A Lyrical History: Miatta Fahnbulleh

An Interview by Stephanie Horton

She is a Vocalist, Songwriter, Performance Artist, Cultural Custodian, Actress, Social Justice Activist, Children's Rights Advocate, Antiwar Crusader, and Women's Rights Champion. And a mother and grandmother, she always adds.

Her songs pulsate through our bloodstreams with the resonance of ocean waves meeting the shore. We dance to finger snapping, throbbing rhythms inside what critics call "the golden voice." We become melancholy and yearning, filled with swollen emotions, when the golden voice swells to mourn our sufferings and losses. And then again a splashing wave, the voice rousing and carrying a serious message.

Who is this woman with the seductive voice, the energy of warrior youths, and the formidable strength of twice fermented palm wine?

STEPHANIE HORTON: You spent the early part of your life in various countries and abroad, traveling with your diplomat father and in school between Liberia, Ghana, Sierra Leone, Kenya and London. This exposure to different cultures and peoples must have been an enriching experience for your development as a female African artist when most girls of your age were confined to domesticity. When did you hear the undeniable call within your soul to sing, and can you recall that moment of resolve and the story behind it when you determined to follow your heart's rebellious desire to be an artist?

MIATTA FAHNBULLEH: My mother tells me that as a child she thought I would be a nurse or teacher, because I would collect playmates in the neighborhood and play nurse or teacher. I don't remember that, but I do remember going with my maternal grandmother, Elizabeth Wede Wallace, to her revival services each evening, either at the Presbyterian church on Broad E. Johnson Street or the Aladura on Center Street. I cannot recollect the sermons, readings or lessons, but I remember the music. It was for that reason I followed obediently and religiously. I loved the sound of the voices, the organ, the clapping and the pure frenzy that the music inspired in me. I knew all the songs in my head and soul but I don't remember singing along. I never opened my mouth to try; I didn't think I could even do it. It was for older people. I must have been seven years old then. And then sometime in my eighth year, at the end of the school year programme at the CDB King School, I heard Cianna Wortorson (nee Sherman) and Massa Perry (nee Dempster) sing a duet. Here were two people like me, standing in front of the entire school—teachers and parents—singing the sweetest harmonies I had ever heard, and deep inside a voice said, "I want to do that. I want to make those sweet sounds." I do believe that was the day I had that undeniable call within my soul to sing.

As to the moment of resolution in following my heart's desires to be an artist, that is a little more complex. As much as my soul yearned for that release to be an artist, I felt bound to my family, community and society to have a "Respectable Profession." So after high school it was off to America in 1968 to 'polish up' as I saw it on broadcast journalism. I had already as a student tasted the bug of radio with my holiday stints at the Sierra Leone Broadcasting Services, reading short stories, poems and dramas for the children's program. I won second prize in a talent competition organized by the SLBS British Council (1967), and another prize—the Adjudicators Prize—for best overall performance in the National Drama Festival. I played Tom in the Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams.

On my return to Liberia in August 1967, I applied for a job with the Liberian government broadcasting corporation (ELBC), was accepted on the spot, and began a month of training to start on radio and television in October. My instructors were Jonathan Refell, Sherman Brown and Ashley Rennie, then considered the best in the profession. I was nineteen years. It couldn't have been more than a month after my ELBC debut, that I got an offer from VOA—their African transmission was then based in Monrovia—for more money and less hours. Every aspect of VOA studio work was done by the producer, control engineers and script writers. All I had to do was sit down and read from a script. I was ready to jump at that opportunity, but ELBC came out with some argument that there existed an understanding that VOA could not hire broadcasters from ELBC. After protests and attitude from me, they conceded that I could do one program for VOA on my own time, and never in conflict with ELBC schedules. As a result I became the first presenter of "Music Time in Africa" on VOA, a weekly program of African music. On my off days, I would go into VOA and record two or sometimes all four programs for the month. My producer at the time was a wonderful man, a real father, Leo Sarkisian.

I stayed in broadcasting until my departure for America in August 1968. But Kendall College in Evanston was just too backward for me, and not challenging. So, after one semester I moved to New York and enrolled in the then New York School of Announcing and Speech, a supposedly top broadcasting school. What they taught I had already learned from Refell, Brown and Rennie, and they wanted me to pay top bucks for a diploma but not an FCC license to work in America as I was not a citizen, so after about two months of that 'hustle' I was out of there!

From the summer of '69 into '70, I played around singing with Ed Townsend and Gloria Toote in Teaneck, New Jersey, and then March of 1970 found me pregnant with my son Gbanjah, who was born in December in Hackensack. After my son's birth, I was serious about returning to school for a 'Respectable' diploma. This time I came a little closer to my desire. I enrolled in New York's Bleeker St. School and joined the American Musical and Drama Society. School was my first priority and musical performances and collaboration with greats like Donald Byrd, Duke Pearson, Lloyd McNeil and others around New York was a 'hobby.'

In 1974, I returned to Liberia with my "piece of paper" to contribute to the larger society. The Ministry of Information and Culture was where I was sentenced to death! Monrovia had no professional actors and actresses, we had no theatre, and so I found escape in my music again, doing gigs around the country. Still on the payroll of MICAT, I traveled to perform in the Ivory Coast and Sierra Leone, and in July 1975 was invited by Hugh Masekela to tour in the US with him the following year for exposure! I was still a bona fide employee of GOL but I decided to take a chance and fly to Nigeria to cut my first demo with Baranta and Masekela producing, and I ended up staying in Lagos until December!

I returned to MICAT in January 1976 amidst plenty talk! Not been on the job etcetera. I go on tour in July 1976 with Hugh Masekela anticipating a possible record deal. By the end of the tour, despite raves, no record deal. Returned to MICAT disappointed, heartbroken, and settled back into work under pressure from all sides. Was I going to apply myself to my job at MICAT or be irresponsible with this foolish music business that was taking me nowhere? The Minister was constantly threatening me with dismissal. As a result of that stress I developed an ulcer and a thyroid problem and had to go back to America for medical attention in September. Whilst there, preparation for Liberia's contingency to FESTAC '77 heated up. In my absence, many of my fans and admirers in the country assumed I'd be going to FESTAC. Unknown to me, my Minister was still trying to get me fired. I was unwell at the time and not even thinking of being included in the Liberian contingency.

Sometime in November 1976, the Minister wrote to the President informing him of his intention to let me go, listing among his reasons that I was 'too western oriented' to fit into the Ministry of Culture. President Tolbert forwarded his letter to me with a cover letter asking me for my observations or comments. Letter is delivered to my house, mother relays the message to me by telephone. I asked her to read the letter to me, and I decided to return to Monrovia to give my answer. I arrived in December, and wrote to the President asking if my performances abroad were not promoting a cultural image of Liberia? President Tolbert himself had invited me earlier that year to accompany him on an official visit to Uganda, where I performed at the state dinner before Mobutu Bokasa and Amin! Needless to say I won that battle! MICAT was instructed to include me in the contingency.

In two weeks I put together an all star band, rehearsed and made costumes. Ran behind per diem—which was not enough—and my Minister was not even about to help. We held a fundraising performance to raise additional capital. Supporters came with their donations. I was literally on my own. The Minister and his staff alienated me and the band. We made it to Lagos, FESTAC ended, and once again I stayed over in Lagos networking till April. Many artists from the UK and the Caribbean stayed to socialize and interact, which was not possible with the hectic FESTAC performance schedule. The writers and musicians from the UK made the most impact on me and we exchanged addresses and promised to keep in touch. I passed through Accra in April for more networking and arrived in Monrovia early June. Once more a chilly reception as if I hadn't been out there doing anything worthwhile.

My Minister didn't write another letter to President Tolbert but was constantly complaining to my mother, especially since they were members of the same church. One evening within a week of my arrival, my mother informed me that my grandfather wanted to see me immediately. I didn't need to ask what for. The complaint had no doubt been relayed to him, and since he was the head of the clan and everyone feared his wrath, it was expected. I guessed that he was going to talk sense into me to put away these musical dreams and concentrate on being a coordinator for culture for the schools. I have never told my mother or anyone this, but my grandfather was the worst person they could have referred me to. Reasons? I was the first grandchild and we had a special relationship. He loved my continental African accent and stories about my stay in England and other places. When I was a student in Sierra Leone, we wrote regularly; he, even more than me, and on my return from Kenya in 1967 I was his date at official state functions. My grandfather communicated more with me than even with his own children. I was the only member of the family who was allowed to smoke a cigarette in his presence!

Grandpa relayed all the complaints and said he knew that what I was going through was difficult and that he empathized with me. Its been 27 years but I still remember his words:

"Most of us who are born into this world, have to come and find our calling, through toil and studies, but people like you are born already endowed with your gift. That's why we call you artists 'Extraordinary' people. You have been given a gift from God, and it is a blessing. No one can pay you for your gift. If I give you a present, will you go and sell it?"

Of course I answered no!

"You will show it to your friends and relations and hopefully cherish it, so it is the same with the gift that God has given you. You can't sell it, because it's priceless, but you can and must share it, to show that the gift is appreciated. Most of us don't even understand artists, and most people in this country will never understand you. Don't worry about them. All I want you to do is put down roots; build a house, so that when you have gone on your roaming, you will return to somewhere of your own."

My grandfather's words have stayed with me for 27 years and have formed the basis and values behind my musical career. That was the moment when the decision to follow my heart was resolved. My grandfather was the guide and I thank him. The next day I went to the Ministry of Information and Culture and gave my resignation. I got a round trip from three friends, Ernest Jenkins (G I.), Edwin Williams, and Waldrom Greaves, and flew to London. I said goodbye to Monrovia and arrived in London with two hundred pounds. The rest is history and I have never regretted following my heart's desire, to make music and share my gift.

STEPHANIE HORTON: You played a major role in the founding of the women's movement in Liberia. This period of women's activism remains largely undocumented and overshadowed by the dominant male personalities of the times. What was the nature and extent of your involvement in the development of women's activist expressions of social consciousness, and looking back reflectively, what are you most proud of, and what do you most regret? What were women's greatest challenges?

MIATTA FAHNBULLEH: I really don't know if I can claim a major role in the founding of a women's movement because there was really none apart from the Federation of Liberian women. What I can safely say is maybe by our individual lifestyles we brought about a change of attitudes for women.

I went to America at her most critical juncture, 1968. I welcomed the feminist movement. I did away with the uncomfortable "Respectable" bra, found my identity as a woman, participated in anti-war rallies and found teachers among some of the most radical and revolutionary brothers and sisters in the USA. I became pregnant and had my child on the strength of feminist principles. I did not opt for a marriage I wasn't ready for, as would have been the case had I been in Liberia. I accepted the challenge of single motherhood, was proud of my child, earned a diploma, and wasn't going to hide in some corner or quickly marry someone, anyone, to validate me and make me and my child "Respectable!" I had my opinions and I made them heard!

We broke the rules by going out to clubs and bars unaccompanied by a man! Sacrilege! We were prepared to pay our own bills, make our own choices, and date whomever we wanted to. We sat with men and held discussions on every imaginable issue, from politics to gender equality. We were no longer going to stay barefoot and pregnant and in the kitchen! My anthem was, "Anything you can do, I can do better!" From Liberia, Cote d'Ivoire, Nigeria, Ghana, Sierra Leone, this was Miatta, as Bill Mayer would say, "Politically and Socially Incorrect." Many men asked their wives not to entertain me. My name was removed from many a guest list to ensure that I did not embarrass hosts by taking on some all powerful, rich moneybag on some controversial subject, worst if it pertained to the place and status of women. I never at that time saw myself as fighting for all women; I was fighting for me because some of my biggest critics and antagonists were women who were happy with the status quo. Once he's giving you money, what's wrong if he treats you like shit? They didn't even want to hear me and copped out by accusing me of being "American."

It was many years after that women would meet me and tell how they were inspired by some interview I gave, or something I said during a performance. I have met so many younger women in their thirties and forties who tell me how much they loved me, how I inspired them as a role model. I thank God that I was instrumental in helping mold some of the young independent, dynamic women today in West Africa. What I am most proud of is that I had the temerity to "speak out."

Regrets? None really. Remember, from 1974-77, I was in this turmoil of the job/music conflict, and when I left for London I had done enough "damage" on behalf of the new African woman. Yet there was still no organization or movement per se, until the advent of the 80s. I must add here that one young lady stood out in the 70s and caught our attention – Ernestine Cassell. She was one of a group of students arrested and imprisoned in 1975 for protesting against the GOL. Monrovians from middle to upper class homes were prepared to support imprisoned students. My dearest friend, Fredericka Taylor, was one of the silent organizers. It was still the order of the day not to openly protest. The culture of silence existed. The students were released! But the movement of the 80s is the real story of activism and challenges.

With the advent of the coup in Liberia in 1980, the Liberian people did themselves and our nation a great disservice. The wealthy, privileged and "Congos" headed for Robertsfield and parts beyond, literally dusting off their feet and swearing never to return. Most of those remaining "Congos" who could have helped were so cowardly. They became "Uncle Toms" and sycophants to young illiterate noncommissioned soldiers. Our indigenous people, carried away by the euphoria of the sweeping changes, saw nothing wrong with the excesses and stupidity of what was happening. Only few dared to criticize, and I mean few. I returned to Africa in 1984 December, settled in Nigeria, and in early 1985 I made a trip to Liberia for a show. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, who I admired at the time as one of the senior outspoken women, asked if I would perform at a fundraiser for her party, the Liberian Action party, for the coming October 15 elections. I agreed because I like almost everyone else wanted to see the end of the Doe regime.

At the fundraiser, I changed the lyrics of my hit "Kokolioko" and it became the theme song for the Liberian Action party, and I became Public Enemy Number One to the Doe Administration. I take that back; I became Number Two, because my brother Boima had his run-in with the Government in 1984 and was in exile, much to their NERVOUSNESS! He was Public Enemy Number One.

I stayed in Liberia for the elections though I did not vote. I was told it was too late to register by the elections commissioner himself. I could have gotten a registration card by fiat thru LAP but I chose not to participate in anything illegal. I was concerned by all the rigging which it seemed was been done by all.

A commission of 50 "prominent" Liberians enclosed at Hotel Africa counted the votes. Imagine watching an exciting movie, and at the most critical part the light goes out for a good forty-five minutes! The Liberian people had to wait, myself included, until the second day for the results. I agree all the time when people accuse me of being politically naive, because what happened in Liberia on October 29, 1985 was shocking.

I actually sat down that morning with pen and paper to record all the senatorial candidates, etc. as Mr. Harmon announced the winners. Every single winner was from Doe's NDPL party. Favored candidates had lost! In short, it was an election by selection by the ruling military turned civilian government. After about the first ten names, a deep sadness engulfed me. I simply put down the pen and paper, walked out of my house, out of my "back way" as we say— the shortcut—onto Broad Street. The streets were deserted because everyone was listening to their radios. There were no moving cars, no taxis, no pedestrians, just me. I crossed in the middle of Broad Street, looked toward Crown Hill, felt the deepest knife in my stomach, and stood quietly crying. I saw the future of Liberia and its aftermath in the miscarriage of justice done to the Liberian people.

Why I did not leave Liberia the very next day, I don't know. Something told me not to leave my children behind. I had a confirmed engagement at the Bintumani Hotel in Freetown from December to January for the high tourist season. The pay was good. I would be living in the hotel with food provided. Rehearsals with the band were to begin November 9th. But somehow I felt I couldn't go without my children, and immediately after October 29 started to process their passports. Both needed visas; my son is a US citizen and my daughter is a British citizen. I booked our flights for November 18 and withheld getting our exit visas until November 13 or 14.

On the morning of November 12, General Thomas Quiwonkpa made his famous broadcast and the government held me and my children hostage, seizing our passports and saying I could not leave because my brother had been implicated in the coup. This was on November 16, a day after Charles Gbenyon was brutally murdered. For the first time in my life I wore black. I did it for all those who had perished in the aftermath of the "putsch" which was to right that miscarriage of justice. Apart from singing at LAP's fundraising events, I had not the foggiest clue what was going on in connection with upcoming events, and here I was being intimidated and penalized. In the aftermath of the failed coup, every known political opposition figure was arrested and imprisoned "African style." One lone female was amongst them: Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. All remaining voices of dissent ran for cover. The repression was brutal and everyone simply moaned behind their doors in hushed tones.

I was angry—no—PISSED! And be damned if some semi-illiterate was going to intimidate Miatta Fahnbulleh, daughter of H. Boima, granddaughter of Karmoh Tifa and Nete Sie Brownell. They drew the first blood and I was ready for confrontation at any given moment. As my mother would say, "They raised my Grebo blood!" I was now stuck in Liberia, no job or possibility of employment, left with no option but to fight for my rights, and again in doing so, fight for others. This is how my full time activism began.

I was to find support from tough sisters like Vera Oye (formerly Vera Cummings), Fannie Cole Weefur, Sarta Dempster, Boyle Port, Maureen Shaw and some strong young sisters at the University. Suddenly, with Ellen in prison and friends like Jim Holder and Robert Philips headed for the gallows, I had a mission. An underground network was formed with students and workers that could be mobilized to challenge the government at every turn. I helped in bringing women together for the first time in early 1986 to discuss our fears and roles in the stifling political atmosphere. It started with a conversation between Confort Kandakai Peabody, Genevien Sherman Sherif and myself at Silver Spoon in the Pan African Plaza. I volunteered to coordinate the logistics, reserved a space in the City Hall, went to ELBC and put out a public service announcement inviting all women to come to a meeting concerning them and issues. No organization name was given, but I signed my name, which was a requirement. Day of the meeting? Surprise! Out of an entire frightened and repressed nation, if my recollection is right, we were only about fifty women! Actually forty because ten had come from the various security services! The regulars were those names listed earlier and one pleasant surprise I have never forgotten; Elizabeth Brewer, wife of the late ambassador Herbert Brewer, showed up. She was one of the few of her generation and status who dared.

STEPHANIE HORTON: Your personality and artistry touch a deep chord in the hearts of West Africans. Nigerians and Ghanaians particularly hold you in high esteem. You spent years in America in voluntary exile during the Taylor regime, speaking at rallies and conferences, using your music to express your ideals and convictions as well as raise awareness about the victims of war and terrorism in Liberia and Sierra Leone, and the ongoing exploitation of our natural resources intensified during the wars by Belgium, France, Israel, England and America. You returned to the continent after Taylor was ousted, to settle in Ghana. What is it like living on the continent after so many years in exile? How do you perceive things now in comparison? Why did you choose to live in Ghana over Liberia?

MIATTA FAHNBULLEH: Its wonderful being home. Home is where I've always longed to be. Somehow the naturalness of Africa keeps you closer to the spiritual. We all say there's no place like home, even Russians in America. Vietnamese. In my 56 years, there's no place I've thought of staying for good. I've always been in my transit. Africa is my home, specifically the West Coast – Monrovia, Freetown, Lagos, Accra, Togo, Guinea, Ivory Coast. I have adapted already, rented a little bungalow in Tema, hailed as the center of the universe. Quiet clean air. I am finding my own niche within the community and loving every moment of it. I exhaled the week I arrived and haven't regretted! I left my family and friends here, so it wasn't as if I was coming into the unknown. In Lagos, old friends are still around. Today in Accra, my friends of 18, 16, 20 years are who I came back to integrate with. I've realized that here we have more quality time of life compared to the USA where everyone seems to work, work, work, and have no quality time with friends and family. In America I talked to all my friends on the phone, sometimes not seeing them for some years. Here, if we don't see or hear from a friend for a week, we know something is wrong and will go and check! Africa is about homeliness while America is about a social security number!

I have so far only been to Nigeria, Ghana and Sierra Leone. My first stop was Abuja, capital of Nigeria. I was often in Abuja in the early 90s. I was disappointed in Abuja, also in Lagos. Nigeria amazes and puzzles me. The most brilliant minds, renowned artists, doctors and specialists in every field, carrying the health services in America! I could list their worldwide contributions in every profession and yet nothing changes for the better in these areas at home. Even Nigerians are disappointed at the lack of progress and family in the society.

Benin was a pleasant surprise. Roads that were poor are now first class. I see more action than 10-12 years ago. Togo is losing whatever it had in the early 90s. Sierra Leone is a shadow of its old self because of the destruction, though Freetown, where I only spent a week, was a pleasant surprise. If you didn't know that a brutal period had swept through the country, you wouldn't know by the spirit of the people. The emotional and psychological trauma have taken a toll but optimism is everywhere. There is hope for Freetown. It's a beautiful country with so much potential and probably the highest number of educated Africans along the West Coast.

Ghana works. It worked before I left and now with an improved infrastructure, the economy is great. This was my home before. Don't get me wrong –it is not perfect, but then where is? I just left America scared to take a plane, a train, a bus, driven through tunnels and bridges – please! Too much stress. Here my stress is the computer takes too long to connect or is too slow, and here it is no big deal. In America, I was on my computer, sometimes all day. Here, I don't even think of the computer – so much else to do. The weather is beautiful – there's no way you want to be stuck inside! I am eating real natural food. Abundance of large variety of fruits, seafood—my specialty—fish, prawns—definitely not spending all those so-called super saver US prices. I pay less for fresh food and feel better physically eating real food.

Why Ghana compared to Liberia? I had a problem living in Liberia in the "good old days" so imagine what about now? I left Liberia in 1988 to come to Ghana to live. I said earlier that I have always been politically naive, and I discovered at the height of our active period that people betray each other, sell each other out, come with hidden agendas, push you in front to talk the talk, and when the shit hits the fan, you are on your own. Most Liberians were not passionate about the cause. My friends in Nigeria and Ghana were a little worried that my big mother would get me in serious trouble and literally begged me to leave Liberia. My best friend of ten years, a Ghanaian, had returned to Ghana with her husband, and in England together mothering our daughters, we talked of life in Ghana together. So when I finally got my passport back from the government, I started to think seriously of "checking out" as the Nigerians say. I landed in Accra in 1988, was welcomed like a queen and found family and friends I've known since the sixties. An intelligent society having made mistakes was sincerely sorting itself out. Ghana was indeed a sanctuary and it still is for me. Here I was in December of 1989 when the mayhem started.

Anyway, in coming home, I knew Liberia for now could not be my base. Wherever I am in this world, I can never forget about my roots, and will always contribute to Liberia, through her human resources. There are thousands of Liberians all along the West Coast. I would like to be of some help. I want to contribute and focus right now on working with girls in the refugee camps, and enjoy attention for my work and not my controversial personality. In Liberia I'm always Boima Fahnbulleh's sister. In Ghana I'm just Miatta Fahnbulleh, African artist and activist. Last but not least, I am a very hygienic, spoilt human! I want running water to bathe 3 times a day if I so wish, flush my toilet, wash my clothes, my dishes, my floors, windows, water my flowers – you notice I didn't say to drink! I am prepared to buy good drinking water. Can I have the right and electricity to operate my household items, iron my clothes, listen to the radio, read a book before I fall asleep and be able to walk the streets again? I can do all that here and still be home. My creative juices flow at weird times. Sometimes I "feel" at 2:30 AM and want to write down and record that "feel." This isn't possible home. And no, I don't see why I should have a generator. They are health and environmental hazards! If they were okay they'd be in DC, Maryland and Chicago too!

STEPHANIE HORTON: All eyes are watching the situation in Liberia right now with elections approaching next year. What does it mean to you to be a Liberian artist today?

MIATTA FAHNBULLEH: Its interesting that you should ask that question because little under a month ago, I went into the studio here and did a demo called OBAA and rushed it off to Liberia. This is my own contribution towards the DISARMAMENT process. The mothers must take charge, take away the guns and teach right from wrong. My message is to women, mothers, worldwide, but it is borne out of Liberia's pain. I've always felt the need to use the music to relay society's message, and more importantly now at this juncture because of the monumental tragedy that this once peaceful Atlantic coast has suffered. One of my major projects at the moment is the "NO MORE WAR" campaign bringing together major artists from the ECOWAS region to tour in the "Peace Countries," performing live in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast, with Nigeria, Benin, Togo and Ghana added. We hope our music will bring joy, hope and healing, and help in creating a culture of peace.

STEPHANIE HORTON: When Taylor was in power and the RUF reigned, you responded to a question on your optimism by saying, "Once the heart stays young, doesn't get full of anger and bitterness, you sleep peacefully at night." Many Liberian progressives have become pessimistic and cynical given the overarching business as usual culture despite years of struggle and rivers of blood. Do you find it difficult now to hold on to that optimistic spirit you once expressed? Any sleepless nights? What keeps you going?

MIATTA FAHNBULLEH: Sometimes! But I am still that optimist. Africa is more mysterious than all of us. She has endured centuries of exploitation, and even the pharaohs have all gone. But the Nile is still here. Her minerals are still in abundance, and her land is a breadbasket where every thing grows. The more our people have access to basic knowledge, of employment, the future will make us proud.

Sleepless nights? Don't watch much TV. Internet is a luxury in time over here which I can't afford! Try to interact with good positive people, my fellow artists, and take it "one day at a time." In time, all of this madness will be forgotten. I sincerely believe that Africa is the future for humankind.

What keeps me going? Life! Every morning on opening my eyes, I know that the Creator has given me the day and am thankful, and must live each day as if it is the last. When I take my walks in the morning, I appreciate the greatness of the Creator. Through the day I live by the "Golden Rule" and at night I thank God for another wonderful day. So much to see, still so much to do. The Creator keeps me going!