A.B. Godfreed photo by Nipah Dennis
As the creative persona of A.B. Godfreed, I am determined to embody what I describe as “the art of unthinking”. For me, this is about my ability to exist as an artist-scientist who consciously manifests work that is not only non-binary but also (self)transformative. I do so in the hope of contributing to a long overdue paradigm shift in how we view, study and engage in knowledge-making in ways that honour the multiplicity and pluriversality of our interdependent world(s).
To this end, I make art, write poetry and narratives, plus produce video sketches and experimental beatmixes that I share on various digital platforms such as “A.B. Godfreed’s Prosetry & Pic(k)s”, Medium, Soundcloud, Instagram, and other digital platforms. I engage in these eclectic endeavours as my way of creating “work that makes life sweet”, while also highlighting our diversity and yet epigenetically entangled oneness—in all its intelligence and beauty.
IE: With the hope of establishing Identity, and with our interview theme in mind, “Old and New Testament of African Literature,” who is “A.B. Godfreed?”
A.B.G: A.B. Godfreed is an illusion of sorts, a performative fabrication that I conjured up (in 2013) as an alias to remind me of how much I needed to also focus on my creative writing energy, far beyond the level of mere hobby—which it had been for over 20 years (especially during my academic pursuits). The idea of the name came to me as I completed the first draft of a semi-auto-biographic novella entitled “Ewuresi’s Adventures in Ghanabaland”, because it marked my first attempt at sustained creative writing and thus a greater integration of the artistry aspect of my life into the scientific mind that I had acquired.
You see, for too long I had lived in a work world replete with hierarchical binaries that dictated the production of knowledge into discrete arenas where art and science tend not to meet. So then, what happens to a person who is equally drawn to both? What becomes of such a person, who also is attracted to ambiguity, contradiction and the promise within liminal space? How is s/he able to embody both in every part of his/her life, without limitation or apology?
In my mind, such a person had to become all but God-freed; hence, the name A.B. Godfreed. It was a name that was to mark my emancipation from knowledge borders, as I try to live my life more and more within the margins, the borderlands—existing (and preferably thriving) within the in-between. Aside from this symbolic reference, Godfreed is also a play on my father’s original surname Amoo-Gottfried (changed to Amoo-Adare)—with both surnames being the result of colonialism. A.B. too, is also the initialization of my traditional (Akan) name Akosua Biraa. What would likely have been my only names, but for the rude interruption of our matrilineal herstory by colonization.
Long story short, A.B. Godfreed is a reminder that all that we are and do, is a palimpsest of illusions (delusions even) that attempt to define and/or confine an immense, expansive, sacred, and creative reality that cannot be contained, or even adequately expressed or explained, by anything that we attempt to imagine and/or materialize in this life.
IE: From your work, “We Are Our History” composed of phrases from the motion picture “I am your Negro” by James Baldwin, a line said, “History is not the past. It is the present… We are our history.”
Can you tell me if this in its way obliterates the idea that there is an “Old Testament” or “New Testament” African writer/literature?
A.B.G: Interesting that you ask me this question, especially in light of my aversion to all things binary—mostly because the use of binary thinking always finds its way to the ranking, grading, categorizing and separating of this from that, us from them, you from me, and so on—ad infinitum. In this vein, your question reminds me of a passage from a book, by one of my favourite authors. I read it so very long ago—somewhere in my mid-20s, as I tried to gain some understanding of what it meant to be (expansive and fluid) me—within a world that categorized me as Black, female, heterosexual, immigrant, single, etc.
The author in question is Isabel Allende, whose mythopoetic writing style I loved and wished I could emulate. I read so much of her work back then (amidst work by other women writers from Africa and all around the globe); namely, her books Eva Luna, Stories of Eva Luna, The Infinite Plan, Of Love and Shadows, etc. But it is the below text, out of House of Spirits that resonates and has stuck with me throughout the years. More specifically, it says:
At times I feel as if I had lived all this before and that I have already written these very words, but I know it was not I: it was another woman, who kept her notebooks so that one day I could use them. I write, she wrote, that memory is fragile and the space of a single life is brief, passing so quickly that we never get the chance to see the relationship between events; we cannot gauge the consequences of our acts, and we believe in the fiction of past, present, and future, but it may also be true that everything happens simultaneously.
It is this idea of the very real possibility that life (as we call and know it) is occurring simultaneously, which makes me wary of the need to distinguish old from new and, thus, them from us—even though I also recognize why there is the need for these kinds of distinctions. I would argue that it is all because we (as the category Africans) live within the effects of a long colonial history—one which has us all entangled in a Westernised mode of reading, knowing and being in the world—in ways that are linear, hierarchical, and discriminatory (racist-sexist, if we are being blunt).
In such a world, we have had to highlight and distinguish our African forebearers (and more broadly speaking all our forebearers located within the Global South). We need to distinguish them, to prove that we too are as good as it gets—also being human beings or more importantly humane beings, with souls.
But, at the same time, we need to also acknowledge that in doing so—we fall into the trap of a very singular (universalized) worldview—one that has served to rank us (one against the other) in a story of progress and civilization; a fictional account that cannot in any way capture the dynamic, ambiguous, contradictory multiversal/pluriversal reality, which has we humans as a mere blip in a deep, dark and mysterious cosmos.
In the depths of such an unfathomable reality our persistent need to rank and file, even for good reason, pales into insignificance—while at the same time also being seriously important, as a heart attack.
In many ways, this idea of time occurring simultaneously also speaks to the traditional Asante understanding of the fluid continuity of space-time that has the dead, the living, and the yet-to-be-born in a symbiotic and metaphysical relationship with each other. It is a permeable, relational dynamism that we often forget about and/or actively obscure in our separation of past from present and future.
IE: Considering that you are one of the “Old Testament” writers of African Literature, and you have been around for some time, how would you compare creativity and/or ability between “Old” & “New” Testament African Writers?
A.B.G: This is not a point that I can speak to for several reasons as follows:
1) I am in no way an “Old Testament” writer for the mere fact that even though I might be older than most, I have only in recent times begun to exercise my creative writing ability in earnest.
2) I have not read enough African writers, especially contemporary writers (or for that matter even male writers—as I tend to gravitate towards absence/silence, in this case, women’s voices), to be able to make any meaningful analysis of the vast array of work—let alone distinctions between old and new.
3) I think comparison is problematic terrain because it leads us directly into binary thinking, where some are then judged as wanting, while others are lauded—all based on subjective categorizations.
4) I have also never been drawn to the idea of reading with geographical boundaries, so therefore, even as I recognize the origins of whatever author I am reading, I tend to jettison that knowledge and rather sink myself into their world of ideas—especially those that speak to the unitary nature of our needs, wants, desires, foibles, etc., despite our diversity of being and becoming. This sometimes means that I remember certain ideas, while totally forgetting who wrote them—because it is the connection between (and/or overlay of) ideas and world senses that excites me the most, versus their categorizations.
Of course, I realize here that I have contradicted myself as my bias has always been towards seeking out and reading women’s work (from all over the globe)—but such is the nature of reality: always with the ability to hold two contradictory ways of being, doing or living in some kind of balance or harmony.
IE: In your interview with Arts Africa, you spoke of how a Scarcity Mentality is the fuel why people choose to hoard things in life. Would you say this mentality drives the Creative Art Industry? Where knowledge or the baton of a sort is not shared/passed on between New Testament writers or even from Old Testament to New Testament writers?
A.B.G: For certain we are gripped with a scarcity mentality (in all areas of life), within what in many ways is an abundant and always creating universe—a multiverse even (although it very often does not feel that way). I think this is because we are under many delusions of mediocrity—in that many of us feel that some people are imbued with all the talent and luck in the universe, while we are not. We spend an eternity comparing ourselves to each other, instead of developing the means and tools to dig deep into ourselves, to truly know who we each are and what it is we are called to do on this planet, in these bizarre but interesting times.
In other words, there is far too much bloody noise (from our parents, from schools, from the media, from social media, etc., etc., and so forth). And I use the word bloody intentionally because much of that noise is laced with violence, and it is tiring. It is also stunting creativity because that noise also keeps us in the grip of a capitalist system in which everything has been monetized to death, while we are forced to compete in a “survivor of the fittest” race called (westernized) development and/or progress. But what is this progress? Who does it serve? Where is it taking us? And more importantly who or what does it annihilate, with and through its many fictions?
As (literary) artists, we are not immune from this coercive reality. And even more importantly, I would say that we are called upon to in fact warn everyone else about the dangers of complacently accepting such a morbid status quo. We are also called to document and map the effects of such a system. Ultimately, we are tasked with dreaming and/or envisioning alternative realities to such a tragic norm.
But how can we do so, when we are also very complicit because of our deep-rooted fears around finding fame and accolades, plus with our dread of being judged (against certain artistic standards) and found wanting? This is also why I would resist comparison wherever possible since we all have important messages to share for which there are always specific ears also looking for us to share those precious missives.
IE: Most of your poems seem to explore the Freedom of Self. One in particular, Freedom, you wrote, “all conflicts are in our minds—preoccupation w/ images of ourselves made by others transfixed, bewitched into bumbling beliefs.” What would you say is the conflict between Old Testament And New Testament African Literature/Writers? Do you think that this conflict that says, New Testament writers are deviating from what is truly African is just another “bumbling belief?” How do we deal with this conflict?
A.B.G: Again, we are in that space of binaries—a problematic place to inhabit for sure. I would argue that as artists we are called in different ways at different times, where some of us create to give resonance to particular ideas of the time—while others create against the beat of time, thus, emitting towards the future, and the rest reach back into the frequencies of the past to remind us of where we have ‘supposedly’ come from.
But in reality, I would say that there are always waves of multiple possibilities that simply get fixed by us when we look (i.e., focus) on them. Scientific evidence of this reality is brought to us by quantum physics, with the double-split experiment within which light behaves as both a wave and as particles, depending on whether it is being observed or not; thus, revealing light’s quantum nature and perhaps that of life too.
So, in a reality impregnated with so much possibility, why would it behove us to insist on everyone creating in very particular ways? Especially nowadays many of us have the luxury of being able to engage in more creative ways of being since most of our material needs are being met.
In the past, we did this kind of creative policing because we were very much burdened with the need to prove to our colonial masters that Africans too can think. This burden was doubly important since even our people, especially our youthful generations, were also under the “bumbling belief” that they could not think as well as Euro-North Americans do. We were all socialised into this and many other delusions through deeply entrenched global colonial systems, such as education, governance, media, religion, popular culture, language, etc. And even though we are very much still under the spell and mandate of that colonial matrix of power, I would say that there is more room nowadays to allow us to flourish creatively—without the mantle of having to prove you are an “African writer”, whatever that even means on a globe where we now know that everyone on this planet (genetically) descended out of Africa.
IE: The “Is like syndrome” says that, “if you want to get published, write like successful poets. If you want to be an artist, find your voice. Work that is like something else is easier to publish. Work that challenges will always have a tough road.”
Do you think this is true? Or would you say that the African Literature of generations passed was affected by this? Have you found yourself in a position where you had to lose yourself as a Writer to be “successful?”
A.B.G: This is the “publish or perish” debacle that plagues all writers, be they creative or academic. It is a travesty! A bane on creativity! Because it robs us of the luxury of the time to sink into what J. Krishnamurti would call true creativity—that which comes unbidden from within (or more so through you) and out into the world, particularly because you have also learnt to silence/forget about your Ego self—let alone the Egos of others.
Trying to write or be like X or Y writer, only gets us to mimicry – which is fine, especially with writing that we love to love. But the writing that we love, often got to us because author X or Y was not copying someone else. They often wrote, from an almost possessed flow—with the unbidden pouring out into the world, for us, through them.
I guess we all need to choose for ourselves what kind of creative we would much rather be, and there is space for “both-and” versus having to select “either-or” modes of creating.
IE: Ocean Vuong said in an interview with The Guardian that he believes that there is a common anxiety for writers to establish a style, which also adds to a sort of limit for each writer. Do you think there is a limit that has been placed on African Creatives about the style/theme of African Literature? To what extent has this limit affected you as a Writer?
A.B.G: If there is such a limit, then I have not come across it. In fact, I choose not to learn about it. And maybe that is because I do not see myself as a writer—let alone as an African writer. In actuality, I am still in the process of trying to understand who I am (as a human being)—in my expansivity. And writing is just one of the many creative things that I enjoy doing when I get to it—but it is certainly not my identity.
So then, what exactly is this essence of me that can never be weighed, measured, seen, or even understood? Who is this intangible observer within me that watches as I act out (reluctantly and therefore very badly) the many prescribed roles and identities that have been ascribed to me by societal forces? Who am I when I am doing nothing? What am I when able to silence the chatter (or noise) in my head? And how do I differ from you, if at all, when stripped of all the external acquisitions (status, wealth, name, culture, religion, etc.)?
This here is my current quest, or search for meaning. It is a rather existential anxiety that nixes all angst to do with lesser concerns such as establishing a writing style and the like.
That said, I do believe that my exploration of these bigger questions may very well lead to an unintended body of work that someone else may decide to categorize as a writing style. Whether this happens or not, will hopefully never be any of my business or concern.
IE: Today, if I were to be asked to advise a next-generation African Writer using the words of A.B Godfreed, I would quote some lines from your work, Neti Neti — “Open your eyes. Open your minds. Open your hearts to this magic beneath your ego.” Because I think for most writers, hubris haunts us.
However, as yourself, what advice would you like to leave for any writer who gets to read this?
I would say, stop reading this and rather sit still, be silent for a moment—because that is just about all the time you can take before your mind starts harassing you with thoughts of this and that. But persist. Sit. Close your eyes even. Just be still.
Then, only ask yourself this question: who am I? Not where am I from? What does the world think I am? What do my friends and family say I am? But who am I, when stripped of everything that the body has accumulated on earth? Who am I, when absent of all the things that surround me? Ask this “who am I” question, but do not answer with your mind. Just sit quietly, aware of all that is taking place in and around you.
Simply see what arises in the silence, if anything at all, as you listen to your breath and all that is around you.
Do this regularly, whenever you can.
Use it as a mechanism to start becoming aware of yourself in every way. It helps you to not only see how you react to things and why but also makes you more observant of what is going on around you—with or without other human presence.
You will find that from the uncomfortable sense of nothing (busy/relevant/interesting) going on, as you sit quietly in place, a whole expansive world-within-worlds arises unbidden to heed your simple call to life. Be ready to hear what it has to say specifically (and only) to you.