On Reading the Sad News: Ama Ata Aidoo
by Rashidah Ismaili

Ama Ata Aidoo (March 23, 1942 – May 31, 2023)

Just after reading the New York Times Art section where I see the continued resistance to returning stolen art that is in the museums of the United Kingdom; as I fill with rage at the arrogance of colonialism; at the condensation of what tries to mask as an ‘art sensitive gesture’ in the offering to LEND a few pieces of Benin icons looted centuries ago, I read the Obituaries and there is the announcement of my dear sister-in-arms of Pan African struggles and literary integrity for The Continent and Her Children; dead!

How to process this; “dead after a short illness?” This dynamic spirit of blazing eyes, searing brilliance, a force to be reckoned with, gone into the finite place of no return, of no access. How to speak to the silence of space that separates the living from the dead, her to me. The distance grows with each passing person who used to walk this earth with me, laugh with me, read to me and speak to the urgent need to be strong, vigilant in our quest for African autonomy and excellent. Telephones will not bring her voice to me laughing and crying at men’s folly, the cruelty of misogynists, racists, classism, exploitation and misappropriation of institutions of education, government, theological, and every manner of oppression the human mind has created; ALL!!!

How to show all these decades later, modern devices notwithstanding, the huge smile that greeted me over half a century ago when I was on my way home for class, carrying a grocery bag and my notebook, on Bleecker Street in The Village, just about to turn west on Morton Street where I lived with my very young son, when Ama Ata, smiled with open arms blocking my path; “Aow, how lovely.” The inflection in her voice told me she was West African, and it put me at ease. I stopped and we embraced on that street filled with people going to and fro, in front of a bakery shop that made the best bread and if you were about around 11:00 at night when they were loading the delivery trucks, you could get a free loaf of still warm bread.

That is it, how it started, this sisterhood, circa 1963. She was visiting on a fellowship and I was in grad school, a single mother raising a male child. It turned out we had a mutual friend who lived nearby and who worked at The Mission and we met there on many occasions as he had parties for the sake of having Pan African exchanges with Continental Africans and Africans from the Diaspora. We were budding artists, writers and thought of ourselves as Thinkers/Philosophers/Intellectual Young Pioneers. We were devoted to Dr. Nkrumah’s vision of the New Africa and the African Youth who would go out into the world, gather another set of knowledge, come Back Home and integrate the new learning with the old and forge a path that would lead to the total re-formation of Africa where tribalism would not be a means of division but rather of broadening our understanding of what it meant to be simply An African.

Oh my dear sister, how often we cried at the disappointment of our dreams, at the intractable position of some of our most learned men and women. Still, you wrote your words of condemnation, of inspiration and created plays, poetry and fiction all for us to hear and experience the wonders of your gifts. The pain at being called a tool of Western Education and other such nonsense, most hurting, to not be understood for the message you, and me, we brought. Still you fought on and on. I know how painful it was for you to resign your position of Minister of Education and then to go to Zimbabwe. Fortunately, you found happiness there in real human terms; your daughter was born and later your first grandson.

Back home you continued your work; writing, forming a foundation and then, we came together to create OWWA; Organisation of Women Writers of Africa. You and Jayne Cortez were co-chairs, I was the Treasurer and we went on to plot out two incredible conferences; the first of its kind where women of African descent came together and shared experiences, writing methods, food and laughter. We were joyous and inspiring in our celebrations with our Men of Distinction. Always, always you were a dynamic source of knowledge and fun.

Now, how to navigate the loss, the emptiness. The void of your voice and wisdom along with Jayne Cortez, Amiri Baraka, Nawal al Saadawi, Kamau Brathwaite, George Lamming and so many others who said the words, took the positions, owned the podiums of the world, this void that chokes me, and sometimes leaves me without adequate words to shape the thoughts I am having and a response to the world events we witness daily. The march of self destruction of so many of our ‘leaders’ and youth chasing after torn jeans and multicoloured wigs, for an identity that denigrates and denies the Africanity of their history. How do we extol the strong who maintain their artistic and intellectual integrity, encourage them when many are in need of housing, a respectful venue and honest benefactors. And yet, dear sister, we must continue somehow without you, Tom Feelings, Virginia Hamilton, Lucille Clifton, Abbie Lincoln, Max Roach, Willie Kgostisile, Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masakela, Sibongile Khumalo, Randy Weston, Esther Cooper Jackson, Harry Belafonte, all who have left their indelible marks on the cultural and human landscape. So I want to promise to be Aunty for your daughter and Go-Go for the young men, your grandsons. I promise to write as honestly as possible without your sharp critique. I promise to be a true Pan Africanist and advocate for women and indeed for the human specie as we struggle to make this world a home of art that inspires the best of each of us. To the children of Africa, sing your songs and sing praise for Ama Ata Aidioo and all those now silent voices. Read their works. Listen to their records. Look at their art in museums and books. Be inspired. Make your mark. Don’t let death take away the challenge and love, the smiles and urgings of those now quiet. Be artistically, intelligently, respectfully NOISY.

Sleep in grace, my dear smiling, Brilliant One