Zukiswa wanner: The day I made Ama Ata Aidoo cry and laugh

The message came from The Power-That-Is (also known as editorial guy) on Tuesday morning last week as I was about to board the Accra-bound plane.

It read, “And get some literature from that place.”

I saw it on arrival. Then in response I could not resist showing off, “I shall make a plan. Having tea with Ama Ata Aidoo,” then added, just in case I had not sounded like I was bragging enough, “But do I say?”

I had sent an e-mail to Kinna, Ama’s daughter, to arrange the meeting. On arrival, I sent a message giving her my local number so that we could firm up plans.

The script, unfortunately, did not go quite as planned.

The day after sending her my number, I found myself in a full day conference. With a dead phone. I only returned to the hotel after nine in the evening.

As soon as I put my phone on the charger, I received a call from a mutual friend of Kinna and I. Kinna had been trying to reach me the whole day. Unfortunately she had not left a number and the next day was a busy one for me as I had volunteered to rapporteur a meeting.

NAUGHTY SMILE

It looked like Ama and I’s tea wasn’t meant to be. Which, in one way, was sad as I had wanted to meet her. But I was not too gutted as I am being hosted by her Mbaasem Foundation next month and figured I would be meeting her then. It just looked like I wouldn’t be submitting a column on meeting her to the Power-That-Is this time around.

Then on Sunday morning as I was passing time at breakfast while waiting for my ride to Kotoka International Airport, it happened. Ama rocked up for a breakfast meeting with my sisterfriend, academic and translator, Wangui wa Goro.

I didn’t notice. But then Wangui came to my table where I was probably boring the person sitting with me by waxing lyrical about contemporary African writers she knew nothing about.

“Come, I need you to sign this book for Ama,” she said. I went on drinking my coffee and then…wait. Ama was here? Wangui had already walked back to her table and I followed.

And there she was. Ama Ata Aidoo in all her glory with her naughty smile and a gleam in her eye.

We chatted and took some photographs. By then all my writer friends had noticed her and everyone wanted a photo, so I left her for a while until everyone had their moment with her.

UNCOUTH QUERY

When I returned to her table, we chatted a bit more. Wangui was seated opposite her. I should have sat down and held her hand before I said what I said next but I foolishly did not.

“Aunt Ama, did you know Asenath Odaga?” I asked.

“Ah yes, Asenath,” she said smiling.

“Did you know she died?” I said tastelessly. No ‘she passed away’, no ‘she left us’, just an uncouth and undiplomatic, “Did you know she died?”

And why had I asked her whether she knew Asenath? Ama was staying in Zimbabwe at the time I first met Asenath as a child. Ama stayed in Kenya at some point in time. I know most of my contemporaries and the 1980s were not nearly as full of female literary voices on the continent as now.

“But when?” she asked.

Wangui and I both answered, “In December.”

And then Ama’s face crumbled. And she started sobbing.

MAKING UP

What was wrong with me? I had made Ama cry. Silly, undiplomatic me had wiped away the smile from Ama’s face and made her cry. I could have slapped myself.

Wangui came round and rubbed her back and sent me to get some tissue so Ama could wipe her eyes. I did as I was bid. I knew I had to do something to make up for my blunder.

When I returned, I had my phone gallery open to a photo of aunt Asenath that I took when I last saw her late last year.

“She looked really frail,” Ama commented.

“Yes she was. She had not been well for a while,” I responded.

My showing her the photo was my way of showing her that perhaps my Aunt Asenath, the woman she referred to as her friend, Asenath was now at rest. She understood and took it in the spirit that I meant it. Then I apologised to her for the way I delivered the news. She graciously gave me a get-out-of-jail free card. “Don’t be silly. How were you supposed to tell me?”

SEEKING TO SHARE

We sat there swapping Asenath stories and by the time Wangui returned, all was well.

Then something interesting happened.

A young man with whom I had had a rather intense discussion on literature came by. The discussion had centred on his being too much of a "realist" to read fiction.

“I only read serious books like the speeches of Malcolm X and Sankara,” he had said importantly. My attempt at convincing him that sometimes fiction is more real than fact did not yield much fruit.

It was this young man who now walked to our table. Having seen everyone taking photos with Ama, he, too, wanted to share in this historical moment.

“Zuki,” he addressed, “can you take a photo of me and Ama please?”

“What has Ama written?” I asked him.

He ah’d and eh’d and could not give a single title.

“I’m sorry. Ama is a very important writer and I can’t take a photo of you with Ama if you don’t know what she has written.”

Then Ama and Wangui laughed. And as the young man walked away, I too joined them in the laughter.

In the space of an hour, I had made Ama cry, and I had made her laugh. And this felt very fitting because these are the very same emotions her works, particularly the novels Our Sister Killjoy and Changes, have always evoked in me.

So while I didn’t do a formal interview with Ama Ata Aidoo during my trip, we shared so much more. We broke bread, cried and laughed on International Women’s Day. The Power-That-Is can’t be too mad at me, can he?

Zukiswa Wanner is a South African author living in Kenya. [email protected]