Some, not all, love can be divided
Nazma Yeasmeen Haque feels the pain of a writer
THIS is a scintillating autobiography from the highly accomplished writer Maya Angelou, who wears variegated caps as a musician, poet, performer and, on top of everything, a great mother albeit remaining fixated on her only child -- her teenage son, Guy. Although there is an assortment of real-life incidents in this book, yet as one reads it, one gets the feeling of devouring one of the best quality novels primarily because of the way the author presents an array of facts and also her style of language being so lucid. Exactly for this reason, Chicago Tribune Book World has stated that her 'personal narrative' in this book has attained a 'lyrical' quality and so enhancing its literary value. The author's acute perception of characters, who are a multitude, their conversations and interactions, all take place in settings revealing the complex nature of human beings. A kaleidoscopic journey into people, incidents and their loci unveils the truth that humans do have an innate dislike for things and people dissimilar to their own. She does the perfect job of an anthropologist in terms of her incisive observation and, making a record of each and every word and expression along with the body language associated therein, does the job of a perfectly trained psychologist in terms of explaining them in common parlance. For example, we hear the receptionist at the Ghana Broadcasting office who by some miraculous way recognizes Angelou as someone 'different' and starts grilling her on the purpose of her visit. At one stage, she comments, "American Negroes are always crude." This makes the author wonder if she is not having an encounter with "a rude white salesclerk in an American department store." In spite of her looks that are so typical of an African, somehow her un-African-ness surfaces in the vision of the African receptionist. Then again, although President Nkrumah gives a call to the nation saying, "West Indians and Black Americans are among Africa's great gifts to the world," when there is an attempt on his life at about the same time, fingers are pointed at, besides others, the Black Americans who form a strong group of skilled and talented émigrés in Ghana. A high-ranking intellectual says, "America can use its black citizens to infiltrate Africa and sabotage our struggle because the Negro's complexion is a perfect disguise. Be wary, Africa, of the Peace Crops Blacks, the AID Blacks, and the Foreign Service Blacks." He goes further, cautioning the Africans about getting close to American Blacks, which implies deep suspicion with which the 'Revolutionist Returnees," as the author describes the group who came to Ghana from the States, are held. An awareness of being the same yet different in terms of their American-ness gnaws at their conscience even as they cling to their 'motherland'. Such asocial and oftentimes hostile behaviour the writer and her friends experience in dealing with a Black couple arriving in Accra from the States. They, particularly, the man finds the suggestions given by the well-meaning Black Americans ill-motivated and comments, ".... It's just like Negroes. They are here, in their own place, and they don't want us in. Just like crabs in a bucket. Pulling the other one down. When will you people learn? ...." This is all the more strange behaviour from a Black American toward other Black Americans. The author also narrates the reactions of a British academic to the recent riots in Harlem that appeared as front-page news in Ghanaian newspapers, which is no less shocking. Expressing his revulsion, he says, "Democracy was never created for the lower classes. Everyone knows that. Just like at Ghana." Instantly the author protests, saying, "You people are idiots, and you dare speak of Ghana. You rejects." Overcome by her justified anger, she goes on, "You left your old cold ass countries and came here where you've never had it so good. Now you've got servants and can bathe more than once a month. It's a pity more of you don't take advantage of the opportunity. You stinking bastards." Last of all, as she heads for the door, she utters," And don't say a word to me, I'll slap the water out of all of you." A stern warning to the imperalists living in their faded glory! While the author travels to Berlin to perform on stage along with her troupe having come from the States, she witnesses the same degree of animosity of Germans toward an Israeli actor. During her final trip, that is to Eastern Ghana, the author comes across an unusual experience while visiting a market place in a village. The women remember a heartbreaking tale of their ancestors, who were either killed or chained and who before being huddled up killed their own infants, holding them by their feet and bashing their heads against tree trunks as they would rather have their children dead than see them being sold into slavery. And these wailing women are descendants of some of the children who managed to run away from the slave traders and were orphaned. From her features it appears to them that she must have descended from those stolen mothers and fathers and, therefore, they are mourning for their lost people, if not for her. The most shocking revelation to the writer is to learn that not "all slaves were stolen, nor were all slave dealers European." This carries a message that is not only most frightening but extremely hard to believe. The author ponders over the matter only to lay bare the truth that some family members traded their near, if not dear, ones in slavery and, secondly, some stronger and clever tribes traded people of other tribes who were weak and gullible into slavery. Collaborators in crimes are aplenty everywhere in the world. To them only the present time is permanent! She herself has traveled a long distance, her people and her foreparents have travelled an enormously long distance barefoot, experiencing the pangs of uprootedness and the barbarity of the traders in human soul and transforming them into sold out merchandise to be used by buyers in any way they liked. The question is: when will they get their shoes to wear to make them feel somewhat comfortable and at the same time less fearful? After all, are not all of them, all of us children of one and the same God? A tailored civilization takes no notice of this axiomatic truth, the writer contends. This is a fondly woven story taken from real life where there is a yearning for finding out, for knowing the heart and soul of one's origin which, however, limps often but eventually persists in a strong tie of love. Much love and hate and ambivalence in accepting or rejecting one for the other operate in the mind of the author like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. In the midst of all this, America beckons, for that is where she has her family, friends and familiarity to go back to after a long stay of two years in Ghana. Yes, some love can be divided, not all.
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