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What do you see?

Perspective is everything. It is beauty and sophistication at a get go. I have two batik artworks walled in my room. One is a drawing of six African ladies of which two carry baskets of fruits; three head a basket of bread loaves and the last, a calabash full of water. The other artwork is a drawing of Africa. Inside Africa, are ladies, African ladies. A few carrying baskets of fruits and land produce. Some carry calabashes full of water, while two, pound and drive fufu expertly. A cocoa tree also cuts through the North-West of Africa. 

The few who observe, see the artworks. I happen to barge into a gentleman one evening as he looked on. "What do you see?" I asked. "Only a bunch of ladies carrying baskets of foodstuffs" he replied sharply. But they are Africans, their skin tone says it all. What happened to the cocoa tree, or even the ladies pounding the fufu? He didn't notice. On the left side of the first artwork, one lady is undoubtedly having a hard time lifting up her baskets of bread loaves. She is very guarded. Her back is engaged with a baby. She had spent way too much sweat to put her to sleep and can't afford to compromise now. 

The woman behind her is going through the same dilemma, she too has her hands full. Her basket of bread loaves is below her chin- just a few centimetres away and she will gain balance. Her spine heave a sigh of relief the moment she baskets her head. Hear the wails of the mothers, their feet hurt. They were barefooted, but their conversation left them unperturbed. Their feet have become acquainted with the itchy cuts of the gravel roads and the thorny paths of the farm. What is a few cuts when gossip is in the air? They thread on, each telling of a piece of the whole, adding flavourings to the stew they cooked on their way home. Even Akua, the teenager, added a tongue. Hers was more detailed though.

"Herh Akua, close those ears of yours. What at all do you want to hear. And why are you not with your age mates?" the first woman from the left asked rhetorically. Akua walked before them. She led the way- she knows of a shortcut somewhere. "So these are the bushes you hide in with those village boys to do what your parents do at night huh?" Maame Fafa shrugged as Akua pointed to a narrow cave hidden beneath the shadows of the baobab trees of Kukua.

The baobab trees of Kukua represent the sons of the earth goddess Nsuma. History has it that, the trees once opened up at midnight, like a woman in labour and birth a baby girl, who grew up to be a healer, the greatest healer of all time. Nsuma Gasu, they called her. 'Daughter of Nsuma' it meant. Akua carried the calabash full of water, she looked fragile and worn-out. Her legs were tired. "Let the gods strike me by day if ever I open my legs to an imbecile in these holy grounds" she fumed, turning to her left side. The exact second when Sola, the artist, captured the moment. 

"Oh okay" I responded to his spectacle. A smile ballooned beneath my cheeks. "Why do you smile?", "Nothing..." I replied.

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