Literary Safari

Of summer reading, the Presbyterian minister Henry Ward Beecher, once said, “There is a temperate zone in the mind, between luxurious indolence and exacting work; and it is to this region, just between laziness and labor, that summer reading belongs.”

I have to agree. When summer rolls around, I’m always on the lookout for a different kind of book — one that feels like it belongs just as much in a beach cabana as it does it on a park bench, an airplane, a moving train, or my bed; one that makes me think and feel just as much as it allows me to relax and smile; one made for my attention span that alternates between the ability to concentrate and the desire to flit about.

I wrote earlier about how much I enjoyed Gene Yang’s new collection of graphic short stories, The Eternal Smile.

Here, then, are some of my other reading picks for this season:

Rakesh Satyal’s Blue Boy (Kensington Publishing).
Hirsh Sawhney’s Delhi Noir (Akashic Books).
Kwei Quartey’s Wife of the Gods: An Inspector Darko Dawson Mystery (Random House).

While I sit here in steamy New York City awaiting the arrival of my first child and reading lots of non-fiction birthing and pregnancy books, these fictional reads have succeeded in take me through the three places that have been a part of my life so far: Ghana, India, and the US.

(more…)

A current event take on my off-and-on Family Ruminations series. You can read the conversations it generated over at Sepia Mutiny, where this was originally posted.

Representatives from 14 African nations were in New Delhi for the first-ever India-Africa summit, which just ended today. (The India-Africa Summit follows closely on the heels of the China-Africa summit of November 2006.)

Attendees signed off on the Delhi Declaration and the Africa-India Framework for Cooperation, pledging cooperation in the areas of energy, terrorism, climate change and UN Reforms. An informal and equally important outcome: India is looking to play a far more prominent role in Africa’s economic development than China in coming years.

My uncle Gobind is a retired World Bank developmental economist who has served as economic adviser to the government of Ghana. I asked him to share his thoughts on this historic summit.

“While India is less prominent than China in Africa today, both in trade and investments and aid,” he said, “it is more respected than China because of its image, its democracy, its presence in education, industry— especially pharmaceuticals and railways, and IT. There is growing interest in Africa in India, but it is not yet a hot issue, except for mining companies and the new private oil companies like Reliance. India is currently big in Sudan, DRC, Nigeria, Zambia and S. Africa. But it’s increasing its presence everywhere.”

The Emerging Economy report, released yesterday, underlined the role of Indian corporations in driving new technology usage in Africa. From the Earth Times [full story link]:

Chinese corporations have made significant investments in Africa over the past decade. For example, China’s Civil Engineering Construction Corporation is building the $8.3 billion railroad linking Lagos and Kano. However, the Report also points out that Indian entrepreneurs have long enjoyed trading relations in Africa, particularly along the continent’s east coast, running from Kenya down to the tip of South Africa. In the early part of the 20th century Indian engineering and consumer brands were considered as reliable as those coming from Europe. Bilateral trade between India and Africa increased from less than US$ 1 billion in 1991 to over US$ 9 billion in 2005. Today, the Government of India is aiming to achieve a trade turnover of US$ 500 billion by 2010.

My grandfather might be one of those Indian entrepreneurs referred to above. In the 1930s, Dada came to West Africa as apprentice to an Indian trading company. He ended up placing his roots down in Ghana where he opened a chain of movie theaters and imported movies from India and China for a rural audience.

(more…)

I’ve been working on a series of essays about my family for the last few years. Last night, I read a slightly shorter version of this piece at SAWCC’s fundraiser “An Evening of Short Readings.” I thought I’d post the complete essay here, and continue my series of “Family Ruminations.”

Children of a Coup

On June 4, 1979, just a few days before scheduled elections in Ghana, the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council overthrew the government. This was the fourth coup in the nascent democracy since 1957, when Ghana became the first sub-Saharan African nation to achieve independence from colonial rule. At the time, I was five.

Those were turbulent days. The government’s body fell apart and violence replaced peaceable discomfort. Lines at gas stations grew long, schools were closed more often than they were open, and SPAM and Baked Beans came close to gaining the status of staple foods.

In their homes, people were afraid. People hid their gold jewelry in their pillowcases and slept with it under their heads. They double bolted their doors and paid to have watchmen guard the gates of their bungalows at night. Even with the added security, more and more homes were broken into. Men in army fatigue and skull caps banged down doors with rifles and sickles. They tied up the women and forced the men to show them where they kept their money and valuables.

In tough times, foreigners become easy targets. The Indian population in Ghana in 1979, consisting primarily of Sindhi entrepreneurs, felt vulnerable. My family was no exception. Fear seeped into my grandparents and parents and they began asking themselves the difficult question: Should we stay or should we go back to India?

At night, Dada and Papa would huddle together in the dark verandah surrounded by the sounds of croaking frogs and chirping crickets. They would sip on Johnnie Walker Black Label—Winston Churchill’s favorite Scotch—while discussing their options in hushed tones.

Ultimately, economics won the debate. Dada had left India too long ago to think of starting life there all over again and the family business was too well-established and lucrative to be shut down. It just didn’t make sense to just leave.

Papa and Mama remained worried, especially for us, the children and began trying to come up with a solution. India seemed like the best option for us. There, we could get a solid an uninterrupted education—and live with my maternal grandmother and aunt.

This is how I ended up in Pune at age 6, separated from my parents for the next five years. Mama used to visit for longer stretches of time but for Papa, it was difficult to get away from work for more than a few weeks, once or twice a year. He made up for his absence through regular letters.

When the khakhi-clad postman would ring our doorbell, my sister and I would eagerly wrestle for the envelope inked with the words “Air Mail” and plastered with red and green stamps. For us, these letters were warm embraces that had traveled over miles and oceans. We couldn’t wait to open them.

Papa was a natural storyteller. His letters were mini fables that brought to us the details of his world. There is one letter that I will never forget:

Dear Girls,

How are you both? Are you studying hard and obeying your Aunty’s instructions? Are you respecting your grandmother and your elders? I hope that you are being good girls and making your Mama and Papa proud of you.

(more…)

Today marks 50 years of independence for my birthplace Ghana. Profoundly influenced by the Indian independence and civil rights movements, the Gold Coast became the first sub-Saharan African colony to attain independence (as Ghana) in 1957.

Having connections to both India and Ghana, I’m always struck by how their break from colonial rule was separated by 10 years – 1947, 1957. Interestingly the movement for independence got serious in August 1947 (when India became free). Leading nationalists founded the United Gold Coast Convention and invited Kwame Nkrumah, who was to become the first president of Ghana, to lead their campaign for self-government. It took another decade to achieve that goal …

Anyway, a full year of celebrations are ongoing in Ghana right now. There isn’t much media coverage here – the NYT today just ran a Reuters story – but the BBC has a great series “Ghana After 50 Years” and WNYC’s Siddhartha Mitter has a wonderful story about the Ghanaian community in New York and its connection to the US civil rights movement.

And, here’s the official website which features a video clip of Nkrumah’s official speech on March 6, 1957.

Here’s to 50 years of growth, development, stability, and representative government.

One of my favorite topics to write about is my family. Starting today, I’m going to make it a point to write more of my stories about them; I’ll title those entries “Family Ruminations.” I’d love to hear your thoughts and to get a conversation going about your own families!

Wanderlust is an inherited gene in the Nankani clan. My grandfather left Sindh (now part of Pakistan) in the late 1930s in search of his personal destiny and let the ocean waves and economic winds carry him through central Asia into the Middle East forward onto the African continent.

He finally ended up in West Africa, placing his roots down in Ghana where he opened a chain of movie theatres and imported movies from India and China for a rural audience. From Ghana, he explored the many cut-out kingdoms and new countries of West Africa, forging links with locals and other Indian expats and expanding his business over the years.

During the last years of his life, however, he wanted to go back to his source. He returned to India with my grandmother and made plans to live out his final moments in an apartment overlooking a green courtyard, where cuckoo birds crooned out daily tunes and where the sunrise and sunset could be seen from eastern and western balconies.

My grandmother, who had traveled alone to join my grandfather, Dada as we called him, was happy to be back in India. But, when Dada got jaundice and passed away, she could not stay in one place. She picked up her bags and returned to Ghana with her youngest and her eldest sons. With six children spread out all over the world – Ghana, Morocco, the United States – she hoisted her sail and began traveling from one home to the other, spending three months with each child. Every six months, she began to return to India to recharge her batteries in the presence of her guru.

I’ve often wondered why she didn’t just pick one place to live, and tell her children to visit her there, the way my maternal grandmother, Meme, has done. Meme has not left India since 1988. In contrast, Nani, my father’s mother, is on a plane every few months.

It must be the wanderlust. Nani loves to travel on airplanes in business class. She enjoys staying in hotels and eating in restaurants. Although she tries to convince herself that she must be a puritan at her age, she is not. Sometimes she pretends that she doesn’t really need to go anywhere and that she would be content to live in India but then, before we know it, she tells us that she must leave because she needs to have some dental work done in Morocco – because that is where her dentist is located. And, when she gets to Morocco, she tells us that she needs to have her eyes checked in India – because that is where her optometrist is located!

I always tease her about it, but I’m growing to understand her more and more. We Nankanis need frequent and regular changes of scenery, of air, of land, and of water. We thrive on change and relish those moments of departure and arrival. We delight in looking at the many stamps on our passports and in gazing at maps and pinpointing all the places upon which we have set foot.

My father was the same way. His old suit bag illustrated his wandering spirit perfectly. Black leather, it was stamped with stickers from all the airlines on which he has flown. Alitalia. Green and white. Air India. Red and white. Ethiopian Airlines. Red, green, yellow. Ghana Airways. Red, green, yellow. Singapore Airlines. Mustard yellow silhouette. British Airways. Red and blue. The list (and colors) can go on and on.

The stickers are peeling; they stick to and stain my hands. But I still love looking at the suit bag because it reminds me of all the places to which Papa traveled. Each of the stickers has its own story.

Papa traveled for business most of the time. But, sometimes I think that really, he made his business make him travel. If he had wanted, he could have started a company that allowed him to stay in one place. He could have been content with a chain of retail shops that allowed him to purchase goods from local vendors in Ghana. But, no, he chose instead to expand his company into an international import-export company, sourcing out vendors in the Far East. Over the years, he visited Korea, Japan, Thailand, Malaysia, Hong Kong, China, Taiwan, the Phillipines … more places than I can count on my fingers.

Papa told the best stories about his travels. One of these days, I should try to write them down. Perhaps in the first person as I recall them. …

I’ve been taping the entire series of Iconoclasts, the Suncance Channel series that invites you to “change the way you see celebrity.” In this series, leading innovators and artists who have a mutual admiration for one another spend time together and sit down for a candid conversation about their work, their lives, and their choices … and talk to each other about their inspirations.

There are five other episodes on my DVR that are untouched, but this weekend I finally sat down and watched the most recent one that features Maya Angelou and Dave Chappelle.

“In this episode, comedian Dave Chappelle and poet Maya Angelou spend a day together at her home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where they discuss how poetry and comedy can bridge both genders and generations.”

The conversation and camraderie between the 37 year-old Chappelle and 78 year-old Angelou was both inspiring and moving. As I watched Chappelle, fresh from his decision to turn down a $50 million contract with Comedy Central, ask Angelou about her life and get a tour of her African American art collection, I could see in his eyes a sense of overwhelmedness and gratitude. Being in the presence of a legend such as Angelou – someone who not only possesses the gifts of poetry and eloquence, but also spills over with wisdom and joy – must really be something.

Watching it reminded me of my moments with Dada J. P. Vaswani five summers ago – when I got many of the answers I was seeking at the time; answers that were doled out with gracious kindness and empathy … and humility.

At one point in the episode, Angelou said to Chappelle:

“Each of us has the chance to be somebody. It is my my delight that you asked for me so that I could have the pleasure, the joy, the thrill of talking to you … so that I can be somebody.”

Something about that moved me tremendously. At her age, after having met and mingled with major historical figures such as Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., after achieving legend status not just as a literary giant but also as a political activist, Angelou showed that she approaches life with a spirit of constant learning … and equanimity.

I haven’t read All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes in a while. That’s one of my favorite books by Angelou, perhaps because it’s about the years she spent in Ghana in the 1960s. This episode made me want to find my copy and reread it.

Update 6.27.06: Brazil beat Ghana 2-0 today and will not continue to the finals. Nevertheless, history has been made and who knows what lies in the Stars’ future.

Ghana made World Cup history today when it beat the U.S. 2-1! This is its first ever appearance at the WC finals. Hurrah for my birthland!

I was following the game closely from my google toolbar, and watched the last 20 minutes in my company kitchen/pantry.

It’s one thing to win a game; somehow that win is taken to a whole new level when you beat the US of A. You’re on a map – and even those people (and there are many) who don’t know where Ghana is are going to ask “Where exactly is Ghana?” I say that because it’s true – that’s what happened to me when I was watching the match.

I have to say that it was interesting to be the only person in the room not rooting for the United States. I felt distinctly unpatriotic and found myself trying hard to control my excitement as the game drew to a close and it became clearer and clearer that Ghana was going to win.

At one point my allegiance slipped out – but I quickly followed it up with an “I was born in Ghana.” As though I needed to justify and prove that no, I’m not a traitor.

My colleagues couldn’t bear to watch the end of the game. They were depressed and devastated–and I couldn’t bare my delight because I didn’t feel free enough to do so.

Miles away from Accra, I trudged back to my cubicle quietly and tried to imagine what the scene might be like over there. That would be my silent celebration. (Of course, I shot my sister an email – they won! – and called my husband and whispered, hey, did you see that? it was awesome!’

In my mind’s eye, I went on to imagine crowds of people dancing in the streets of Kumasi the way they do during Asante funerals, but even more excited. I saw groups of boys waving their arms in joy in the back of tro-tros. I could hear high life music blaring from loudspeakers on soccer fields filled with celebratory schoolchildren in khakhi uniforms.

I poked around and read Ghana’s Daily Graphic, Africaweb, and other news sites, but I didn’t feel completely satisfied until I came upon Sarah Left’s post at the Guardian Unlimited’s World Cup blog.

Here’s my own guilty secret, one I didn’t let on even to the welcoming throng of Black Stars fans in Duncan’s: I’m American, too. Well, also British. But how very American to support Ghana against my mother country. While I could never love a baseball team other than the Los Angeles Angels – no matter how many times they change owners, or lose – somehow I find my allegiance a bit more flexible when it comes to football. So there I was in a Ghanaian bar, with a whistle hanging from a red, green and yellow cord around my neck. >> Read more.

I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it, but Sarah Left did – that feeling of having to choose sides between the country in which I live and call home … and the country in which I was born and that I still consider a home.

I end the day remembering a former boxing champion friend of my father’s who once told me: Once you are born here, you are always a Ghanaian. It doesn’t matter how far away you go or where you live. This is your country.

Wise words.

There’s a perfect summer thunderstorm brewing outside. Mmmm… lightning, thunder, and the clean smell of grass.

I’m thrilled to have arrived in my new space. It happens to be Memorial Day 2006. I missed the planting of the poppies, the PBS concert, and the Parade, but I did have a restful weekend that involved languid summer evenings on breezy Pennsylvania porches with new friends–and grilled pineapple, mushroom, pepper, and onion skewers.

Have you ever tasted grilled pineapple? My first time was at the City Bakery. My taste buds suddenly found themselves at a surprise party! Sweet and tart, smoky and juicy, all at the same time. Yum.

Since then, I’ve grilled pineapple at home whenever possible, even on my George Foreman grill. Grilled pineapple is not something I ate during my childhood in Ghana, but still, whenever I eat it, I’m reminded of …

• the fruit lady who arrived at our doorstep on hot mornings with a basket of pineapple on her head and a wide smile on her face
• the thirst of sweaty afternoons quenched with circular slices that Mom brought out on the verandah in white Corningware plates
• the painting of the fruit lady that Papa gave me for Christmas during my freshman year of college. he bought it in Ghana and carried it back, frame and all, on the now-defunct Ghana airways. It now hangs on my kitchen wall and reminds me of the pleasures of pineapple, plantain, and papaya ..