Born in London to a Nigerian mother and a Ghanaian father, Taiye Selasi has spent a lot of time challenging the idea of what it means to be 'from somewhere'. In her 2014 TED Talk titled "Don't ask where I'm from, ask where I'm a local", she tells the story of how, during her international book tour to promote "Ghana Must Go" she cringed every time she was introduced: 'Taiye Selasi comes from Ghana and Nigeria,' or 'Taiye Selasi comes from England and the States.' This was a lie, she says. Yes, she was born in England and grew up in the United States of America. Her mother was born in England and raised in Nigeria and currently lives in Ghana. Her father was born in Gold Coast, a British colony at the time, raised in what then became Ghana, and has lived for over 30 years in Saudi Arabia. As a result, her introducers also viewed her as 'multi-national', a term Selasi does not like because it immediately makes one think of international corporations.
Nationality, she says, is a human invention based on arbitrary borders that are not as absolute as we like to think. Countries are not fixed points in time and geography; countries are born, develop and some die; and borders and territories expand and contract continuously. The idea of using nationality as a basis for identity, Selasi says, is one that does not make sense to her.
Ghana Must Go: Ghana
"Ghana Must Go" tells the story of the Sais: a Nigerian-Ghanaian family of six living in America. The parents, Kweku and Fola, leave the African continent 'in pursuit of higher education and happiness abroad'. Kweku becomes a world-class surgeon, the best in his field, and Fola gives up an opportunity to study law at an ivy-league university to raise their four children: first born son Olu, twins Kehinde and Taiwo and 'the baby' Sadie.
Then one day tragedy befalls the family in the form of a grave injustice to Kweku. Ashamed, he abandons his family and returns to Ghana leaving the family to fragment and spiral out to different parts of the world: New York, New England, London and Ghana.
The book opens with Kweku's death, which forces everyone back together to try and heal the wounds of the past.
The title of the book refers to the Nigerian phrase directed at incoming Ghanaian refugees during political unrest in the 1980s. It speaks of xenophobia and it speaks of immigration: both forced and chosen. It speaks of leaving a home you have established with assets and rituals and giving it all up to start afresh elsewhere.
Kweku and Fola have a 'conversation' towards the end of the book which relates back to the title and how it fits into the narrative. Kweku asks himself why he left his family.
"I also left you," Fola says to him. "We did what we knew. It was what we knew. Leaving...We were immigrants. Immigrants leave."
The narrative comes full circle back to Ghana, to Africa, form where Kweku and Fola left many years ago, where each of the Sais must learn how to 'do their work' in order to heal, so that they can come together again as a family.
My favourite thing about this book is Selasi's command of language. The language of the book is poetic not only in its use of figures of speech but also in the rhythm that it employs.
Consider the following passage from the third part of the novel:
'The day has dawned coolish, deceptively clement, sun covered by clouds, a thick coat of pale gray, with bright whiteness behind it, a threat or a promise, breeze running its fingers through leaves, not yet noon. In thirty or so minutes the clouds will start parting, the leaves will stop moving, the air will stand still; the sun will stop playing demure and come forward; the day will turn muggy, unbearably hot. The weather in December is like this in Ghana: an in-taken breath held until the world spins, trail of tears to the New Year through sopping humidity, the worst of the heat, then the respite of rain.'
If you have not already noticed the rhythm that Selasi establishes, then read the passage again in a different format below:
'The day has dawned coolish, deceptively clement,
sun covered by clouds, a thick coat of pale gray,
with bright whiteness behind it, a threat or a promise,
breeze running its fingers through leaves, not yet noon.
In thirty or so minutes the clouds will start parting,
the leaves will stop moving, the air will stand still;
the sun will stop playing demure and come forward;
the day will turn muggy, unbearably hot.
The weather in December is like this in Ghana:
an in-taken breath held until the world spins,
trail of tears to the New Year through sopping humidity,
the worst of the heat, then the respite of rain.'
The fact that the entire book is written like this is a remarkable achievement. Granted, there are parts of the book where the poetic rhythm fails, but one has to conclude that Selasi did this on purpose, as is evident in a reading she did from the book on the tour promote it.
"Ghana Must Go" is a meditation on the ideas of identity that go beyond nationality, something I myself have never considered. I look forward to reading it again and encourage you all to get a copy.
