To be or not to be a ‘Sweet Stay-at-Home?’
My hands-on study of literature yielded interesting results and also gave me useful insights. I discovered that through literature you travel to worlds unknown and indirectly experience a considerable lot of things.
IFIRST studied Literature in English without any formal tuition from anyone. In the process I discovered a love for poetry that has endured to this day. In the poem “On His Blindness” John Milton comes to terms with his blindness and observes, “They also serve who only stand and wait”. This line, written centuries ago, is true and relevant, but also direct and instructive. Its immediacy belies its age. My father was fond of the song “Vana VaPfumojena” (Pfumojena’s children) and said it used to be sung as a roll of honour after a battle.
On hearing the song as the returning fighters approach, those waiting at home stood silently to learn the names of fallen fighters. This cameo represents a meeting of minds across time and distance. Africans have for centuries known the truth of Milton’s words. When, during a war, you stay at home because you have to, your heart is with the fighters on the field of battle and you know no peace of mind. In your mind you are comradesat-arms with the fighters and you share a common fate with them.
My hands-on study of literature yielded interesting results and also gave me useful insights. I discovered that through literature you travel to worlds unknown and indirectly experience a considerable lot of things. For example, years before I ever set eyes on the Limpopo River, I could, in my imagination, see Kipling’s “great, grey, greasy-green Limpopo”, the wily, log-like crocodiles basking on the warm sand while the hippos yawn menacingly from the depths of the legendary river. But the poem that spoke most closely to my restlessness was “Sweet Stay at Home” by William Henry Davies. Davies wrote:
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-con- tent
ou knowest of no strange continent; Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
For me reading through this Davies poem is always a tantalising experience. Images of high adventure and striking out in all directions to see the wonders of the wild play havoc with my senses. With time the travellers return home and regale everyone with colourful accounts of the wondrous things they have seen on their travels. They boast about the things they have done which, according to them, set them apart from the rank and file. In the telling of their tales one thing is obvious: if you have never left your village or country you are to be pitied. The well-travelled few tend to be almost dogmatic about their traveling exploits and speak in voices that match their statuses and their experiences.
As a freshman at teachers’ college I could not help, but be transfixed on some cold winter evenings as we warmed ourselves around a makeshift fire. The sparks flew as the flames flared and roared the chill away underneath the starry sky of the countryside. Invariably, a man known as the cosmopolitan indulged himself as usual, prefacing his story with his predictable Winston Churchill quote. Animatedly, he would say, “Winston Churchill said, ‘A man cannot be called educated unless he has read Shakespeare and the Bible.’” You could not help, but feel somehow impoverished and a little unfortunate. As he spoke the man’s voice and diction demanded one’s attention. He was so compelling that you just had to listen. Somehow he managed to make you feel disadvantaged, uninformed and inexperienced about the ways of the world. In the beginning we all hung to his every word, finding the tales of his escapades at various schools in the countryside too hard to resist. He left his awed lis- teners with a lingering feeling that they too should wander off in any direction and experience first-hand the wonderful things he spoke about with such animation. This is the kind of feeling that “Sweet Stay-at-Home” generates. As if to add salt to injury, Davies continues:
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-oneplace, Thou hast not seen black fingers pick White cotton when the bloom is thick, Nor heard black throats in harmony; The poem’s images create such wonder as to make the reader want to make it his religious duty to see the things described, perhaps before they vanish forever. Years ago, an expatriate colleague from Denmark left a school to go and teach Mathematics at a rural school where most things were either rudimentary or not there at all. His argument was that there were enough towns in Denmark and were he only interested in the towns he would never have left home. He said he wanted to see the countryside before it was spoiled by the hands of civilisation. True to his word the Dane stayed several years at his rural school and married a village girl in brown canvas shoes and a head scarf. They often came into town together, the wife in her shapeless cotton dress and the man with his beard even wilder and more unkempt than before. When his work permit expired he returned to Denmark with his Zimbabwean wife whose very strong rural background stuck out like an open sore. He must have gone away feeling culturally richer than he was when first arrived in the country.
Standing within hearing distance of the lapping waves on an Atlantic beach recently, my imagination mellowed. The soft turf under my feet and all the waiters catering to us at the Labadi Beach Motel on the outskirts of Accra made me feel rather special. The motel is a huge surprise when seen against the background of some of Accra’s oldest dwellings where the not-so-well-to-do poor people live. What separates the two is the road to the busy international harbour in Tema some twenty or so kilometres away.
It is said that if you stand long enough on the beach and look out to sea you might just see the dug-outs bobbing up and down in the frothy waves as the motley assortment of subsistence fishermen bring their catch to shore. The smell of fish and the sea is everywhere and the cuisine excites your palate. Inevitably, as I have done in the past, I opted for a fresh glass of pineapple juice breezily served by a waiter who said, “Akwaaba” in the traditional Ghanaian welcome to visitors. After downing the glass I chose lightly-spiced goat soup with small pieces of goat meat in it for a starter. I could easily have had a thousand more of these bowls of goat soup. The soup is veritable expression of delights. On some days I chose to start with the delicious fisherman’s soup — spicy and exotic, but definitely appetising and inviting. For the main course my choices varied on a day by day basis: fried sweet potatoes or boiled yam with pork or fish. I also began to love cocoyam during my stay.
Our people say new things are to be found in the itchy foot that propels one to strange places. In all my visits to Ghana, I have never felt that I had seen it all. Ghana has always surprised me with something. On the evening of the Awards Dinner hosted by the Pan-African Writers Association (PAWA) I was one of the few honoured on this day with the Grand Patron of the Arts Award. The ambience in the well-decorated venue was almost palpable. The well-dressed socialites and diplomats in attendance gave the occasion an unmistakably festive aura. When the sensational M.anifest, the Ghanaian hiphop star, came on stage, the place came alive. His rich deep voice was reminiscent of Leonard Cohen during the last years of his life. Not only can the man sing, he also can rap with distinction. One of his most poignantly enigmatic lines goes, “The eyes cannot see what the heart does not feel”. That song made me an instant fan of his.
All too soon it was time for the awards. The food was good and the drinks were plentiful. The atmosphere was expectant and many in the audience wore rich West African robes and spoke like characters in Nigerian movies. After M.anifest’s set, the MC invited Atukwei Okai, Ghana’s poet laureate and Secretary-General of PAWA, to the podium. Then I heard my name called. The applause was loud and enthusiastic as I made my way up. First, they gave me the diploma and the gold medal. Then they sat me on the PAWA stool of royalty three times in what is known as the enstoolment.
All around the hall, the cameras were clicking. The whole thing was soon over, and in a jiffy, my little moment of prominence was gone. Ms Musaka, Zimbabwe’s ambassador to Ghana, ululated and it felt like being on home soil. I do not suppose that I can ever willingly join the stay-at home brigade. ◆ David Mungoshi, a writer and a retired academic, was recently honoured by PAWA with the Grand Patron of the Arts Award.