New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  We need, therefore, to creatively “rethink”—as Sankara urges us—the nature of what it means to be male and female. But more importantly, we must begin to bring up our children differently in a de-patriarchal manner, in which we do not, for example, scold boys for crying and girls for being “tom-boyish” or “too forward” in being outspoken in their views in school or outside of school. This will be a long-term undertaking that takes courage and commitment by parents, educators and the community.

  Rethinking the nature of “male” and “female”, or “depatriarchalizing society”, also requires men who are genuine and serious about radical transformation to re-evaluate their own behaviour and thought patterns in respect to empathy and ethical considerations. For most African men (to generalize here) are consciously or unconsciously under societal and cultural pressures to conform to some notion of a “hegemonic masculinity”—that is, an African man is aggressive, strong, competitive, in control, dominant and active. These are cultural ideas that are variously expressed in the myriad diverse cultures that make up the African continent. Girls/women are expected to embody the socially valued behaviours of being nurturing, emotional, subordinate, passive, gentle, and receptive.

  In order to create new African men, a process of consciousness-raising, or the journey of men increasing their self-awareness of patriarchy or male domination, is one that has to operate on a number of levels. It must operate on a societal level, whereby those progressive elements in the media, the church, mosque, trade unions and other institutions take up the issue not only in rhetorical policy declarations but in their actions and training within their institutions. Another level is that of the family, as the social unit in which human beings are born. The family needs to socialise boys and girls differently. This extends to the wider extended family and peer group who are also very influential in legitimating negative and positive behaviour, norms and values.

  It will involve men/boys having the courage and confidence to confront the sexist/patriarchal views and attitudes of other boys and men, whether openly or on a one-to-one basis. An example of this is when men/boys hold each other accountable for their language and behaviour. Such men need to provide new models of what a “real man” looks like, i.e. not one who is “macho”, “tough”, “silent” and unable to express his emotions. Related to this is the fact that such men/boys should embody emotional literacy. Generally, most men lack emotional engagement, emotional caretaking and relational skills, which are too often qualities and skills relegated to the domain of women. Hence, boys/men growing up are only able to express rage and anger, which often lead to domestic abuse and violence, and in countries where there is conflict it is channelled into armed militaries and rape/sexual assault of women (as in the DRC and elsewhere).

  New men are able to experience empathy, to care for others, show compassion and discuss their emotions openly. The African-American cultural critic and feminist bell hooks defines a “feminist masculinity” as comprising “integrity, self-love, emotional awareness, assertiveness” and relational skills. The adverse impact of patriarchy is that men and boys are forced to wear a mask concealing their inner selves and denying their emotions. The requirement by a patriarchal and capitalist society compartmentalizes the psyche, thoughts, and actions, thereby creating schizoid humans. In the Western world, for example in the UK, this has led to a high incidence of mental illness and suicides among males.

  Since there is no blueprint for creating a new non-sexist, anti-imperialist, anti-capitalist world, our strategies will be based on an evolving basis of theory and practice. One first and crucial step must involve men remaining silent and genuinely listening to the women around them.

  Malorie Blackman

  She has written more than 60 books for children and young adults, including the Noughts and Crosses series of novels (Noughts and Crosses won the Red House FCBG Children’s Book Award as well as being included in the top 100 of the BBC Big Read), Cloud Busting (winner of the Smarties Silver Award, 2004), Thief (winner of the Young Telegraph/Fully Booked Award, 1996), Hacker (winner of the WH Smith’s Children’s Book Award, 1992, and the Young Telegraph/Gimme 5 Award for best children’s book of the year, 2005). Her latest book is Chasing the Stars, a science-fiction thriller. She is a scriptwriting graduate of the National Film and Television School. As well as writing original and adapted drama scripts for TV, she also regularly wrote for CBBC’s Byker Grove. In 2005, she was honoured with the Eleanor Farjeon Award in recognition of her distinguished contribution to the world of children’s books. In 2008, she was awarded an OBE for her services to Children’s Literature. She was the UK Children’s Laureate for 2013–15.

  Letters

  Dear Daughter,

  Well, here we are again. Another letter. I’ve written a number of them now, all waiting for when I’m no longer here but you still are. So many times, I’ve wanted to sit you down and just talk to you about anything and everything. Talk until my throat is hoarse and my lungs are burning, but I’m too old for that and you’re too young.

  So here’s the compromise. A book of letters. With my love. And in this particular letter, I want to share with you the worst day of my life which was simultaneously the best thing that ever happened to me.

  It happened one evening when I was eighteen. Midway through the first term of my first year at college. I’d never been away from home that long before and I was loving it. I was already broke, about fifty pounds to my name to see me through the rest of the term but what did that matter? Course apart, I was enjoying myself and nothing but good was going to rock my world.

  Until one evening in early October, when everything changed. I sat on my bed in my room as a pain like an iron band around my waist began to grip and tighten. And with each moment, the band grew tighter, slicing into me.

  Agony, intense and crippling soon squeezed my insides. Relentless. Excruciating. Burning fingers of pain licked through me like nothing I’d ever felt before.

  Looking back at that moment, I struggle to remember anything else about that day. What had I had for breakfast? For lunch? What had I done with my morning, my afternoon? The rest of the day isn’t just a blur, it’s a blank. The memory of that date doesn’t start until the slow, fiery grip of the pain in my insides as the October sun began to set outside my window.

  I searched through my desk drawer for some painkillers—aspirin, paracetamol, anything would do—even though I knew I didn’t have any and it was futile. But maybe my guardian angel would place some in there and I could persuade myself I’d just forgotten about them. Nothing doing. Frustrated, I slammed the drawer shut. Pain dictated that every action, sound, even the light was shard sharp, hard, amplified.

  Flinging open my room door, I staggered across the hallway to my friend Lorraine’s room and banged on her door. We occupied the last two rooms opposite each other at the end of the corridor. The hall of residence that was now our home was basic to say the least. Tiny all-purpose bedrooms contained only a single bed and a desk and the bathroom and toilets were located at the far end of the corridor.

  Lorraine’s door finally opened.

  “Lorraine, d’you h-have any aspirin?”

  The pain that was gripping me from the lower abdomen up had reached high enough to take hold of my voice, stifling my words until they were barely a whisper.

  “Lori! Are you all right? No, I’m sorry, I don’t have any,” Lorraine said, her eyes growing wider with concern. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded my way through the obvious lie. Hands against the wall, I tried to make it back to my room. Two steps, then I turned, sliding down the wall as my body gave in and gave out and the pain took over completely.

  A series of images after that. A scream. People. Paramedics. Lifted. An ambulance. Lights flashing—through the windows? Sirens? Wheeled into hospital. People standing over me.

  Until I was lying on a bed, my head slightly raised and doctors and nurses bustling around me. I was in control of nothing.
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  Mr Sing, one of the surgeons standing over me, said to his colleague, “It’s unusual to see this disease around here.”

  Around here? What was he talking about? Who was he talking about? What was going on?

  I tried to speak but there was something hard in my mouth. I spat it out, glancing down at the rubber block that hit my chest then rested still.

  “What disease? What disease?” I asked.

  Looking back, the memory of the shocked faces, the stunned silence around me still makes me smile.

  But not on that date and not for a long time afterwards.

  “We weren’t talking about you,” said the other surgeon, Mr Crew. “We were talking about someone else. Another case.”

  A quick nod from Mr Swift to someone behind me. A nurse picked up the rubber bung from my chest and pushed it back into my mouth. Glances and silence between those around me.

  They’re lying.

  Even in my spaced out state I knew that. I wanted to ask more, but the room began to fade.

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  Nothing.

  Until the following afternoon.

  Lorraine came to visit me. She sat down by my bed and watched me as I tried to suppress yet another cough which felt like it would surely rip out my stitches, tearing my abdomen in two.

  Lorraine took a deep breath. “Lori, they took out your appendix.”

  Did they? Nice of someone to tell me. A doctor had yet to sit down and speak to me about anything. I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone medical since my arrival. At least that explained the pain in my abdomen and the stitches.

  Lorraine took a deep breath. “Look, Lori. You do know you’ve got Sickle Cell, right?”

  I stared at Lorraine. “I’ve got what?”

  “Sickle Cell. The doctor told me you have Sickle Cell.”

  Sickle Cell . . . Something I’d barely even heard of. What was it? What did it mean? And how dare they tell Lorraine without telling me first? How dare they?

  Eventually Lorraine left and I lay still, my eyes closed, shell-shocked.

  That’s how I fell asleep.

  That’s how I woke up.

  My eyes still closed, two words laced with shards of glass and rusty nails spun round uncontrollably in my head.

  Sickle Cell . . .

  Voices—

  A bed away but approaching. I briefly opened my eyes only to shut them almost immediately. A male doctor and a female nurse stood at the foot of my bed.

  “Ah, yes,” said the Doctor. “Interesting case.”

  “The Sickle Cell patient?”

  “Indeed. She had her appendix removed yesterday. It’s a shame about this one. With her Sickle Cell, she’ll be dead by thirty.”

  Jesus Christ—

  Dead by thirty.

  I lay in the bed, and it was like having my neck in a guillotine, waiting for the blade to fall. All I could think was I’m going to die—before I’m thirty years old. And at eighteen, thirty suddenly didn’t seem so far away after all.

  The clock was ticking.

  Maybe that’s the moment I developed a real loathing for the sound of ticking clocks and watches. Listening as they count down the hours, the minutes. Count down my life.

  For years after that, it became all about making money. Getting a good job. Travelling the world. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I realised my priorities were skewed.

  What good would money do me when I was dead?

  And, Daughter, do you know the thought that terrified me the most?

  Kicking the bucket and knowing that for all the good I’d done in the world, I might as well not have been born at all. Time for not just a career change but a life change, but what to do? Maybe I should go back to my old dream of being a teacher? But would I have the stamina? Or maybe train to be a nurse? But dealing with other people’s vomit and poo? Nah! I wouldn’t be good with that aspect of the job.

  With the very few years I reckoned I had left, I wanted to do something meaningful with my life, something that would make me spring out of bed each morning and greet the day with smile. Something that wasn’t just for myself but for others too. Something that would allow me to connect and communicate with others.

  I knew I needed to do something more creative, more fulfilling. But what?

  Writing.

  Daughter, when I tell people that I wrote eight to ten books over the course of two years and received eighty-two rejection letters before a publisher finally said yes, I’m always met with gasps of amazement and I get asked, what kept you going?

  Well, I had nothing to fear because I had nothing to lose. I was going to try and get published right up until the day I died. I realised in my twenties that there is something worse than failing and that’s being too afraid to even try.

  I’m lucky. I found the perfect career for me—challenging, creative, fulfilling. An author.

  Now here’s the thing: if it hadn’t been for the doctor and nurse at the foot of my bed stating I would be dead by the age of thirty, I’d still be in computing. I’d’ve hit the glass ceiling long ago and would be biding my time until I retired. I’d be miserable with wondering if I could’ve done something else, something more with my life.

  If it hadn’t been for that doctor and nurse at the foot of my bed stating my life was going to end, my life wouldn’t have begun. I would’ve been operating on auto-pilot. Life is too precious to go through it on auto-pilot.

  So what I thought for too many wasted years was the very worst day of my life—overhearing that I was going to die . . . well, it turns out it was the very best day of my life.

  It made me unafraid to take a chance, to take a risk for something better, something more. It made me stubborn enough to never take no for an answer. It made me fearless enough to not take on board those who would tell me no, or I couldn’t, or I shouldn’t, or what I wanted wasn’t for me.

  Now here’s the thing, only two things are guaranteed in this life. Taxes—unless you’re a large conglomerate with good accountants—and death.

  So, Daughter, here are some of the things I have learnt over the years and some of the things I know to be true:

  Never let anyone persuade you that being kind is a weakness. It is not.

  Never let yourself be persuaded that money, power, possessions are more important than friends and family, love and sharing your life unselfishly. As Octavia Butler said in Parable of the Talents— “Kindness eases change. Love quiets fear.”

  Never let anyone persuade you that ignorance is the new smart—it most assuredly isn’t.

  Be suspicious and more of those who would treat the gaining of knowledge and learning as something only the privileged few should have or can enjoy.

  If you fall down or get knocked down seven times, get up eight.

  As Denzel Washington said: “Without commitment, you’ll never start. But more importantly, without consistency, you’ll never finish.”

  Never believe you’re too old or know too much to learn more.

  Cultivate friends who embrace the real you, not the show you.

  Be wary of friends and lovers who are more interested in what you have around you, rather than who you are inside.

  Don’t live your life on or for social media. It will mess up your head.

  Don’t forget to look up at the sky once in a while and watch the clouds or wonder at the stars.

  Don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers.

  Don’t be afraid to bathe in the laughter of children, don’t be too afraid to shed and share tears.

  Enjoy life. It’s not a dress rehearsal.

  Live.

  Akosua Busia

  Dividing her time between Ghana, where she was born, and the US, she is well known for a range of work that includes being an actress (notable for her role as Nettie in the Stephen Spielberg film The Color Purple, based on Alice Walker’s novel), a novelist (The Seasons of Beento Blackbird, 1997), a screenwriter (Beloved, the 1988
film adaptation of Toni Morrison’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel), a poet/lyricist (“Moon Blue”, recorded by Stevie Wonder) and a director (The Prof: A Man Remembered). She is the youngest daughter of the Right Honorable Dr. Kofi Abrefa Busia, former Prime Minister of Ghana, and former First Lady, Mrs Naa Morkor Busia, to whom the following poem is dedicated.

  Mama

  April 5th, 1924–January 17th, 2010

  She is the centre of my earth

  The fire from which I warm my soul

  The spark that kindles my heart.

  The sustenance I feed my daughter

  Is the nourishment I sucked from her once-succulent flesh

  Turned brittle-boned, held together by willpower

  Mama feeds me still—

  She lives—

  For us—

  She lives

  For we cannot bear to see her ascend

  Not yet—we will not let her go

  Therefore frail-bodied

  She calls upon the force with which she once uprooted trees

  Replanting them in richer ground to revive them strong

  With holes in her bones and nails like steel, painted blood-red

  She digs into tomorrow from

  Scratching hot tar she carves a road for us to travel

  “Walk,” she tells us, knowing she has prepared the way.

  Celebrating her seventieth birthday we had praised the Lord for her youthfulness

  Fearful now to lose sight of her we bid her lead

  “Lord take her not,” we pray.

  On our behalf she forges forward—out-striding her three-score-years-and-ten

  Onward she climbs—

  We follow