#Ama Ata Aidoo

[akuawaist]

Time by itself means nothing, no matter how fast it moves, unless we give it something to carry for us; something we value. Because it is such a precious vehicle, is time. - Ama Ataa Aidoo

[justforbooks]

Ama Ata Aidoo, who has died aged 81, was one of Africa’s most influential writers. Her plays, short stories, novels and essays explored the experiences of women in contemporary Africa, both rural and urban – women who are remarkable for their spirit, humour and resilience.

Aidoo’s play The Dilemma of a Ghost, first staged in 1964 at the Ghana Drama Studio when she was 22, was issued by Longman in 1965, making her the first published female African dramatist. This play contrasts a young African- American wife’s idealised concept of “Mother Africa” with the reality of her Ghanaian husband’s African mother’s traditions and expectations, often conflicting with the values embraced by a younger western-educated generation.

Like her second play, Anowa (1969), The Dilemma of a Ghost draws on both African and western performance traditions. In these plays and many of her short stories, Aidoo created an Africanised form of English for her characters, drawing on her native Akan idioms and sentence structures.

While her first play examines cultural conflicts in contemporary Ghana, during the optimism created by Kwame Nkrumah’s success in achieving independence, Anowa, written after the 1966 military coup that deposed Nkrumah amid accusations of corruption, reflects on Ghanaian history and the complicity of African chiefs with slavery. In the face of political dereliction, the play calls for a shift away from materialism and self-interest.

However, it is Aidoo’s fiction that has reached a worldwide audience. Her first volume of short stories, No Sweetness Here, was published in 1971. Many of the stories were written to be read on radio, with listeners as well as readers in mind, combining traditional oral storytelling, and communal participation, with European reader-oriented narrative techniques. They also showed how western technology can be put to the service of African culture rather than replacing or subduing it.

The use of oral traditions also allowed Aidoo to give a voice to women, in a context where female writers have been marginalised, while the concentration on dialogue, rather than exterior description, places the emphasis on women’s subjectivities, emotions and thoughts, rather than their appearance.

The title of Aidoo’s first novel, Our Sister Killjoy: Or Reflections from a Black-eyed Squint (1977), conveys the narrator’s wry self-deprecating humour, together with her awareness of differences in perception. Recounting the experience of a young Ghanaian woman who spends several months in Germany – “the heart of whiteness” – and with two male characters both called Adolf, the novel is in part a reversal of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

Indeed there is a literal heart of darkness in the novel when a group of Africans debate the ethics of Christiaan Barnard’s transplant of the heart of an African man. Aidoo uses a variety of narrative techniques in the novel, contrasting “knowledge gained then” and “knowledge gained since”, interspersing prose with fragments of verse, while questioning the usefulness of the English language to express African experience:

A common heritage. A Dubious bargain that left us Plundered of Our gold Our tongue Our life – while our Dead fingers clutch English …

Together with Aidoo’s second novel, Changes: A Love Story, which won the Commonwealth Writers’ prize in 1992, Our Sister Killjoy appears frequently in university courses on postcolonial and women’s writing. Aidoo’s 1985 collection of poetry, Someone Talking to Sometime, was awarded the Nelson Mandela prize for poetry. A second volume of poetry, An Angry Letter in January, appeared in 1992. She also published two more volumes of short stories, The Girl Who Can and Other Stories (1997) and Diplomatic Pounds and Other Stories (2012), as well as books for children.

Christine Ama Ata Aidoo was born, with a twin brother, Kwame Ata, at Abeadzi Kyiakor, near Saltpond in central Ghana (at that time known as the Gold Coast), the daughter of Maame Abasema and Nana Yaw Fama. Her father was chief of Abeadzi Kyiakor, and she belonged to Fante royalty. He founded the first school in Saltpond, and ensured that both his children received a good education there. Aidoo later spoke of the importance of the village storyteller, around whom the villagers would gather in the evenings.

From 1957, the year that Ghana became the first independent African nation, she attended Wesley girls’ senior high school in the city of Cape Coast. There she became aware of Ghana’s connection with the history of slave trading, embodied in the Cape Coast “castle” where captured slaves were held before being shipped to Europe and the Americas.

In 1961 she enrolled at the University of Ghana to study English, and also began writing seriously. The following year she was selected by a panel including Chinua Achebe, Langston Hughes, and Wole Soyinka to attend a writing workshop in Ibadan, Nigeria. She forced her way into the Nigerian Broadcasting office in order to meet Achebe, who was then head of external broadcasting, breathlessly announcing to him that she had “indeed arrived at the shrine”.

After graduation, Aidoo taught at universities in Africa and the US. She was appointed Ghanaian minister for education in 1982 after Jerry Rawlings gained power in a military coup, but in 1983 resigned and moved to Zimbabwe, where she worked for the Zimbabwe Ministry for Education. When she returned to Ghana in 1999, she and her daughter Kinna Likamanni established the Mbaasem Foundation, which sought “to support the development and sustainability of African women writers and their artistic output”.

Throughout her life, Aidoo saw her writing and other activities as part of her endeavour to help Africans recover from the consequences of colonialism.

In an interview in 1987 she declared: “I wish of course that Africa would be free and strong and organised and constructive, etc ... That is basic to my commitment as a writer … I keep seeing different dimensions of it, different interpretations coming through my writing.”

She is survived by her daughter.

🔔 Ama Ata Aidoo, writer and educator, born 23 March 1942; died 31 May 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[cozy-hoezy]

Our Sister Killjoy; Ama Ata Aidoo

[xanthezhou]

Ama Ata Aidoo, Our Sister Killjoy (1977)

[allweknewisdead]

Changes (1991) - Ama Ata Aidoo

Guilt is born in the same hour with pleasure, like anything in this universe and its enemy.

[afrotumble]

Ama Ata Aidoo- loved by Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, A Ghanaian author, poet, playwright and academic. Former Minister of Education.

[conmuchogustoleemos]

Nuestra hermana aguafiestas. Ama Ata Aidoo

Jueves 19 de octubre de 2023

Pasados los meses de verano y los calurosos días del veranillo de San Miguel, retomamos nuestro Club de Lectura “Con mucho gusto”, con sede en la biblioteca Reina Sofía, con algunos cambios que poco a poco se irán viendo.

Nuestra primera lectura en esta nueva edición es Nuestra Hermana Aguafiestas, de Christina Ama Ata Aidoo.

Nuestra Hermana Aguafiestas. O reflexiones desde una neurosis antioccidental, de Ama Ata Aidoo (Cambalache, 2018)

Pedro Sanz fue el encargado de acercar esta lectura a nuestro club. Dedicado a varias actividades sociales, entre las que destaca su colaboración con la educación de adultos en el barrio de Pilarica de Valladolid, eligió esta obra por su pertenencia a la Asociación Umoya, Comité de Solidaridad con el África Negra de Valladolid, surgida en 1990.

En su presentación señaló que Christina Ama Atta Aidoo (Ghana, 1942-2023), puso a la mujer el centro de su actividad profesional y literaria. Siempre quiso ser escritora; fue ministra de educación en su país y abandonó el cargo tras ocho meses por no ver clara la defensa de los derechos de las mujeres. Pertenece a la primera generación de mujeres escritoras africanas. Elemento común de su escritura es el hecho de que las mujeres que presenta son fuertes, toman las riendas de sus vidas y son responsables. Su obra expresa una conciencia política basada en la condición de las mujeres como metáfora de los oprimidos.

Nuestra Hermana Aguafiestas fue escrita en los años sesenta y publicada en 1977, y a pesar del tiempo transcurrido, su mensaje sigue siendo actual. La obra que comentamos es la única de la escritora traducida al español. En ella, el lector sigue los pasos de una joven ghanesa, Sissie, que viaja a Europa, concretamente a Alemania e Inglaterra. El choque cultural, educativo y principalmente personal marca el relato de hechos, acontecimientos, situaciones y sensaciones, relatados a veces de forma dispersa, a través de los cuales la protagonista expresa su inconformismo ante lo que ve y percibe.

En otro orden de cosas, llama la atención su estructura, ya que por la mezcla de estilos: narración, prosa poética, ensayo, libro de viaje, poesía, es difícil de catalogar genéricamente. Se trata de un texto híbrido en los que la voz de la protagonista organiza el conjunto. En las partes en verso o más poéticas se halla la verdadera posición de la protagonista, y en parte de la autora, aun cuando la obra no es autobiográfica.

Los participantes de ayer señalaron casi de forma unánime que el texto produce en primer lugar extrañeza por esa mezcla de géneros, y que se trata de una lectura exigente en la que cuesta entrar. Muchos coincidieron al señalar que la protagonista se muestra desde el comienzo enfadada, con una rabia y resentimiento que llaman la atención del lector. Es una mujer joven negra que sale de su país para conocer eso que llamamos primer mundo, y que le decepciona profundamente. Se produce en toda la obra una crítica a la situación en las que se hallan los africanos en Europa, con su deseo de establecerse lejos de sus países para procurar una vida mejor, y el rechazo de Sissie a la falta de compromiso con África y sus necesidades. Hay también, más o menos velado, un cuestionamiento a los postulados de la descolonización de los países africanos, en los que la autora no solo recalca el expolio de bienes materiales, sino también de los bienes humanos. Y, sobre todo, hay una visión feminista desde el afrocentrismo, que en palabras de la traductora: “Es un feminismo afrocéntrico e innegociable, que interpela por igual a las mujeres blancas y a los hombres negros”.

La charla de ayer concitó muchas dudas y muchas certezas. La negatividad de la protagonista no fue impedimento para señalar en qué situación estaba la mujer africana en los 60 y qué se esperaba de ella y de los hombres cuando tenían la oportunidad de estudiar en Europa; es de destacar el hecho de que Ama Ata Aidoo presenta a una mujer joven negra que muestra una actitud nada complaciente ante lo que Europa le ofrece; hay apuntes también acerca de la debilidad del primer mundo, en personajes como el de Marija en Alemania, que dieron pie a la reflexión acerca de la situación de soledad mostrado también en ciudadanos de los países europeos.

A destacar la admirable traducción llevada a cabo por Marta Sofía López, responsable también del prólogo que acompaña a la obra. Entre sus reflexiones es posible encontrar, condensado en pocas líneas, la poética que preside Nuestra Hermana Aguafiestas y a su autora:

En ningún momento la autora se deja deslumbrar por «los soles de las independencias», esa ola de optimismo sobre el futuro del continente africano que recorrió el mundo entero en la era de las descolonizaciones. Y mucho menos por el oropel del mundo occidental, especialmente de una Europa paternalista y falsamente benevolente que aparentaba (y sigue aparentando) apostar por el desarrollo, las políticas democráticas y el lavado de conciencia colectivo sobre la historia del esclavismo, el imperialismo, la colonización y la neocolonización.

En definitiva, buen comienzo de edición con un texto que nos hizo confrontar posturas, hablar del tema de la descolonización en África con los datos que sabiamente nos iba proporcionando Pedro, plantear asuntos de plena actualidad como es el feminismo o el racismo, y todo ello surgido a la luz de la lectura de un texto literario formalmente sorprendente y argumentalmente controvertido. ¿Qué mejor inicio?

[akuawaist]

Ama Ata Aidoo 🕊 Your legacy lives on 🕊💜

[gyamfieric]

some days

windy days

windy days

[carmenvicinanza]

Ama Ata Aidoo

https://www.unadonnalgiorno.it/ama-ata-aidoo/

Ama Ata Aidoo scrittrice e accademica ghanese, è stata la prima drammaturga africana a vedere una sua opera pubblicata, nel 1965.

Nata il 23 marzo 1942 a Saltpond, in una nobile famiglia, è cresciuta in un periodo di risorgente neocolonialismo britannico durante il quale suo nonno, che vi si era ribellato, venne assassinato. Suo padre, riconoscendo l’importanza di preservare la propria cultura, aveva fondato la prima scuola del villaggio in cui abitavano e ha tramandato la sua passione alla figlia che, già al liceo, aveva deciso di diventare una scrittrice.

Laureata con lode in letteratura inglese, ha scritto il suo primo testo teatrale,

The Dilemma of a Ghost, nel 1964. È stata ricercatrice alla Stanford University in California, dopo varie cattedre come visit professor tra gli Stati Uniti e il Kenya, ha insegnato all’università di Cape Coast, in Ghana. Ha vissuto anche in Gran Bretagna, Germania e Zimbabwe.

È stata Ministra dell’Istruzione durante il Consiglio provvisorio di difesa nazionale nel 1982. Si è dimessa dopo diciotto mesi, quando ha realizzato di non riuscire a realizzare l’obiettivo che si era preposta, rendere l’istruzione accessibile a tutti e tutte nel paese.

Dopo la carica politica, ha ripreso a viaggiare e ha tenuto conferenze in tutto il mondo. Ha insegnato  all’Hamilton College di Clinton, New York, negli anni ’90 e presso il Dipartimento di Studi Africani della Brown University fino al 2011.

Ha scritto opere teatrali e di narrativa, il suo romanzo più popolare è

Our Sister Killjoy

, del 1977, che ha avuto, per la prima volta, come protagonista una donna lesbica in contrasto con la convinzione che l’omosessualità fosse estranea all’Africa e derivasse dalla contaminazione con idee e comportamenti occidentali. Il suo Changes ha vinto, nel 1992, il Commonwealth Writers’ Prize come miglior libro dell’Africa.La raccolta di poesie Someone Talking to Sometime ha vinto il Nelson Mandela Prize for Poetry nel 1987.Ha scritto anche diversi libri per l’infanzia e contribuito a importanti antologie come Sisterhood Is Global: The International Women’s Movement Anthology e Figlie d’Africa.

Nel 2000 ha creato la Fondazione Mbaasem per promuovere e sostenere il lavoro delle scrittrici africane.È l’editrice dell’antologia African Love Stories, del 2006.Nel 2012 ha lanciato Diplomatic Pounds & Other Stories, una raccolta di racconti e saggi di rinomati scrittori del Ghana, e di altri paesi della diaspora africana.

Ha patrocinato il Premio Etisalat per la letteratura, creato nel 2013 come piattaforma per scrittrici e scrittori africani esordienti.Nel 2014 è stato fatto un documentario sulla sua vita, The Art of Ama Ata Aidoo.

Nel 2017 è nato l’Ama Ata Aidoo Center for Creative Writing, all’African University College of Communications di Accra.

Nelle sue narrazioni ha ripreso racconti popolari e leggende orali, trattato il ruolo delle donne africane nella società contemporanea e osteggiato apertamente il nazionalismo moderno che opprime la popolazione e, soprattutto, le donne.

Ha sovente criticato gli intellettuali africani che, dichiarando di amare il proprio paese, restano sedotti dai benefici del mondo occidentale.

Femminista decoloniale, credeva in una distinta identità africana, osteggiando la convinzione secondo cui l’istruzione occidentale emancipi le donne del continente.

Ama Ata Aidoo è stata un pilastro della letteratura femminista africana e mondiale che ha ispirato diverse generazioni di scrittrici.

Ha lasciato la terra il 31 maggio 2023.

[embossross]

2023 in books: fiction edition

literary fiction published 2013-2023 (based on English translation)

The Employees by Olga Ravn (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Detransition Baby by Torrey Peters (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

When We Cease to Understand the World by Benjamín Labatut (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

There’s No Such Thing As an Easy Job by Kikuko Tsumura (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Human Acts by Han Kang (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Bunny by Mona Awad (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Frankissstein by Jeanette Winterson (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

All Your Children Scattered by Beata Umubyeyi Mairesse (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Mister N by Najwa Barakat (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Fever Dream by Samanta Schweblin (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Brickmakers by Selva Almada (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

True Biz by Sara Nović (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Abyss by Pilar Quintana (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

The Meursault Investigation by Kamel Daoud (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Frankenstein in Baghdad by Ahmed Saadawi (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Spring Garden by Tomoka Shibasaki (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Rombo by Esther Kinsky (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Concerning My Daughter by Kim Hye-Jin (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

The House of Rust by Khadija Abdalla Bajaber (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Men without Women by Haruki Murakami (⭐⭐⭐)

The Sky Above the Roof by Natacha Appanah (⭐⭐⭐)

Sweet Bean Paste by Durian Sukegawa (⭐⭐⭐)

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The Deep by Rivers Solomon (⭐⭐⭐)

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Signs Preceding the End of the World by Yuri Herrera (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Changes: A Love Story by Ama Ata Aidoo (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Open City by Teju Cole (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

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Barabbas by Pär Lagerkvist (⭐)

[daevastanner]

C H A P T E R O N E

“Humans, not places, make memories.”

― Ama Ata Aidoo

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open. Overhead, a canopy of navy fabric made his current location apparent. The shadowsinger was in the private residence he kept on the outskirts of Velaris. The small home he had bought himself when he had received his first payment as Rhysand’s Spymaster.

With a grunt, Azriel propped himself up on his elbows on his bed. He found that his wings were splayed beneath him and his chest was bare. He blinked himself out of his drowsy stupor and struggled to recall the events that had led him here. He wasn’t in the practice of staying in his private home often, usually choosing to reside in the river house or townhouse or even the House of Wind.

His fatigued limbs protested as he tried to sit up straighter, his vision blurring when he attempted to take in his surroundings. He only managed to glean that it was early morning by the sun rising in the eastern window. The shadowsinger doubted that was the reason for his extreme fatigue though. The exhaustion he felt ran bone deep. Even his shadows seemed content to continue resting.

“Finally,” a voice drawled.

Squinting, Azriel slowly turned his attention to the west side of the room. In a plush, green armchair he didn’t recall buying sat Rhysand. Judging by the stubble gathering on his jaw and weariness in his violet gaze, he’d been there quite a while.

“How long was I out?” Azriel asked, his voice rough.

Rhysand sat forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Two days. The artifact did a number on you, brother.”

A brief flash of the milky white orb in question flashed in Azriel’s mind. A hazy recollection of his scarred hand extending to snatch it off its deteriorating podium, nestled within the depths of the prison. The center of his forehead ached as he attempted to dive deeper into the memories.

“Did I get it?” Azriel asked. “The artifact?”

Rhys nodded with a heavy head. “Your shadows fetched Cassian after you claimed it. He found you passed out on the floor with it wrapped in a cloth. Elain has the artifact now – she’s able to use it without touching it thankfully.”

The urge to protect the middle-Archeron from the effects of the artifact had a sobering effect on the shadowsinger. Immediately, Azriel’s pain and exhaustion were secondary. Elain must not handle the orb, he didn’t care how much clearer it made her visions of the future. No insight into any potential threats to Prythian were worth her coming under harm.

Azriel grunted, swinging his legs out of the bed to sit on the edge of the mattress and face Rhysand. “I have to find her.”

The High Lord arched a dark brow. “Who?”

Azriel fought off the urge to groan, running his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. “I know you don’t like it, Rhys, but she’ll be worried about me.”

“Elain?” Rhys asked, his tone genuinely puzzled.

Rhys had made it very clear at Solstice that he did not want Azriel anywhere near the middle-Archeron, a demand that Azriel had met with–

Searing pain lanced his skull, so intense he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Yes, Elain. Where is she?” Azriel ground out.

There was a long pause. No doubt, Rhys was declining to answer in an effort to quash any attempts Azriel would make at wooing the third sister. But Elain had a right to know Azriel was safe, regardless of Rhysand’s meddling. He forced himself to lower his hands from his eyes and meet his brother’s gaze with the ferocity he knew only the High Lord of Night could match.

But when he locked stares with his brother, he found no anger or protest. Only sheer confusion. Instantly, Azriel’s expression softened, his brows pulling together in similar bewilderment.

Finally Rhysand answered. “She’s back in the Day Court with Helion.” A pause as Rhysand’s throat worked a swallow. “And with Lucien. Her mate.”

Back in the Day Court? Back? Why did Rhys speak as though that was where Elain belonged? Why did he make it sound as though she didn’t reside in Velaris any longer? The more he puzzled over the phrasing, the more his head ached. Instead, Azriel chose to latch onto that last word. Mate.

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt. “Elain doesn’t give a damn if Lucien is her mate. Neither should you.” The spymaster wobbled on his feet then snapped in his wings, trying to regain his center of gravity – Rhys rose with him.

The High Lord reached out a steadying hand, lines of worry creasing his forehead. Azriel held up a halting palm, skewering his brother with a look. He lamented the slumbering shadows on his shoulders; they could’ve aided him in appearing more imposing to Rhysand in his currently vulnerable state.

“Sooner or later, you’ll all have to accept that the Cauldron isn’t always right, Rhys,” Azriel said, his fists clenched at his sides now. “And not everyone needs a mate to belong to someone.”

Rhys shoved his hands in his pockets, canting his head and studying Azriel closely with those unnerving violet eyes. Through the pounding in his head, Azriel could feel the vague sensation of his brother creeping around the vestiges of his memories. Too tired to ward him off, Az instead leveled the half-Illyrian with another withering glare.

For a moment, Rhysand seemed unphased, then his face drained of color. “Shit,” muttered the High Lord.

Doing his best to maintain his composure, Azriel lifted his chin. “What?”

The High Lord exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Azriel, you’re… I need to call for Madja.”

Azriel snorted at that, folding his arms over his chest. “We can agree on that. I need a head tonic because–”

“Azriel, stop,” Rhys snapped, his gaze hardening on the shadowsinger. “You’re… There’s something in your mind. It’s…” he trailed off again, shaking his head.

Azriel didn’t probe, only maintained his cold, expectant gaze on the High Lord.

Eventually, Rhysand continued, his voice both grave and tired. “You’re missing some memories.”

Heart stuttering briefly, the spymaster’s eyes swept Rhys from head to foot discerningly. He mastered himself before speaking. “What memories?”

“I swear to the Mother, Cassian, that if you don’t step aside right now, I’ll mow you down…” a female voice growled from outside the bedroom.

Both Azriel and Rhysand’s heads snapped to the mahogany door that led into the hallway. The voice Azriel heard was familiar, yet completely unknown to him. Like the lyrics of a childhood lullaby lost to time, where you could only recall the melody.

“Rhys is going to admit you the second he’s finished ensuring Azriel wasn’t affected by the artifact, Gwyn,” Cassian’s voice said soothingly.

“Who’s that?” Azriel asked, pivoting to face the door.

Rhys took a hesitant step towards the voices, murmuring under his breath again, “Dammit.”

“I can feel him, Cassian. He’s awake. If it were Nesta, you wouldn’t let anything stop you,” that same, ardent female voice insisted.

Rhysand started stalking towards the door urgently, Azriel took a few hesitant steps after him, but maintained his distance.

“Berdara, if Azriel hurts you he’ll never forgive himself…”

Who in the Mother’s name was Gwyn? Who was Berdara? More importantly, who was she to Azriel that harming her would leave him inconsolably guilt-ridden? At least, according to Cassian it would.

Any attempt to discern an answer to those questions made Azriel wince in pain as a panging sensation rattled his skull.

“Azriel won’t hurt me, Cassian. You know better,” the female replied, her voice gentler. “I am his mate, after all.”

Azriel’s eyes went wide as saucers. That was his mate out there? He had a mate? Her name was Gwyn? Or Berdara? She knew Cassian?

Black spots dotted his vision as pain rocked through his head again – he clenched his jaw, biting back a groan.

The bedroom door swung open.

In the hall, Azriel could see Cassian lumbering away, head hung.

But in the foreground of the doorway, stood the most enchanting creature Azriel had ever seen.

Read the rest on Ao3 or Wattpad

Teaser for chapter 2 on my IG @ readthesefics Tuesday

[cherrybreakfast]

“‘To refuse, as a woman, to be destroyed, was a crime that society spotted very quickly and punished swiftly and severely.’”

from Changes by Ama Ata Aidoo (1991)