I keep wondering why it's so difficult for me to blog sometimes. I get these ideas floating inside my head, but when I sit down to write, I freeze. I think the reason is cultural and generational.
In Ghana, you don't go on Oprah and pour out your secrets. Your relatives are liable to berate you and your friends shun you. In the history of Ghana, only one writer, Francis Selormey, has written a coming of age memoir and that was when I was in elementary school. He writes about growing up with a rather enigmatic and harsh father. The book was beautifully written though, and we came to see the father's love, even if we didn't understand him. Oh, people have written personal essays here and there, but not a full, tell-all memoir. Indeed, Meri Nana Ama Danquah, a Ghanaian writer, has written a memoir about a black woman's journey through depression. But Nana Ama grew up in America and has learned to be open about her feelings. And now, I've written a coming of age memoir. I even talk about sexual discovery; heaven help me! Hopefully, I can hide behind the fact that hardly anyone will know me or bump into me.
Gluttonous Autumn in New York
1 week ago