I had the pleasure of living in Ghana in the early 1990s. What a life-altering and enriching experience it was. A graduate student, there on an IFESH fellowship, I fully immersed myself in the country's arts and culture: studied Asante Twi; learned to cook red-red and peanut stew; befriended artists Mercy Ocansi, whose batik and tie-dye designs are known throughout Africa, Europe and the United States, and Kofi Setordji and Wiz Kudowor, two brilliant men, whose paintings and sculpture capture the beauty, traditions and history of a proud people; read the literature (Efua Sutherland) and poetry (Kwesi Brew, Frank Kobina Parkes and others); and traveled far and wide marveling at the mystery and majesty of a country that I'd envisioned visiting since childhood. Suffice it to say, I feel in love with Ghana and her people. Two of my favorite poets and poems remind me of that extraordinary time. . .

The Mesh

by Kwesi Brew

We have come to the cross-roads
And I must either leave or come with you.
I lingered over the choice
But in the darkness of my doubts
You lifted the lamp of love
And I saw in your face
The road that I should take.

African Heaven

by Frank Kobina Parkes

Give me black souls,
Let them be black
Or chocolate brown
Or make them the
Color of dust —
Dustlike,
Browner than sand.
But if you can
Please keep them black,
Black.

Give me some drums;
Let them be three
Or maybe four
And make them black —
Dirty and black:
Of wood,
And dried sheepskin,
But if you will
Just make them peal,
Peal.
Peal loud,
Mutter.
Loud,
Louder yet;
Then soft,
Softer still
Let the drums peal.
Let the calabash
Entwined with beads
With blue Aggrey beads
Resound, wildly
Discordant,
Calmly
Melodious.
Let the calabash resound
In tune with the drums.

Mingle with these sounds
The clang
Of wood on tin:
Kententsekenken
Ken-tse ken ken ken:
Do give me voices
Ordinary
Ghost voices
Voices of women
And the bass
Of men.
(And screaming babes?)

Let there be dancers,
Broad-shouldered Negroes
Stamping the ground
With naked feet
And half-covered
Women
Swaying, to and fro,
In perfect
Rhythm
To “Tom shikishiki”
And “ken,”
And voices of ghosts
Singing,
Singing!
Let there be
A setting sun above,
Green palms
Around,
A slaughtered fowl
And plenty of
Yams.

And dear Lord,
If the place be
Not too full,
Please
Admit spectators.
They may be
White or
Black.

Admit spectators
That they may
See:
The bleeding fowl,
And yams,
And palms
And dancing ghosts.

Odomankoma,
Do admit spectators
That they may
Hear:
Our native songs,
The clang of wood on tin
The tune of beads
And the pealing drums.

Twerampon, please, please
Admit
Spectators!
That they may
Bask
In the balmy rays
Of the
Evening Sun,
In our lovely
African heaven!