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mind entropy of the ethiofrican

The Graying of these here Pink Shades

6 May, 2010 | 2 comments | Category: love.of.words!, madness!, poetry, thinking...

by tsepeaces

youth
the bright hues and yellow tints of youth
shimmer with a firm naive plumpness
an alluring image behind pink glasses
tints that ripen into a deep maroon red
under an abrupt, certain stare
under the visor where pleasure equals happiness
gorgeous equals flawlessness

grown
confusion and complexity,
blurring against clarity
all was either peachy or rotten
till these glasses started aging
the tints were fading
gloss now crusty and textured
set in white and gray, black and gray
plain eyes find shades in arrays

accents
 a wrinkle, an involving accent
the heavy weight of dark colors hanging
at the bottom edges of eyes where tears hide
& melancholy has a crackling of pleasure
for the sweetest memories inflict mourning torture

love
eyes behold a black hole we fall into
in love
while they’re also the pools
below the highest cliffs we soar from…
in this same thing called, love

everything
in this reality everything begets everything,
each pit contains a darker or lighter version of itself
love breeds love
while hurt only gives birth to still more hurt

light perception
life’s quirks lay in the angles,
of how we perceive reality than actualities
harnessing reality through the circle of thoughts
creation in the choice of one’s spotlight

imperfect
at the onset of the graying of these pink shades
the know-it-all meets humility
in the mystery of the skies
eyes fixate on imperfection daze
humility, brokenly endearing
scars, badges of lessons learned
love, the art of letting go and holding tight
freedom, void without duty & security
courage, enough to risk breaking
bravery, a leap off the highest hills
fear the only thing to be feared
besides indecision paralysis, waiting, pain

paradox
where paradox carries the realest truth
and reason can be simply foolish
where intuition and love mark the shine at the edge of life
life purely for the sake of itself

art
the surest artform
coming alive
of contrasts, shades, hues,
emotions, choices, mystery, danger
& insanely delightfully enough even…magic

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the horn’s dustyfoot wordisans

31 January, 2009 | 14 comments | Category: book snip, for.the.love.of.words!, love.of.words!, musiqa, poetry

I wrote about the dusty foot philosopher k’naan’s wordskillz last year. looks like the emcee-poet-word artist is back with a new album!

a somali wordisan artisan
K’naan’s poem ‘too well done’ portrays beyond doubt the power of words to relay messages dripping with passion and energy. It does that as it encapsulates an experience within the horn in a unique and touchingly honest way that no other medium could.

Words can shake. caress. arouse. repel. expose. provoke. uplift… It’s intriguing how complicated the history of cultures & their wordplays get. Though, simply -- words sculpt a story through a unique writer-orator’s worldview. enter: the horn immigrant K’naan hailing from Wardhiigleey (”The Lake of Blood”), Mogadishu, Somalia, now a rapper residing in Canada.


the horn of africa’s wordy history

For a region with communities that raised us teaching you must respect the elders without daring to talk back…words weigh a lot. Though the truth -- our stories are not heard in our voices resounding across the world. We hear stories about wars, famine and suffering, no clear and honed voices speaking out in intricate articulation about people of ancient cultures sharing their glorious humanity, until now. The groove of the horn is deep with a lot of treasure within… as K’Naan put it “The horn of Africa has the deepest wells humanity has ever dug to find the truest sentiments that describe the world and what it contains.”

I’ve been reading ‘Notes from the Hyena’s Belly‘, an interestingly written book seeping stories about cultural rituals and traditions through the eyes of a grown man remembering his childhood in Jijiga, eastern Ethiopia -- a cultural crossroads between the interior of Ethiopia and the interior of Somaliland. And I came across a section that described the role of poets in times past, of highland kingdom kings and noblemen, feudal lords and warriors…

The key to the kinae lies in the contradictory nature of the Amharic language…Generations of oppression, without freedom of speech, gave birth to this tangling of meaning and intentions. If a man had been mistreated by a feudal lord or local chieftain, he would compose a kinae to read at a social event, a poem that was sweet and heart-rending to the untrained ar, but quite biting to the lord- one of the intended audience.

The peasants, by and large, were illiterate and unable to put together a recondite kinae, so the poets did it for them. A poet might compose a kinae to inform the lord that the taxes he had levied on his subjects were expensive, about the brutality of his son, who raped and plundered the locals, or as a plea for forgiveness on behalf of the man he had recently thrown into his private jail. The feudal lord was often trained in the interpretation of the kinae, but if he doubted his own judgment, there were always one or two monks beside him to shed light on the subject. Poets were usually exempt form the repercussions of their kinae, as lords were generally reluctant to be seen as monstrous persecutors of humble poets. Besides, the poet could always plead his ignorance, claiming that his intentions were misread, and offer apologies.


It’s quite fascinating really, the horn has such ancient traditions with words…intertwined with the fabric of society where the lifestyle has been dictated by the nature of the location. A location very much at a crossroads and junction point between continents with a variety of cultures. Like most forms of African art, spoken and written words are mixed into the way of life; literature is functional, musical, entertaining, uplifting and has a performance culture fused with it. Like most African art -- it is holistic…interactive…improvisational… communal.

The horn is the land of storytelling, poetry, fables, riddles of play, wisdom and double edged words…warrior chants and calls, songs of childplay, lyrics to accompany the grinding of grains & the sifting of dry pepper fruit … Religious & spiritual hymns resound along with rhythmic recitations of scripture and the echoing sounds of mosque prayers …words spar for justice village elders witness conflicts of village members, scribes record mystical tales as beggars and singers improvise poetry & lyrics to customize to their listeners…

the dusty foot filosofer’s wordy inspiration

‘Somalia tops Forbes magazine’s “Most Dangerous Destinations,” list above Iraq and Afghanistan. And yet it is “The Nation of Poets,” where a poem has the power to inspire peace. Where every weekend, regardless of the climate, one can find a play or concert.’

‘Somalia was dubbed by the 19th century British explorer Richard Burton in his book ‘First Footsteps in East Africa‘ as a nation of bards:

The country teems with poets, every man has his recognized position in literature as accurately defined as though he had been reviewed in a century of magazines -- the fine ear of this people causing them to take the greatest pleasure in harmonious sounds and poetic expressions. Every chief in the country must have a panegyric to be sung by his clan, and the great patronize light literature by keeping a poet. Read more about Somali poetry

.

As Said Samatar explains, a Somali poet is expected to play a role in supporting his tribe or clan, “to defend their rights in clan disputes, to defend their honor and prestige against the attacks of rival poets, to immortalize their fame and to act on the whole as a spokesman for them.” In short, a traditional poem is occasional verse composed to a specific end, with argumentative or persuasive elements, and having a historical context.’

The grandson of Haji Mohamed, one of Somalia’s most famous poets, and nephew of famed Somali singer Magool, K’naan the emcee is creating his own musical orator path through reggae, funk, pop, soul and hip-hop. K’naan says he makes “urgent music with a message”, talking about the situation in his homeland of Somalia and calling for an end to violence and bloodshed. He specifically tries to avoid gangsta rap clichés and posturing, saying:

“All Somalis know that gangsterism isn’t to brag about. The kids that I was growing up with [in Rexdale] would wear baggy [track] suit pants, and a little jacket from Zellers or something, and they’d walk into school, and all the cool kids would be like, ‘Ah, man, look at these Somalis. Yo, you’re a punk!’ And the other kid won’t say nothing, but that kid, probably, has killed fifteen people.

”

“My job is to write just what I see / So a visual stenographer is who I be,” he rhymes in “I Come Prepared.”

here’s the video of his first single from his latest album.

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Wayna & Dinaw: Slums of Paradise

8 December, 2008 | 9 comments | Category: book snip, for.the.love.of.words!, I.dentity, i.mmigration, love.of.words!, musiqa, nostalgia.personal, peace & conflict, poetry, prose.tales

The African immigrant experience within the U.S.
…complex, diverse and ridiculously chaotic!
Which experience isn’t, eh?
A friend recently told me we are ‘transplants’…
Surely there is no way that can be less-than-a-chaotic experience!
A chaotic experience that’s gotta be told…

Why Stories?

Stories are powerful and profound…
They are ways to …share the most beautiful parts of ‘me’ and ‘us’:
stories of sincere, vulnerable, honest, contradictory and complex humanity…(great video on that)…a way to confirm my & our presences in this world, in our own voices…I love stories, always have for some reason.

My mum told me, when I was a little girl and wouldn’t eat food, she used to tell me stories so my mouth would unconsciously gape open and she’d slip the food in! We should tell each other our stories to share each other, and to build/reaffirm our commonality – or humanity.

Stories make & relay meaning, share, connect, inspire, uplift, persuade, shape thought, teach, transfer history, bring together, affirm culture, enable self-reflection…they confirm ‘you are not alone in your experience’ and describe common narratives of communities. From the political-historical angle…written stories hold weight as Virginia Woolf once said; “Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.”…and as long as the victors tell the prevalent stories, they would have the upper hand. Stories are paths to peacemaking, just as they are to the absence of peace. ‘Stories fill our lives in the way that water fills the lives of fish.’ Stories are as all-pervasive as culture.

Wayna’s Slums of Paradise

Below are sublime original sounds by Grammy nominee Wayna Wondwossen. ‘Slums of Paradise’ holds her description of experiences as an Ethiopian-born immigrant in the US with parents filled with expectations about her future. She is an incredible neo soul musician wonderfully deserving of her Grammy nomination. Listening to her live rendition of Bob Marley’s ‘Redemption Song’ last March, I literally had tears in my eyes and goosebumps! Her voice has a clarity and beauty that is just uplifting. No wonder the incredible Stevie Wonder himself said “She is Incredible!”
Slums of Paradise – Wayna

 

Desparate Days – Wayna ft. Tewoderos Taddesse

 

Dinaw’s “The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears“

Also been reading a very engaging novel by Dinaw Mengestu, an Ethiopian Immigrant, winner of the 2007 Guardian First Book Award. The story is about a man, Sepha Stephanos, who flees a communist junta as a teenager to become a transplant immigrant in the US, making attempts to grasp the ‘beauty that heaven bears’- the American dream. The book captures the loneliness, and internal angst involved in the immigrant experience- it is so bare and honest… The best parts of the book, to me, circulate around the emotional narrative behind the illusion of opportunity and Sepha’s attempts to reconcile his ever-present nostalgia. His fleeting romance with a family of a single white mother and biracial daughter is a touching tale of a man fearful of love in his self-doubt. Here is an interview with Dinaw by Tadias Magazine. My favorite part of the interview:

“I don’t think most writers ever decide to write. For me, it was something that I did because I had to. It’s been my way of managing and making sense of the world I live in.”

It’s exciting that voices like his are starting to get heard.

(more…)

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Diirre: A Childhood Crush

13 November, 2008 | 6 comments | Category: for.the.love.of.words!, nostalgia.personal, prose.tales

the boy, the city, the spiciness of the experience…

I was 10-12 I think…

The Spiciness
Every summer I went to visit my grandmother and great-aunt away from the rainy, muggy kiremt into the sunny humidity of the East. My great-aunt was the precious kind of woman who exuded love to all the kids of the area and gathered them into her home, showering them with the little cares of a grandmother. She would cajole, scold, hug, kiss and nurture as if they were her own. She was many things at all times, the versatile abode that is Woman. Personified, she was the vesicle for culture, the treasure chest of folktales; a linguist, like many in her generation. She spoke Haderi, Arabic, Amharic, Oromiffa, Somali…saying exactly what was on her mind with sharp eloquence as the need presented itself.

Almost every night, us kids would gather outside by the grayish blue gates around my great aunt’s feet as the sand settles and the heavy nefasha air breezes past the leaves; the teeming starry sky twinkling above us. I was a big fan of these nights, nights of teret teret storytelling about ali babba, the always mischievous monkey and the smart girl, the selfish one…the stepmother (Hmm…maybe this is why I’m such a sucker for breezy warm days that caress as they prode out a contented smile; like a lazy Saturday afternoon by the Potomac waterfront…)

Anyhow, back to another time and place.

Every summer I would reel from excitement as i make my way to Dire to start a month long excursion filled with dankira with the kids and happy days with my adorably talkative aunties. freedom! These summer friends of mine had their own slang; the juiciest kind that combines all the languages of the area. “Kale Waria!!” “Abooooo tewaaa!” “Abshir new, Alhamdililah!” “Intalo, injiru bishaniti?” Qesht, Abo, Senduq, birka, shillingi, roqa, medebir, mamilla, CHebo, deAs, DerIA…and so I rack my memory: to find all these and more profane wordy varieties…

The Boy

It was then that I became crush-struck. My younger cousin’s best friend was about 1 year older than I. The star footballer and the little arada of the area with his hitched walk and croaky voice; sure to be crowned mr. congeniality; deserving by far. It seems I was drawn to personality more than looks, even then…He had sharp accented features (big eyes, big nose, brownish soft hair) and he was light-skinned. Tall and skinny be he.

The old ladies were his fans, the other kids admirers of his mischief. Him and Cuz would tell me stories of classroom antics, football rivalries, adventures running errands around Dire and those vicious kids at the khat terra with whom they waged reckless battles. I’m not sure if I wanted to be them in their recklessness and my rebellious tomboy aspirations or hang with them for some girly reasons I couldn’t fathom! Nonetheless, such were the vagaries which plagued the mind of a little girl coming-of-age.

Jeezz, I was so ashamed of my heart doing a violent and loud ruckus! My tongue-tied little mouth releasing hitched breaths …jitters as he played football outside, came to buy Rossmans…crush-struck! lol, It was petrifying for the little girl that I was. It didn’t even occur to me that I could like him. I badly needed to keep my casual ease – sliding smoothly into funny stories, rants and raves about childhood naughtiness …and juicy neighborhood gossip, for good Dire measure…But No! his voice started breaking as I started breaking into sweat! what silliness!

Sure enough I never told him how I felt- maybe because I didn’t know what it was despite the plethora of teenage books and movies I devoured! At age 11, I expected he would laugh in my face. And as we grew older he would come visit and I would grasp at composure, fumbling… Mainly, I would hear about him from other people…he repeated a class, he was thinking of joining the national football team, he joined the team at the ‘C’ level, then went to vocational school for carpentry …finally he’s joined the federal police… and such a path destiny took…

The City

My little memory vesicle still holds this swanky character with fondness…A fondness that encompasses a town full of people in flip-flops and short-sleeved shirts; long skirts and flirty scarves. Neighbors that come out in the fading warmth- in the cool, calming dusk under acacia trees…as they sit on steps across narrow roads and yell out conversations about so-an-so’s illegitimate child and the price of water… ah! the freedom and openness! Dirty laundry always adorns the dingy streets; if u care to stand for a quick second and listen.

This is a town with equal opportunity hoya hoye where girls ran around with boys, chanting and singing for coins; where people (read: bachelors) buy ‘muslim’ meat pasta with marinara sauce in thin plastic bags with handles. The pasta spot sells chick-pea porridge ‘fuul‘ at breakfast (a middle eastern meal? As staple as dunked bread in sweet spicy tea, as far as I could remember)

Here, the mid-afternoon starts with a calm when everyone clamors indoors to chew on khat and rewind after the noon nap… Mid-morning is marked with knocks by entrepreneurial contraband salesmen, beggars and milkmaids calling for attention. And what of the open blue-grey gates? These gates are always ajar. Open to sounds of children kicking around balls; little girls mixing sand to build play-houses…and passersby exchanging greetings along with drips of the social update for the day.

This small city ruckus is topped up with the sound of the mamilla-CHebo coming around asking auntie for lunch or work carrying stuff in between his cigarette swigs. Infamously, this year’s mamilla was an amazingly intelligent english teacher until the blinding sun-khat -and sand turned him looney!

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Lifestyle treat: Abuara

23 September, 2008 | 4 comments | Category: for.the.love.of.words!, nostalgia.personal, prose.tales

You know the strangest little thing about memory? remembering those most irksome little bothers in life with unrelenting fondness. nostalgia …isn’t it the weirdest thing about memory?

It was in Ginbot, very close to the national exams,

the time - mid afternoon-ish
when dusty dry particles billow out from pavements
surrounding, adding noise to vision…
little flakes …pricking below the lids.

walking against a dust cloud…


skipped classes for tastier ventures
crashing day parties
gripping the trilling lures of adulteration
lethargic on cafe chairs
see …be seen…
whom, what…
clarity, enclosed in a whooshing sound as
foggy teenage distractions revolve around
the mind
that’s another strange thing about memory
fog….but this Ginbot had no fog
au contraire mon amie!
the horizon was so bright the sky was sparkling.
a piercing white sun shone down like BouZA lights.
specks of dust as they rose from the ground
chocking up airy volume
chipped blue and white paint of taxis
smeared with flakes of brownness. dust.
mirrored by: cloud, blue sky, dust…

the innocence? of school girls in uniforms.
prancing along the pavement,
flimsy thoughts floating- of social swank and swagger.
chatter on details of so-and-so, cliquesy clique qlink…
gossipy chitchat;

joyous giggles surrounded by dust cloud.
slinking words. talks of aspirations, pop pop culture…

air rumbling before a storm.
pensive. big exam. big stuff…big decisions.
whether …she’s going to be going
….the hair salon once every 2 weeks and full on primping for cafe lethargic,
or an alternate existence…in foreign space…
hmmm, days stomping addis streets chasing lifestyle treats….

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