[tp lang=”en” not_in=”fr”]”The King is dead! The Queen is King…does she have a blog/published book? I’d love to read her material” was one of the tweets I got in response to Famia’s incredible performance at AWDF and Alliance Francaise’s recent International Women’s Day celebrations.

So just who is Famia Nkansa?

 

Famia Nkansa is a writer, poet, blogger and social commentator who is still trying to scatter her words like pebbles and write her way back home. She is currently is in the final stages of completing a novel and a book of short stories. In the meantime Famia has been generous enough to share her piece below with us. Enjoy.

The Soundtrack to an Ovary

The American children of Asian immigrants choke on popcorn and live lives with subtitles, never sure what is asked of them; whether it is from their mothers, or ethnographers asking about their mothers.

–Takeo Rivera[/tp]

[tp lang=”fr” not_in=”en”]«Le roi est mort! La Reine est roi … At-elle un blog / livre publié? Je serais ravie de lire ses productions» était l’un des tweets que j’ai reçu en réponse à une performance incroyable de Famia à AWDF et l’Alliance Française lors des récentes célébrations de la Journée internationale de la femme.

Qui donc au juste est Famia Nkansa?

Famia Nkansa est écrivaine, poète, blogueuse et commentateur social qui est encore en train de disperser ses mots comme des cailloux et de leur écrire le chemin du retour. Elle est actuellement dans les dernières étapes de l’élaboration d’un roman et d’un livre d’histoires courtes. En attendant Famia a été assez généreuse pour partager cette pièce ci-dessous avec nous. Profitez.

La Bande-originale d’un ovaire

Les enfants américains d’immigrants asiatiques s’étouffent avec du pop-corn et vivent leurs vies avec des sous-titres, jamais sûr de ce qui leur est demandé; que ce soit de la part de leurs mères, ou d’ethnographes qui leur pose des questions sur leurs mères.

-Takeo Rivera[/tp]

 

The women-children of African people choke on popcorn

and live lives with subtitles.

 

Never sure what is asked of them—whether it is from their mothers,

or the ethnographers asking about their mothers.

 

They marry up; they marry men; they learn to be the treasurers of society’s decrees.

And early on, they perfect the art of cleaning dust from gramophone records.

 

Sound is the soundtrack to an ovary. Women walking, always,

hand in hand with voices. The voices say how to behave.

 

The voices say when you have failed. The voices say,

“to be female and Ghanaian is to be doubly African.”

 

To be doubly African is to be even more defined by journalists and history books.

To live with having footnotes the world shows no interest in learning to read.

 

In the dreams these women have—where they are here, not halved but whole—

they wear mascara on their labia instead of lipstick, study economics instead of

 

teaching, study sculpting instead of econ and proclaim things that make no sense.

They teach their children how to use a new broom the first five times.

 

Collect the twigs on paper. To clean their teeth

with charcoal to make them pearly white.

 

But out of their dreams, when they are here, they hear,

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

 

And come to recognize a sound

that always only means two things:

 

The food is burning, so lower the fire.

You’re being heard, so lower your voice.