End NOTE on Art

Your art shouldn’t be dirty to be popular

You read that right! Even though people like a wayward art, they don’t take such down the aisle, to momma or to the school dance. In fact, if your art isn’t well-behaved or teaching others to be so directly or indirectly, your art is best placed in hidden corners. Your art is put up in dark places, cal de sac drug mafia kind of dark place and then if your art is hot, it begins to smoke, choke those who love it and if you don’t control yourself, you too begin to hate your art, and it would hate you so that you can’t tell others that this is my art. You would betray your art even without a kiss (not every one is bold like Judas) That’s the point where your art isn’t good to see so it becomes lonely, vomits a crime, is sent to jail and drags the family pen name into the mud: dust to dust kind of shame. Don’t be surprised to know that your art can commit suicide out of frustration.

Don’t be deceived,

Your art came with a Pride package.

It’s fine to feel a little achieved after every moment of survival but learn to curb the ego, alter it a little, don’t give it an altar or the alter-ego takes over and soon, you cannot find your fingerprint even on your finger. Your art become unrecognizable, it is yours but then again, it’s not yours. You cannot own it and so she elopes with her man who looks exactly like you but isn’t you. So when the writer’s block is over, she returns like a prodigal son. You must accept your art back with all of your heart. Then you must throw a party, write a cheque and write a paragraph, a stanza, a verse, a scene. Write quickly so she feels welcome. She… He… It doesn’t matter (Art has no gender)

The last thing I can remember for now is,

The art should have a God.

Not must but should. Here is the plausible list:

  1. God
  2. mammon
  3. and down to your self.

Your art must be owned and feel the need to be accountable.

Which bags the question of why is your art alive? for God, for money or for self. It’s the same thing as for eternity and an everlasting grid, for the end of the month and TGIF sensation or the ATM discharging moment, the grrrrrrr sound or for you. You are a bottomless pit so I don’t know what your art is for if it’s for you.

So on this note, I end this note…

the End.

This Art is not Yours I

This world is not my home
I’m just a-passing through

Thank you Jim Reeves, I’ll take it from here now.

(clears his throat)

This is a note I wrote to self about writing because the pressure could sometimes make one forget how to even do what one was ordained to do when it comes to a paper and pen or fingers and an Android phone’s keyboard (in most recent times).

This Art is not yours

We make art – not for ourselves, alone but – for others. And this “others” are people who wait for us in our dreams, when we are awake, in the darkness and and even in the market. In our lifetime, we may never know them even if we want to but they are expectant and as a word of encouragement, they really exist.

They would need your art to say something serious.

Not too serious like SERIOUS so that they don’t mistake you for one without the inclination to have fun but serious in how David kills a Goliath and it gets them asking: how did…?

They want your art to mean something

First to you and then to them but to you first and most importantly to you. Because if you can’t strike the importance of what you give, it’s not even important. This is the space for passion. The kind of drive and blood that keeps you awake even when your body wails for sleep. The motivation to push further so that when you are done crossing the Red Sea, the Pharaoh wouldn’t want to follow because it’s a miracle that you still breathe after making your art.

They want your art to scare you.

Not Casper the ghost scaring humans kind of scare or tattoo all over the face kind but SCARE you. So to meet up, your art stays in your reflection: when you admire yourself, you are reminded; when you walk, you are reminded; when you talk, you can hear two voices arguing and it’s your mouth that is the speaker. Then you ask, who are the people really holding the microphone? That should scare you and that’s another story for another note to self.

This scare is not confusion because you know what it is but it should still scare you. It should scare you in the way Peter was afraid when he denied Jesus trice. That’s the scare they want or else your art isn’t worth it.

To be continued shortly.

Feature Art by Nathan Pieterse


I do not conform to ‘not conforming’. Not to say that I actually conform but to assert by conviction – beyond condition(s) – that I do not. In the essence of my thought, I do not consider conformity an option to be deviated from. It doesn’t exist or for better references to other realities, it shouldn’t exist.

I am however contented with space and design. By this, I mean that I don’t think outside the box. I know that there is a box, and I sit in it, I colour it with the colours of the universe and soon, my box is an endless space of designs I recreate such that every creation, not like the former, is self-defiant to the opposition of God and with the ability to serve it’s own purpose; sometimes, far greater than I had – from the onset – imagined. The reason for this adamancy is because soon, so many think outside the box and out-of-the-box is the new box, the infinite and boundless space becomes bound by a finite hunger to recreate from nothing. In the same way to be like God.

To create is not a flaw but to do so with a flawed hunger to outwit another is the flaw.

In the best design, I am not a supporter of competition. Not competition in the sense of development to learning but in the view of winning at the deliberate expense of another’s life. So, to live at the cost of another’s death isn’t actually living. This is my point of conflict.

Therefore, I don’t question for answer(s), by better reflection, I have come to an understanding that I am not wired to question what is the truth. And opposing the notion that one must question to find truth, I am persuaded that the truth lies in answering the questions of life and not necessarily in questioning for truth. My creation is not a question rather it is an answer to the challenge for which I was created. So this is my mindset, which is in the similitude of proffering solutions in the place of dwelling extensively on the problem.

This has thus formed my thoughts from tot to thinker alike. Perhaps this is also the reason why I demand to answer intentions more than the actions or their inaction counterparts. It is so, that I am aware that the action is only peaceable when the intention is truly peaceable and that even in a peaceable action or inaction the intention must be peaceable otherwise the action is in itself violent. This is also what has beamed my perception to contemporary struggles and movements: for as long as I consider you first a creation of God then a human being and subsequently as belonging to gender: male and female, I do my dealing with you as I would unto all that God has created bearing in mind the truth that God is in all that he has created.

By virtue of this, a consciousness to answer the call of justice isn’t solely by human law but by the conviction of the conscience. This is why conformity doesn’t exist because I recognize a higher place beyond conforming, beyond humanity and beyond the divisions of competition, prejudice and the Hunger to outwit God in others. This is the form off conformity.


Art by Khaled Dawa

​The Writer, the Righter and the Rite of writing III

Disclaimer: This claim is not necessarily where I, the writer, came from. If it looks like where you came from, somehow, then you too are one of those people who look like me. That makes two.

                                                  Where is the writer from? 

The writer came from the place where babies come from.

Between walls of struggle, personal defeats and pain. From streets with open fire, gun violence, cultural eminence, failed states, wrong puntification, skipped purification and many more of those things like power-outtage, civil outrage, missing monies, love for monkeys and casual seduction. From places with intense light, cold nights, buried frights, simple plights like watching a living man die in one’s hands.

The writer came from birth, rebirth and uncertainty. 

The writer might have forgotten how to speak, how to squeak, how to sneak into thoughts when difficult times come: that’s where writers come from. From the forgotten, the begotten or the forsaken.

The writer comes from age to sage. 

The writer comes from rage, and the writer craves beginnings. The writer is from heaven and earth.

The writer is from form but cannot be uniform.

The writer is from the source of all sauce and gloss. The writer doesnt remember where (s)he came from. The writer lives but leaves when origin is no more original. The writer is from root-words, root-wars, from truth, the root of all good and evil. 

The writer is from a tree but did not evolve. 

The writer emerged from where weary hearts were strengthened. The writer is from the future, from the past but has passed the present time. The writer originated from coarse memories to a course worth dying for.

The writer belongs to the divine. 


There is a simple beauty in the possession of a thought; a single eye; a blame scale; a faulty memory. There is a sound pleasure in wrestling with the past and conforming to the inability to conform. At times, my midnight battles are not with sleep or strange spirits; neighbours hammering on brick walls or frog croaks, lovers moaning, moon dancing or twilight’s stretch, mine are with thoughts. The thoughts to conquer and those that come conquered.

There is a simple reckoning in colours; submissive as they may appear to the eyes…eye. And then the sublime seduction to gloat freely in the boastings of the past. I see at times that most human battles are with the past. What was I that I am not? What did I not know that I now know? When was it – life – good or when was evil not naught? Sometimes, we hate from the past only to see our souls prosper the love to hate from the past. Its challenging to fight that battle here with a single eye but what isn’t it? It’s best to dwell on definition and for hate, it’s tricky but one must know that the definition of hate as the love to hate is not simpler yet this is not the battle. The battle is and has almost never left the past.

Referring to the past and its misgivings, I found hope belated and in a somersaulting plane I found the beauty of unholy chants best left uncharted. My scribbling is slow-hearted; pardon me, I suffer from the guilty of a self-love session. However, I have found it a blessing to testify of a mile of forgetfulness; for there is a beauty in forgetfulness.

There is a humble joy in forgetfulness and the musing of the act…art of forgetfulness and I mark transitions this way. I mark them by simply forgetting. This time, it is a long plane to cross: A weighty cross to bear: about forgetting and simply forgetting thoughts which battle with me at night or dream-chasing. It’s is a drug at times to forget this season: Forgetting sand-roads and mist rising from cars pursuing cars.

Forgetting rock-pathways and skyline streams; letting night sparkles from mountain caps go. Forgetting a rushing carnal which was my neighbour; forgetting music in the guise of language, cursing in Twi. Most spectacularly, forgetting the place where a sailor-at-sea curse for a voice is always eminent. Forgetting a hill filled with beggars; begging for attention, loving the shouts of conflict until the bad economy seals their lips to fend for food…or vend food for food.

Forgetting playful Lebanese bike-riders and money sucking warehouses; money stalking warehouses. Forgetting about semi-nude women who plead guilty to nudity proudly on the charges of fashion and vogue with young adults loving the trend of kneevage-showcase which is simply parallel to four-year event that reveals the shocking price we pay to get sold – the common beauty in paradoxes of fishes dying while trying to feed.

I bless the similitude of my battle for in my aimless strife to forget. I remember it all coming and leaving as vividly as they have always been. Do I bless the creator of memory for His creation? Yes, and for the single eye which is the light of the body, house of the soul.