arrowhead pointed towards the past, penetrating the present. In blank stares, cactuses lined the coast. My head felt like a clear glass bowl full of royal blood and purple marshmallow cream being emptied and refilled.

Shouting the word Sankofa can get you killed. The shore is a Palo Nkisi, holding the sickness and pain of all those who drive nails in. Here it's power is beyond sacred. It's the rope between you and them. Everybody is tugging and trying to get heard. I had only seen it in movies and in pictures. Now I knew it in my body. A scattered breaking and resonance in my skin that burns to the top (even as I sit here to write this). Elmina is a skeleton. Cape Coast, a stone casket. It recognized me. At every moment, the swallowed souls rose up and demanded homage. Waves shaped like crescent moons sliced rock into shards of land beaten smooth and clean. Monuments to unmarked graves and runaway slaves that hid there.

Erinn and Adia at Cape Coast Dungeon.
(Ghana, 2008)

To enter I began to ask permission. (Erinn told me she always does. I don't know how I forgot that. I think it was all just so shocking.) To leave, I rinsed my feet in pools of warm sunshine. Tears hot with fire. The most quiet and beautiful "Hell" I've ever been a part of. A mirror of my soul shrinking, swelling, and big as the ocean staring back at me. Peril riding the corners of question and flailing insult at my weakness. I am their grandchild. My blood remembers this time and place. My tears are libation for them, my pieces have always been offerings to spirit. I CAN NOT STOP. All I can do is pray that the source of my substance will be open to me.

At night they sing salt water mountains of rage and revolt. We are both fighting so hard to rest as ripples in a nightmare that never ended. There are moments of rest, but never silence. Like fire shooting out of a high voltage outlets into frazzled plugs, every grain of sand, salt and sea is charged and exploding. My feet sank as I sang them serenades. Every morning and evening I wanted them to know that I had come to receive their blessings ... that they would not be forgotten.

The music is my patience, the dance is my passion. Now I REALLY understand what my mama means when she says, "The one thing I can say about you is, you got it honest."

Ancestors in the water at the Cape Coast.
(Ghana, 2008)

Stronger Neck Muscles and No Hands 12/18/08

Bush behind Kwame Nkrumah's grave.
(Accra, Ghana 2008)

... Africa is also ... capturing the green and yellow of the trees in the designs on tye dyed fabric so that each piece of cloth becomes a photograph. A woman with skin like coal, teal spandex tights, and a leopard print shirt rises from a low squat. Two bricks and four wooden crates are the play pin for four of the most beautiful, round, brown babies you ever saw. The oldest one is in charge. Smocks and heart shaped baskets hang from trees. A roadside stand where the "Jewellry" lady sells her products is also her dining room table and bed. The living room has more life when it's outside .. And sometimes the Queen's crown is a propane tank. As long as everyone is careful and moves with respect, nothing will explode. "Bluemenders" "Blokbuxter" and "Tako Bell" mimick America. The little boy that screams it (America!) from across the street every time I walk by has a terrible cough that has turned the white parts of his eyes entirely crimson red. I hope it's just a cold. His parents wouldn't let him hug me.

Little girl carrying a bucket of water on her head.
(Cape Coast, Ghana 2008)

I've been holding the water in the bucket on my head with two hands and now I want to let it go ... but my neck muscles aren't strong enough. Everytime I take my hands away the water just spills everywhere. I am most often drenched and defeated. It's absurd to think that I could have made it from the well to the house without using my hands. Especially when no one has ever shown me how. I've taught myself many things, so this just has to be another one of them. I have to concentrate. Everything is big until you break it into smaller pieces.

At this point in the game, everything has got to become about stronger neck muscles and no hands. No more spilling the water. I've got to trust and be trusted. If I do spill it, I need to be moving forward with the objective of making it all the way to the house in dry clothes. I can work on learning how to pour it from my head into the bowl on the table after that. Making mud also means making my way through it. The hope is that one day, after I've reached the house, I can turn around, see nothing but dry road and splash some cool water on my face.

Piece In Rest 12/17/08

Africa is a fuchsia wall covered in charcoal dust, ten fingers and toes, seven without tips, a man with both arms, but no hands. It's a thousand smoldering eyes watching every direction from one head at the same time. A white hen died on it's back. The trailer of a big rig balanced on a perfect diagonal between curb and street. Nothing fell. Everyone stopped and watched. Black babies w/ fake hair use white dolls as ammunition. White Jesus walks with almost everyone.

There's a fossit attached to the back of the well. I thought someone had to fill it up by hand when it got empty. Everything doesn't always have to be so hard. A wheelbarrow turned into a wheelchair/bicycle helps a cripple man move from car to car asking for money. The railroad-crossing bar doesn't always go down at Abveno, but everyone knows when the train is coming. They all stand clear.

Van in front the yard. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

Africa is a streak of light running across a freeway, mangled metal melted into plastic, a black rooster's cry ripping through the dawn and crying morning into my eyes. It's four beats on the side of the shoes shiner's box, then a space, a bell, and a coconut man's kiss in the air while he swings a machete. An old man carries a sewing machine on his head and plays a song on scissors. Africa is finally understanding "Black Star Power". It is loving the most beautiful and undesirable things about yourself at once.

Green gourds with poisonous insides grow under trees where flat leaves hang low. Reading shadows squeezes space into places where there seems to be none.

Africa is a cracked calabash played with perfect sound, an iron rod jutting out horizontally after everyone has agreed on lateral motion. It's plastic on furniture, extravagant and intricately designed hair weaves on heads, under head wraps, and balled up in the dirt next to pee and shit. The four year old across the street is wearing a "weave-on" that looks just like her grandmother's. Her name is Anita. She shouts "Obibini!" (Black person) every time I leave the house. I laugh and say "Yes Love!".

Anita and 'nem across the street.
(Accra, Ghana 2008)

Africa is opening every part of yourself just enough to close and carve legacy. I've never seen so many twins. Mostly identical. Mr. Amoo's mother had four sets. Only one set was girls. A child's toy directs traffic, pain is a part of every game. You have to concentrate.

Africa is juju so powerful that if you go to where it lives, you might not come back. Bible verses with bruised knuckles beat black eyes into children that laugh too loud, love too much, and can not yet balance a bucket of water on their head. They are trying to make them strong. A "Mother's Love" is the rock of Sisyphus and in a Ga' house, the "Father's Love" is all that matters. Everything means something and has a purpose. I saw another monkey today. This time in the city. It was sitting on a concrete wall.

Faustina says, " It's so funny. Africans are scared of rain and the sea, but not cars. lol." Reggie Rockstone says, " Ghana should make a statue in honor of the mosquito. Malaria chased the white folks away...", but today I saw them at the Accra Mall. I went there just so I could be around people. I miss Ben so much.

Somedays the porcelain vases at the roadside are the same color as the imported apples they sell in traffic. The bats are in the sky again. Time was flying by, but now it's moving way too slow. Oh, and the not so small spider came out. Yesterday I went to bed early, woke up to fight a water bug, then the lights came back on. This morning I waited for wind to blow through the corn and visited Kwame Nkrumah's grave.

Blonde Monkeys and Pretty Turkeys 12/13/08

Yeah so they couldn't do it. Imma a Boygirl again.

At the moment when day descends into dusk, the evening begins to rise into the sky and everything starts to glow. The light surrounds you. Halos appear around every object and man. The terracotta roads become bright orange and tangerine colored piles of dust. The medicine trees blow from side to side like giant horsetails stirring the wind and changing the shape of clouds. My skin turns into copper. Darker skin turns into sepias, mahoganies, and ebonies. The maroons and dark reds rise to the surface. Everything looks like it tastes as good as Amara Tabor Smith's desserts. Ripped tire treads on the road look like black snakes from the bush. The palm frawns on the tree I pass to walk home have been cut because they were hanging down too low on the road. (Kinda like when elders yank sagging pants up on the hips of the young brothas and tell them to stand up straight). The branches were becoming a nuissance and eyesore to everyone that tried to pass. I didn't mind bending down to get by, but somehow ... the palm was now in order and line with Ghana's vibration.

Artwork by Cece Carpio. (2006)

This is a special time. The death of a day and the birth of a night. Everyone says African sunsets are amazing, but it's so much more than that. Like the lightning storm last week that charged the air so full I jumped to my feet and began walking around the room while I was still dreaming. When I realized I was standing up, I laid back down .... And today, there was a rope tied to the top of the wall suspending a block of concrete in the air so that it didn't fall to the ground. I bet everyone knows what it's for and why it's there except me. lol ....

Me and the red/orange face and tail lizard had a funny ass run in the other day. I was coming around the corner and he was coming from underneath this deck thing at the same time. I screamed and jumped, he freaked out, ran towards me and like skiddered to the right. I started rollin' cuz I saw that he was as scared of me as I was of him. I found out that a red face and tail mean it's a full grown male. Orange means it's a male that's still growing. The males that are younger than that just have little orange speckles on their back. The females are green.

The bats would come next. Night falls. Then the grasshoppers wake up and shake music into the corn. I hear them on my latenight walks to the bath house where the not so small spider lives behind the plastic yellow containers stacked in the corner. She doesn't come out anymore, but I know she's there.

Adia at the W.E.B. Dubois Center. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

I visited the W.E.B. Dubois Center. It used to be his house when he lived in Ghana. His remains are in a room shaped like an octagon. I went in. The remains of his wife were there too. There is a spiderweb (W.E.B.) painted on the ceiling. I smiled. It was one of those moments when you know you're in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. The tour guide explained the web to me just as I had in my first blog. I've been trying to understand how to build one (a spiderweb, a nation, whatever..lol) in dance since I came here. I've been tying elastic to everything in my room. Navigating the construction of a spiderweb in time with tradition and rhythm is hard. Imma get it tho'. I just need a little more time. I asked for him and his wife's blessing.

Everyone's pinky finger is stained with black ink. Ghana will be voting again on December 28th because none of the parties got 50% + 1 of the vote. The NPP (New Partriotic Party) received 49.4. I got caught in the middle of a drag race between two drivers that supported opposing parties. (I was the passenger in the taxi of one of the drivers). It was the sideshow in Accra for about a good ten minutes. All behind who's car was stronger and who's party was stronger. I was hella mad at first, but then I just had to laugh. It's not like the same thing hasn't happened to me as a Frisco youth. At least this time I had on shoes. (Don't ask. It was during my transition from "R.B.L. Posse, 40 Ounces, and relaxers to Outkast, Digable Planets, and dreadlocks. I still bump the Chronic album when I clean the house tho'. Some things are just classic).

When I return to the family house (from the bath house), I have to move very carefully. It's dark. Akushia sleeps in the doorway of my room so that we can share the fan. I have to make it over her in one step. Akushia is one of Mr. Amoo's nieces and the daughter of the Amoo brother I call, "The American". He's a Ghanaian U.S. Citizen that lives in Portland, Oregon visiting home for the holidays. Remember Obroni is the carpenter. I call him "Strong Man", then there's Mr. Amoo, Artistic Director of the Ghana Dance Ensemble, "The Christian", I just met him the other day, (he's an older brother). There's a bunch more that I can't even imagine because the one's I've met are such STRONG personalities. Like MEN, MEN. Gruff and solid. Like if any of them was my daddy I would always be good type a dudes. Like if more black men in the U.S. were like them, we wouldn't have so many lost youngins in our communities. They are a testament to what happens when black fathers take care of their children. Oh, I also met the one that's the High Priest to the family shrine.

Family. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

Akushia's hands do the work of an entire village in one day. She takes care of everyone and she's only twenty-one year old. Her birthday was two days ago. She bought herself some high heels and spent the rest of the day washing, ringing, and hanging clothes on the line. The day before yesterday I watched her pack the trunk of a car full of pots, pans, folding chairs, buckets, a cooler, and one rooster perfectly, then help push the car when it broke down on the way back to Accra from Kokobrite .... in a dress that was mostly white. Hair stayed snatched and the dress stayed clean. She used a white handkercheif to keep the sweat off. Can you say AFRIKA! That's why I be looking at my students crazy when they come with the whole, "Ey yo Miss... my Muva just got me new clothes and she said I can't sweat in them." I mean, I don't even be asking them to deal with livestock! You should've seen it, she just did that shit like an O.G. I don't remember what I was doing when I was twenty-one, but I fa sho' wasn't grabbin' up roosters and pushin' cars in Ghanaian rush hour traffic! lol. Bush Goddesses rock the hardest SUN!

Oh...And Hell no! I saw two monkeys yesterday in Kokobrite. Like right there. Hi, I'm walking down the road w/ Atsu .... and goats ... and people ... and cars.. and then, two blondish/white colored kinda sorta REAL live with no fence between me and them monkeys?! If they stood up they would've been like up to the top of my stomach. It could've definitetly been "When Animals Attack!" if I didn't make the right move. lol. I wasn't exactly sure of the proper monkey etiquette so I just kept it Barbara Whitaker's daughter a backed up respectfully. I was trying to look at them a little bit, but they were trying to look at me too, so I had to go. Monkeys are kinda deep. I felt their spirit animal power kind of strong. Yeah Imma have to think about monkeys somemore. I saw some Guinea fowl too, but ofcourse I just thought they were pretty turkeys. lol.

Lite Off 12/10/08

So... yesterday I sat down at the computer and started to compose a new blog. I had been conceptualizing the whole thing for a few days so it was super colorful. Full of details, twists, turns and themes and imagery... All kinds of antecdotes, poigniant insight, and folkloric gems. The ideas and stories were coming out hella clear, hella vibrant. It was like I was a fossit with the pressure turned all the way up just spraying ARTTTT everywhere. lol. BLOUW! Just cold and refreshing after the long hike up the mountain on a blistering hot day. I'm telling you. It was the stuff that movies and best sellers are made of.

Okay so, I finished everything, proofread it, pressed the button to post it... and POOF! Gone. Sucked away into the abyss of cyberspace forever. An hour and a half of creativity and wit lost deep inside the internet jungle. Never to be seen again. (My hand is on my forehead. Can you see it? lol.)

I tried to look thru the little notes I wrote here and there in the hopes that I could put things back together, but I've just been sitting here for about thirty minutes re-writing the first couple sentences. Magical; '... Today the butterfly turned yellow and black. The same color as a bee, but with no stinger. Bigger. Sweeter. Like a small, elegant bird. I shaved my head today for the first time in two months. And..., just like that, Ghana saluted me as an African Queen. One man even greeted me as such. Two men walked me down the road and the Ga (name of one of the ethnic groups) seamstress across the street from the bank smiled and told me I looked beautiful. This is something I never thought I would hear during this trip. All of a sudden there is no question as to whether I am a boy or a girl. From Obroni (Twi for English speaking foreigner) to Obibini (Twi for Black person) in five minutes..' Good rite?! Lol.

Adia composing lyrics in Abavana Down.
(Accra, Ghana 2008)

Yeah, I wanna know what happens next too. I think it was something about how tribal marks, hairstyles, accessories, dress and adornment are all things that African people use to identify where and which tribe you come from, and how this was connected to the ways that my hair has always captured the spectrum of my internal landscape ... something, something, something ... that ended with the grand statement, '...Spirit will bring my hair back when I have grown to the place and time where my head has become the throne apon which they can sit to conduct business. Until then, a bald head will be my crown...: oooh. Swirling waves of analogy and metaphor were just CRASHING down! I was POUNDING the shores of imagination and intellect! BOOSH! Drowning surfers left and right! Sehu, I was getting my 'oracular offering' ON!... And then... 'Lite off'. Crickets. Lizards. Frogs. Stars. Moonlight. I have to wait until the electricity comes back on. It's always funny how I make the decision about when to mock myself and when to take myself seriously. The Cancer/Leo cusp can be quite crackish.

The point. One will not acheive greatness without practicing patience. (Especially not this one.) For someone that has been nicknamed A.D.Dia, patience is the Ebbo that brings forth my Ase. Africa really teaches you how to appreciate some shit. Like water just doesn't come out hot you feel me. lol.

Oh and let me not get my hopes up about this whole being recognized as a woman thing. How much you wanna bet it'll be back to "Boygirl! Hey Boygirl!" tomorrow? C'mon Africa! You can do it!

Take The Poison So It Won’t Hurt You 12/5/08

Look fast. Move slow. The ground is on fire, but I don't even worry myself with that anymore. If I was at home I would ask if the fumes were toxic. Now, toxic is relative and intersections are the eye of the storm. In Africa, 'Everything Exists In Nature' is the holy book that tells people what to do and how to do it. The land is Jesus. The people his disciples. Judas is the juju that prevents progress, but holds the hands of the baby while it is learning to walk. Live wires hang from electric poles like raffia skirts on the waist of dances for Ogun. It is possible for one man or woman to do the work of many. Kings and Queens are made of the village. Difficult becomes rigorous, but not un-doable when the family is order. Palm frawn leaves glow in the streetlight as I walk home in the evening. They look like shiny, wet daggers curving down off bent arrows. They tell me where to go. I have been speaking to my enemies in dreams.

Eleven by Cece Carpio. (2006)

The scars I've seen on Sekou and Delina's legs from scratching mosquito bites have made their way to mine as well. They're small, but I still have a month and change to go. Today is December 5, 2008. I have been in Ghana for one month. The corn has grown taller. I am skinnier. The lizard with the black body's red face and tail have turned orange. The weather is changing. Although it seems to be getting hotter, breezes come stronger and more often. Bell patterns ring rhythm into my focus. My memory cards are almost full and I am waiting for my money to fill up again. Lesson wise, Gadzo is more like Petwo than Mayi. Black bees at Makola Market seem quicker to sting than to protect. This morning, two hens and a rooster sifted through the charcoal on the street in front of the Amoo house to find food. Take the poison so that it won't hurt you .... and me ....I've been so tired again.

Rush Forward, Fall Back 12/3/08

I don't know if it's like this everywhere in Africa, but Ghana is revealing itself to me as a bunch of controlled spills. Libations. Traffic spills into more traffic with splatters spraying out into whatever spaces are left in between. There's almost no room for negative space. Greetings spill into conversations that spill into some kind of movement. Depending on which way the streams run into each character's day, the spills can either become big oceans like Kwame Nkruma Circle or smaller rivers, like the soccer games in the field at Abavana Junction in Kotobabi (where I go to have my lesson with Robert Fugah everyday). Everything is a drum, nothing is monochromatic, or even three dimensional. You have to reach far into the perimeters of all your senses all the time just to be able to move. Creation is inherent in the hustle.

I am beginning to understand how things work. Ghana is watching me and I am learning how to watch Ghana right back. My brothers make me valuable to the women, my sisters make me valuable to the men, and I can't rely on the shadows to tell me what's coming. It looked like an ant, but I saw it was a spider when it landed on my back. It fell from the clothesline when I was brushing my teeth. A little girl picked her brother up by the ears to help him over a ditch and a tro-tro driver hit the side of his van as if it were a horse to get the traffic moving.

On the way to class. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

Mr. Leach read this quote that talked about how shadows die when the light gets stronger, so I should know better than to count on them. Here, it seems as though the spills get out of control when people don't consider the collective movement of whatever space they have committed to. Driving on the road, selling in the marketplace, sewing clothing, whatever. You have to know exactly when to rush forward, fall back, twist, bend, and balance. If you don't take in the panaramic view, fill up the container, and then spill the movement into the right space...the picture comes out blurry. Cars crash. People die. Baskets fall. Dresses rip.

The Ghanaian Presidential Elections are Sunday. This should be interesting.

Bloody Hands and Butterflies 12/2/08

Yeah, but you know....if you stare at something long enough it starts to move, shift, and reveal itself to you in an entirely new way. You just have to be able to concentrate. These days the best way to describe my 'African Experience' is ' a passionate romance slowly unraveling at the seams'. I still love Africa, but Africa is 'Black Love' all day long. It takes a certain kind of focus and work to heal the pain and stay excited.

In three days I will have been here for one month. Africa has become a bright, purple butterfly with a razor blade under her tongue. (This says alot considering that butterflies use their tongues like straws. I think they use them to smell too). There is no question of Africa's royalty, but when you try to catch the butterfly, you end up with blood all over your hands. Here, they put herbs on it and call it protection.

The wash. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

For me it's been the food. I'm just not sure how to ease into the cuisine. It was either the water in the coffee I drank or the food I ate. Whatever it was I spent Thankgiving night sweating out the demons out under the fan. It felt like angry cats were trying to claw their way out of my stomach. Or better yet, bright, purple butterflies with razor blades under their tongues were trying to fly out of my booty. Lol. It wasn't funny. I felt like Pookie in New Jack City when he was trying to get off the dope and Ice T stayed up with him all night. lol. Ben, Jovan, and Mara were my Ice T tho'. Their call made me feel so much better. I'm starting to miss everyone. Me and Africa (the butterfly that dies every time her belly is full) are sluggin' it out in the parking lot afterschool SUN! Might as well call us Ike and Tina. Unfortunately last week I was coming out Tina, but it ain't gon' be too many more ass whoopins. I feel my Ike about to bust thru at any minute. lol.

Yall, I have seen the unthinkable. A woman with a huge bucket of papayas on her head slipped and fell to the ground right in front of me. All her fruit fell into the ditch. Everyone scrambled to help her up. I reached into the nasty ass pile of mud, wiped off her fruit and gave it back. I think I was more devastated than her. Everyone continued like nothing had happened. Ayelo yeku daba (When you fall down, get up in old Ewe language). That's what I been doing here in the Motherland. lol.... I guess people must fall all the time, but it was a surprise that just caught me off guard. This is how I feel all day long. Kind of surprised and like there are so many more things happening that I'm not aware of. Language barriers are a bitch.

I am reminded DAILY of how African and Un-African I am. My hair, but not my nose. My lips, but not my body. My mama, but not my daddy. My spirit, but not my skin color. The list goes on and on. I had to shut that shit down with the baby cuzins at the Amoo house on Saturday. This is why I always say, 'The U.S. is the only place where I am allowed to be "Black". Everywhere else I go, they always wanna make me something else. Being "Black" is such an incredible part of who I am. It may not be important to other folks, but it is to me. It just pisses me off to no end when people wanna try make me into some other thing behind some bullshit idea they have about what people that look like me are called. But then again the idea of "Blackness" might be bullshit to them? Whatever. Okay. Enough.

Positivity!!!! Light!!!!! I really have nothing to complain about and everything to be thankful for. Like the whole staring thing... Real talk. My life is good (knock on wood). Sure the staring thing can get a little intense, but I been through worse. Truth be told, I'm more worried about them and if they're gonna be okay than how it makes me feel. It's very serious for them and probably would be for me too if I lived here. Just a moment in Africa. That's all. Everything in its place and time. (Breath).

So, bloody hands and butterflies..... lol.

Young sistas selling at the bus station. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

In Ghana, the ant hills are kingdoms, crows wear white vests (just like in 'The WIZ') and the trees tell you exactly who they work for. People make houses from the same terracotta clay colored dirt that the roads are made of and big black bees come close. I suppose all bees sting if provoked, but the people say that the ones I've seen are not dangerous. I'm sure they are spirits. At least that's how they feel to me. I been mostly seeing the ones that look like wasps, but yesterday I saw a new kind. I think these were male. They had a different shape, and stripe pattern, but still "Black".

Today is Monday. Yesterday I traveled to Adokrom to visit Nana Hansa. (But ofcourse I had to get on the wrong tro-tro first and go to some way far out place where a man was holding up some kind of bush rodent/possumish animal up for sale by the side of the road. This is where I saw the dirt houses.)

Nana Hansa is a stunningly beautiful priestess in the Akan spiritual tradition. The folks to say the least. A real live Queen and mommy to say more. A Goddess to say the most. I saw the new bees outside her window when the rain began to fall. Africa is teaching me that I don't know a whole lot about a bunch of stuff. Things that for everyone here are basic.... Like raindrops can be hard as rocks so you should get out of the way when they're angry... or that words don't always have to be spelled the way you think they should be. For example, at the filling station down the street from where I stay, the word 'tire' is spelled 't-y-r-e'. A couple of days ago I saw the word 'little' spelled 'l-i-t-e-l-e' on the back of a taxi, the word 'call' spelled 'K-O-L-L' on a Hip Life poster in East Legon, and 'honking' spelled 'h-a-w-k-i-n-g' on every tunnel I go through. Different shape, still "Black".

The way people move through the street here is a lesson in the complexity of African sensibility and spatial awareness. In the States we don't carry things on our heads, so we don't really have to deal with what that means during travel (especially in crowded subway stations or market places). The closest ASE comes is carrying hella drums, props, and costumes to our gigs, but nothing like these folks. AND the women be carrying the babies on their backs, having conversations with the person next to them while walking forward or crossing the street and carrying the loads on their heads at the same time. Their displays are impeccable. This is not even getting into how they take money, give change, and keep it movin'. I have so much respect. I just try to make myself as small as possible so I don't get hit by anything. In Brooklyn, Ebony Kuyateh and Dina Wright Joseph are the closest we come to these sistas.

Clean. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

I washed clothes again on Saturday. At home it's no big deal cuz we have machines, but here it takes mad time and energy. This whole experience is making me see how much we take for granted in the U.S. I saw some people drying the fabric they had just batiked by the side of the road the other day. I just be thinking....'Oh, this is pretty. It just comes out looking like that. A machine probably did it.' No fool. It comes like that because people work hard to make it like that. I'm sure there are machines somewhere, but Africa is a DIY country if I've ever seen one.

Lol... This morning I was coming into the house from running errands and Obroni was making a hammer. Obroni is one of Mr. Amoo's younger brothers. The one that makes all the drums and says he needs wife that won't bother him while he is dreaming about what he is going to make next. Ridiculously talented carpenter and Ogun like you have never seen. His mother said that when he was born he looked like a white person so that's why he is called Obroni. A word that I have become very familiar with here in the beloved Motherland. Anyways... MAKING a hammer?! Are you serious?! Lol. What?! I guess a hammer is something that does get made. Sometimes it just hurts to watch everything these folks do cuz it just reinforces how spoiled and weak I can be. Let me not disrespect my ancestors cuz we can beast out too, but Ase Dance Theatre Collective! I don't wanna hear nothin'! Tired?!!! What is that?!!..... Sing. Dance. Make the fabric. Make the hammer. Sell the plantains. Feed the baby. Cook the food. And Oh! I forgot! I complimented one of the Amoo nephews on his shoes...he was like 'Thank you. I made them.' And they were nice...like I would by them as a gift for someone. Like they would be in a fancy store in the U.S.!

Big twin, little twin. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

MAKING a hammer?! ... From air and the decision to do it?! Are you serious?! Lol! I don't wanna hear shit about black folks being lazy ever again. It makes absolutely no sense that the word 'nigger' became used by anyone, anywhere, to describe anything about who we are or what we do. And I'm thinking that part of the science of us changing the 'er' to 'a' and using it with each other is to admonish those that are not working hard enough. Ofcourse there is way more to that conversation, but I'm saying...

My hands are burnt from the laundry bar that looks like a giant, blue crayon. Ben says it's probably poisonous and they use the same thing in El Salvador. Three fingers on my right hand. The same three on my left. Middle to pinkie on both. It looks like I just dragged my fingers through some gravel and poured alcohol on them.

Can you say all day LOOONNNG? I'm getting better tho'. Even Atsu (Mr. Amoo's nephew and a dance student at the University of Ghana, the one with the fly ass shoes I had just talked about.) said so. He said 'Oh. You have tried!' when he saw all the work I had done. Now this goes back to the whole words happening the way you think they should thing. '...You have tried!', sounds like a diss right. 'You have tried?!...lol....Here...try my elbow on yo' lip...lol. Not at all like that. It's so much love, I'm just being ignorant. '... You have tried!', is one of the best compliments Ghanaians can give you. We would say, 'Oh, you did good or job well done. Good work!' I been working hella hard at trying to learn these Ewe songs and play the shaker (the Xatse, or what the Ewe's traditionally call the shaker) at the same time. I can't even think about the bell (the Gakogui or what the Ewe's traditionally call the bell) yet. The songs start in different places in the rhythm so it's difficult to transition between them and play the shaker. Also, the Ewe language is tonal and they sing in minor keys. Super beautiful. Just tricky as hell. Robert also says '...I have tried'. Lol. I guess that's all I can do.

White...American...Boy 11/26/08

And when do they fly back to "Thirty-Seven"? (Thirty-Seven" is the name of the military baracks that the bats come from. There is a hospital that has a garden or foresty type area where the bats hang out. People say there are so many bats there, they completely cover the trees. And they just be right there...the bats and the people...chillin'...). I'm just sayin' cuz the bats fly the same direction everytime I see them. I guess when they fly back it's nightime so you wouldn't really see them anyway. I be kinda hating on the bats, but I can relate to them so much right now. They're just trying to go eat. I just point and stare at them like I'm at the aquarium or something. Like the Ghanaians do to me ALL DAY LONG... WHATEVER I DO...no matter how small or great. Yes! I know. I'm a visitor, a stranger in a foreign land, but DAMN. I'm surprised no one has pulled a neck muscle or tripped and fallen the way they stare at me. One little girl today, she was so shocked, her mouth dropped wide open. I kept looking behind me to see if a bull was about to charge me or some dangerous animal was coming. And nothing. Just me. The creature from another planet.

Adia and Portia from across the street. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

It takes everything I have not to unleash my black girl stank. It's already a challenge to mind my face at home so you know your gurl is struggling with the face control meditation. In the middle it's all fascination and wonder. Fear in the beginning. Respect in the end. I get it, but for the last couple days it's been on my nerves. Like... 'Bout to BRREAK on the People on my nerves! They treat me like I'm white unless I tell them otherwise. I'm sure it would be easier to say, "Yes. I am a boy... I am a White...American...Boy. Like Brad Pitt, Justin Timberlake, Mark Wahlberg. I mean that's what I see when I look in the mirror everyday. Lol. There. Now do y

Mayi (... I will go.) 11/23/08

My bad. The bats start to come out between 5 and 6pm. They leave around 7. It seems as tho' they came closer tonight. Yesterday was November 22, 2008. I have been here for 17 days. One shipment of drums left the house yesterday. Mr. Amoo left today.

Although I had hoped it would grow in straight... my fade is still crooked. It slants down to the left. I must say this is not the most attractive period of my life, but that's okay. You gotta go in to come out right. That's why folks be mad at pretty girls tho'. For some of us, we gotta work hard to cultivate our beauty. If we aren't right inside, we stay busted outside. So... we be mad when "Hella Pretty on the outside, don't have to work on the inside" gets treated like royalty just cuz she looks good. Remember if it wasn't for "the field" there would never have been a "house".

Today is Sunday. I can feel myself slowing down and spreading out. My gaze, my saunter, my thoughts expanding into the wide-open space or "Badza" as the Ewe call it. "Agbadza" being the movement that one does when they are in a wide-open space. There are many kinds of "Agbadza", but the main step is a rhythmic breaking in the chest. "Flapping your wings" is the best way I can describe it. Women dance it with their elbows close to their body to show their femininity. Men dance it with their elbows out and up to show their masculinity. Both opening the space within themselves. Both connecting the smaller drum that activates their heart shakras to the larger drum that is tradition. Each a small window into their community. Each a reflection of spirit. I am learning exactly how diverse, intricate, and profound African culture really is.

Artwork by Alexandra Coveleski. (2006)

I haven't had an opportunity to see "Agbadza" in its cultural context yet. My familiarity is really with the Haitian "Akbadja". I only know a couple of steps (eventhough I think there are only a few). Ewe "Agbdaza" looks almost identical to the Haitian dance "Mayi-Zepaules". They both have the same bell pattern and you dance them with the same verasity. The particular kind of "Agbadza" I am learning is called "Gadzo". The connections between Ewe folklore and Haitian folklore are really quite fascinating. My teacher Robert Fugah has not shown me one step that I don't already recognize from Haitian dance. Ofcourse they do these steps at different times, in different dances, for different reasons, but I see us (the Africans in the West) all up and through it. The Ewe rhythms are one of the sonic roots from which Afro-Cuban, Brazilian, Haitian, and Puerto Rican traditional music have sprung.

In Ewe language, the word Mayi means "...I will go." Mayi-Zepaules and Gadzo are both fighting dances (Mayi can also be done as an agricultural dance). Both honor connection to the land. Gadzo, a war dance drama traditionally performed by men after returning from the bush to tell the people in the village their tales of battle. Mayi, pounding down into the earth and drawing from its power to bring spirits from far away. In my imagination, "Mayi" has become the voice of a black woman and "Gadzo", that of a black man. I have been watching how they are speaking to one another so that I can figure out how to paint the moving picture of their dynamic and which spell to cast. For the past year or so I have been thinking about the effect that fathers leaving their children has had on the black community. How it has affected the mothers, the sons, the daughters and the fathers themselves. What this means for future generations? Etc. I don't want to dwell on the ills, but really, I think it's about sparking the juju to set things in a different motion. I think that's what I'm trying to figure out. Interesting that I'm staying with a Ga family. (The Ga are patrilineal).

Catching Well Water 11/22/2008

As far back as I can recall, I have always started at the end and ended at the beginning. Sometimes I get confused and think that something is wrong with me or that I missed some information everyone else has. (Like the day I was absent from first grade class and everyone learned how to tell time except me. I had to pretend like I knew what was going on until I eventually taught myself) ... But, when I remember that the same thing I think is wrong with me is how I have progressed in the world, I can slide past all the bullshit and make things happen. Everyone is just trying to be okay. Prayer keeps me grounded. The same reasons why people love you are why they hate you. Passion is Passion. And seeing intention is cool, but actions are what people remember.

For the bucket to catch the water I have to throw it into the well upside down, pull to the right, let it sink, and pull up after it goes under. I walk over three ditches to use the internet (which has died three times so far during the course of me writing this blog), six to use the ATM machine, and ten to get to the gas station, if I don't cross the street. If I do, then that makes fourteen....ditches that I cross. I haven't seen anyone fall in or drop the huge loads they carry on their heads. Some people carry entire stores. It's something that everyone on the planet should witness. Effortless balance and pure hustle. Mmm, I believe in Africa! I'm not so sure Africa believes in me... but I think shes trying a little bit harder this week.

Buckets by the well. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

I walk the wrong way all the time and end up lost. Today it was on dusty backroad with six rather large goats (like if they came towards me I would run size). They were chillin' in the shade of a black station wagon that had no tires. The crazy thing is that I stood right next to them for about ten minutes and didn't notice they were there until Robert sent his neighbor to come get me.

A sneaky lizard with a black body, red face and tail keeps following me around. I watched him on the fence today as I was leaving the bath house. He always moves his head from side to side like he's saying, "No, no, no." He walks funny. I don't trust him. I get out of the way when he comes close.

I've been sick for the past couple days. Coughing all night. I've lost my voice from all the smog. My booty ran away from me about three days ago. Everytime I ate something, ANYTHING... it was all bad. I just caught it today. You know, in the bath house, right before I watched the lizard on the fence. Lol. Yeah so....that's what I been doing. I 'm trying to see this whole bootyfull experience as my African self coming forward and my American self falling back. But damn. It's not cute yall. Not at all. Real talk. Akrifa!

The other Vodou is that the Ewe folkloric songs I am learning are all about (this is very literal translation) "people that didn't have brotherly love being sad that they drove me away, them crying out for me to come back and then coming to get me to go and fight." Lol. Wonder what's next. Oh, let me guess.

The Dirge of the Unfinished Drum 11/20/08

As gently as I have been able to inhale the beauty and magnificence of Africa, "The Dirge of the Unfinished Drum" still haunts each breath that I exhale. It is true that light brown skin can still be Afrikin and "Black" is not a color, but a construct describing that which encompasses all light and is the source from which all color originates (at least that what I mean when I say it)... But, as Mr. Amoo put it yesterday while he was teaching a student how to make a drum "...Nobody wants to buy that color. It's the natural color. It works fine, the wood is strong and good, but when you add the darker color and polish it, the drum becomes more bold and demanding. If you don't polish your drum you will hate it..."

Drum skins on the steps. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

I'm sure he was NOT talking about me or the color of my skin, but tears filled my eyes and I had to stop videotaping all the same. It's amazing the shapes that words can take as they travel through the air. He sent me a circle, I turned it into a rectangle. That's why my ass needs to listen and stop interrupting so much. Most people could figure this out at home, but not me, I had to come all the way to Africa. Lol. My first embarrassing "African American returning to the Motherland breakdown" was destined to come sooner or later. And no, this is not the story of "...poor me I'm light skinned boo hoo. Why don't my people accept me?", because that just simply isn't true. Me and my black people have always been in the truest love I've ever felt. I think this whole thing is more about the question of how and where to begin the healing work I came here to do. Dr. Halifu described it best in our conversation yesterday at the National Theater. She said"... it's like meeting a mother you never knew you had for the first time." I never articulated it that way, African Americans as adopted children that have never met their birth mother. It makes perfect sense. (And let me not pretend like I am that unconscious. I just be getting caught up in the day to day of the U.S.A.).

Removing the fur from the skin. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

I don't think it always has to be like this. Dirges of unfinished drums, whips, and chains echoeing through our daily breaths. I completely have the power to create healing around these scars...but scars leave marks on your skin. Inside and out. Here (in Africa) scars are tribal and help identify which villages people come from. I think they're beautiful, but this Hausa man I spoke with thought they made women very ugly. Again a circle changed into a rectangle. Except this time it wasn't me.

I guess that's where I can begin to tell the story of me and my brother Akil.

Akil is the key to the ancestral lock my life's journey is to open although he doesn't know it. We are 19 months apart. Still, dark, magical as amethyst rock surrounded by rose quartz. A volcano erupting little by little. A mirror shattering and reconstructing itself over and over again. He is thoughtful and intelligent by nature, traumatized by circumstance. Both of us like Hurricane Katrina on our worst days. The same as me, but different. Not better. Not worse. "Same" in the purest sense of the word.

Unfinished drums. (Accra, Ghana 2008)

Both of us fight daily to let go of the past. Both died in other people's dreams of who we were because jumping off a scyscrapers into pools of water helps us cool down. In real life we were born again. A crab and A fish. Both of the sea and can't see eye to eye. So we don't speak to each other anymore. When we do it hurts us both. He thinks I look down on him and don't listen. Part of this is true, the rest is not. Just like everything else that has two sides. Love has never been the question. Honor and respect always has been. The same. No difference. Me to go here. Him to transform anger into greatness at home in the Africa we call "The Bay". And he is doing exactly that. I hope to be there when he is finally satisfied with himself. I know he feels the same way about me.

Our post- traumatic slave syndrome has not disappeared now that Obama has won. It's just become the place where I can begin to whistle "The Dirge of the Unfinished Drum" with hope and a smile. I pray that he is polishing his drum and doing well. Ase.

Akwaaba (Welcome) 11/19/08

I have never written a blog before so I don't know if there is some sort of "blog format" or whatever but here goes. Enjoy.
The corn when I arrived at the Amoo's house.
(Accra, Ghana)

When I woke up today I had been sleeping so hard that I forgot I was in Africa. That only lasted for a minute. The roosters, Muslims and Christians have a battle at about 5:30 a.m. every morning. I went back to sleep and woke up again in the afternoon, which was really like 7:00 a.m. in New York. I still can't believe that I'm here. Everything still feels very abstract video montage-ish right now. I haven't gotten used to the time difference yet so I'm always tired. I've been spending most of my time in taxis traveling down long, terracotta clay colored roads that connect into more long, terracotta clay colored roads (some concrete). It's funny how you finally understand a dance once you have to live in it's impetus. Like right now I'm in the Spider Dance (Haiti). The web of intersections and roads on which you can travel to get closer or farther away from your destiny (each strand representing a different path on which one can choose to travel).

My web spinning consists of calling people and creating plans of action about how I will get from one place to the next, where I will go, and what I will accomplish each day. When I return to the web I've created at the end of the day, I clean it (my space and me), eat, and rest. Each day I've done the same. The daily visit, feeding and destruction of the web is more real than it's ever been. Maybe the reason why I'm so scared of spiders is because I've been one all along. Here, there are not as many barriers from you to yourself as there are at home. Things are plain. There is space and quiet you have to take even if you don't want to. Three blackouts at the house where I am staying have taught me this. Everything just stops......and then turns into whatever you make it to be.

The one thing I can say is that Africa is HOT (in every way) and it seems like these mosquitoes are the loudest I've ever heard. Oh, and the pineapples are the sweetest I've ever tasted....and dragonflies appear out of nowhere in swarms...everyday at 7:00p.m. hundreds of bats fly across the sunset...Ghanaians know how to do and fix EVERYTHING...they describe tragedy poetically by saying things like "eaten by the sea"...and I see like five different kinds of butterflies in one day. I guess that's more than one thing, but for real, from what I've seen so far, bush genius"...reigns supreme over nearly everybody". African folks, ALL OF US, are super advanced. "High Life" and "Hip Life" are the shit, (Yo! Hella dope!) and on some pluralistic, global collective African identity, it's looking like love is finally winning the game from the inside out.

It really was such a blessing to have arrived in Ghana after receiving the news that Barack Hussein Obama, a man of African descent, had become the next President of the United States of America. All of Africa is a glow. Smiling faces shouting Obama's name as I walk by, " What country?! What country?! Black American?! Yes! Obama won! We are so happy! We Africans are so happy!". And I am, for the first time ever in my life, proud to be from the U.S. I'm not saying I'm 'bout to start rockin' stars and stripes, but it does make me happy to know that my grandmother and parents got to live to see this day. Out here it has given me a sort of protection that I would not have had otherwise.

Accra is big and yeah people CAN speak English, but it's not like they do if they don't have to. Just like how we switch it up at work. Same thing. They ain't tryin' to be formal in the kick it. Life here is slow and sweet. People work hard, pray hard, and rest well. Everyone stares at me wherever I go. I get asked if I am a man or a woman at least once a day because I have a short haircut and refuse wear earrings. Most of the people that ask have shorter hair than I do.

I have been reading a lot. Mostly this book Coco gave me called "The Palm Wine Drinkard". It's a wild ride to say the least. I find myself having to move around or make up choreography just to go to sleep. Last night it was time signatures. For those of you that know how I can be, I've done good. Only one tantrum with a taxi driver that grabbed my arm and tried to charge me 8 Ghana Cedis for a ride that should have costed 5. That was okay tho'. It forced me to learn how to take the tro-tro (public transportation) by myself. And yeah...the engine of the first tro- tro stalled and filled the entire van up with smoke, but we got out quick and after the crowd surrounded the driver, we got our money back. And okay, we had walk helllllla far to get to the second tro-tro where I got a fat bruise on my arm trying to cram into the seat. I wasn't upset that we never arrived at my stop because the driver was tired and told everyone HIS neighborhood was the last stop. Walking through some marketplace cuts in Africa at night in the rain is whussup....(lol), but, let me be honest, when I got to the middle of the dark, muddy bus station and people kept directing me to the wrong bus, I had to just bite the bullet and get in a taxi.

As far as the dancing and drumming goes, I am just beginning my training. I've been mostly just trying to get myself situated. I've been here for eleven days. Got a phone and a room. I'm staying at Mr. David Amoo's family home in North Kaneshi (the Swanlake district of Accra, by St. Theresa's). Mr. Amoo is a cheif. His voice is the drum that calls the village together. His brother and nephews build every kind of drum that comes out of Ghana here. In the words of my dear friend Guy DeChalus, "BUUUUSSSH!!!!".

Mr. Amoo is the Artistic Director of the National Ghana Dance Ensemble, a truely amazing artist and human being (as are the members of the ensemble). It's inspiring to see another Artistic Director in his creative process. Playing the role of an observer during this particular experience of art building and discovery has reaffirmed my position that "My art can never be based on white supremacy". This is the only way it's core can remain strong. I can not judge what I do and how I do it by European based models of assessment. Here, this seems to be very clear. It's not even a discussion. Not having to explain why what you do is just as refined and classical as European dance? What is that? Can you say the hope and the dream of THIS slave? Lol.

Nah, I'm not a slave, but for real. What?! I wish there were more people like Mr. Amoo in my part of the world. I don't even know what my life would be like if I didn't have to spend so much time justifying what I do to the "white" dance world. Lol. I guess that's the give and take that makes my art "so dense" oooo.

For the record, for those those of you that say "black" dance is repetitious, there is too much unison etc....repetition, shape, and direction in "black dance/art" mean something totally different than what they do in modern dance and ballet. We are energetically trying to acheive and fix the things that are broken in our communities. Things that were broken by European colonization and imperialism. Things that WE continue to break because WE have been trained by "His" story not to honor our legacies and the amount of intelligence we possess.

We dance in unison to create unity. We repeat ourselves to create the volume it takes for our ancestors to hear us and the harmony it takes for us to hear each other. All I'm saying is that I'm not down to continue sitting on these dancer talk back panel things we have to do sometimes when we present our work, and pretend like the way the dance community at large discusses dance is all inclusive. Boom. That's enough of that.

Both Mr. Amoo and myself are rigorously and whole heartedly working to expand the vision of our companies. His dancers are brilliant. Everything they do is passion filled. And ofcourse they do everything. Sing. Dance. Play the instruments. Make the costumes. They are so eager and motivated to learn as much as they can. The company is rehearsing for a month long tour to the Netherlands. They leave next week and will return December 23rd. Half of the company will go and half will stay behind. Hopefully I will get a chance to work with them. It is an honor to have begun creating a personal and professional relationship with Mr. Amoo's family and company. Everyone has been very genuine and nurturing. They have shown me nothing but love.

In saying this I also have to recognize Osei and Yao, the Artistic Directors of Asaseyaa Dance Company in Brooklyn . These brothas have also shown nothing but love and enabled me to make this important link. I am eternally grateful.

I learned two songs, a break, and two dances yesterday from my drum and dance teacher Robert Fugah. It was good to get down with those brothas. I think they were surprised that I could hold down the bell and shaker rhythm so tuff. Sekou you would have been proud. They said, "You dance like an African woman." I said, "I am an African woman." We laughed. The Ewe stuff is almost identical to Haitian music and the way they fall on the rhythm in their dances is JUST like how we do in Haitian dance. I also see where we (African Americans) formed our relationship to the base. This particular vein of funkiness is a vital sign of our people.

Other than that, I ate my first hardcore African meal of fu fu and giant snails from the bush yesterday. It was actually pretty good, but the texture and just the whole snails are my friends thing kinda weirded my out a little bit. It was an ice cold moment tho'. The Ghanaians at the African food spot (LaPaloma) started to hate, like I was weak and couldn't handle it. And yall know.... as much as I complain, I'm not walking away from a battle. Especially when I know Imma win! Please. Stealth as a ninja in the night tho' dawg. Down'd it like a champ. They started smiling and hugging me and calling me sister. Lol. Africa iz Africa. Ase.