I was fifteen when I first read “The Mesh” by the Ghanaian poet, Kwesi Brew. The short poem of seven lines was so direct and honest that it stirred something restless in me. The poem is simple, and Brew’s choice of words created such brilliantly constructed imagery that even I, a hungry and confused high school graduate fresh out of the oven, could relate to it in an urgent and visceral manner.
Like the poet persona, I too was at a crossroads, lost and fearful of my future. I had a rough education, an itinerant homelife, constant family drama that left me always embarrassed, very frail health, many days of starvation and mountains of unpaid fees all against the backdrop of my parents’ rocky marriage and a pervasive atmosphere of dread.
One of the most transformational things is seeing your parents scared. When you’re young, you need hope, lots of hope and parents should shield their children from the brutality of existence. Looking back, I realise that it stole a perspective I can never regain: the ability to approach the world with the confidence of belonging. I have worked my own way around this. Instead of hopelessness, I approach this reality with strength.
When I read “The Mesh”, it felt as though the poem itself was a lamp lifted for me in an environment driven by hate—hate of one’s own luck in life, the hate of failure, the hate of shame, the hate of feeling small, so much hatred and very little agency.
Up until that time, I hadn’t been particularly drawn to poetry. I was an arts student, a top literature student in school, and I dabbled in lots of writing—short stories I never completed, a full manuscript for a play, religious articles, and a novel I started at some point. But nothing was concrete. In every line of Brew’s poem, I saw myself replying. It is said that good poetry inspires you to write.
We have come to the crossroads
Young people are often caught between the hammer and the anvil. When systems do not work as they should, they are the casualties. In the Nigerian socio-economic and political climate, we’ve seen this demographic stunted under the weight of anxiety. Over 80 percent of Nigerian youths would jump at an opportunity to leave the country. There seem to be only two choices—here or there. This dilemma carries itself into everything we do. There is an integral form of unease that directs our affairs. We’ve seen it in the protests, in the apathy that thrives.
“The Mesh” can be interpreted in many ways. It could be a poem about a person’s love for a partner, the birth of his child, a tribute to his mother, or a message to a dear friend. For me, it was a poem about conflict—the conflict of opposition that takes place in the soul. Where is our place in the world, and what should we do?
I lingered over the choice
The reason being recognized as the citizen of a particular country is so defining of our identity is because we are fundamentally defined, first and foremost, as a collective. In literature, individualism is the platter on which everything else is served. Stories are about people as individuals, then tied into the larger picture. In global relations, however, we are defined by our societies, our communities, our culture, our names, the way our eyes move across a room, traits shared by many from our region. This becomes who we are.
Because of this, our environment becomes vital to our progress. As a fifteen-year-old, I knew this intuitively, not as I know it now, not theoretically. I knew that my environment was limited in significant ways. It wasn’t one for creativity or imagination. It lay at the tail end of cynicism. I longed for a place where people were at ease with each other and, more importantly, with themselves. But, at the time, I couldn’t articulate that longing. I couldn’t see how to begin building a path toward it. Anything other than what I had been given would have been seen as rebellion, arrogance, selfishness, or sin. These were words embedded in our common vocabulary.
And I saw in your face
It is almost humorous that this poem first appeared in Kwesi Brew’s debut poetry collection, Shadows of Laughter, published in 1968. Yet, four decades and seven years later, it found me. Poetry is a kind of linguistic civilization way ahead of its time. Every great poem speaks to the future, and what seems indecipherable now becomes clear to those who come after.
I started writing poetry after reading this poem, and I have been writing ever since. Some encounters in life are not physical. They reshape the mind and guide us into places that can save us. What poetry did for me was to offer a world outside of where I was, to give me a language through which I could communicate with the world, with people for whom light shines.
I feel that, ultimately, this is what drives my writing: the need to cast my bread upon the waters, as it were. Perhaps someone, fifty years from now, will find my words and be saved too.
The road that I should take
There is a great spot, about a seven-minute drive from my house, that offers the most expansive view of Abuja. You’ll see the roofs spread out like the colourful and intricate tapestry of a Persian rug. It’s a 180-degree view of a city that represents beauty, comfort, and a successful life. I don’t know about success yet, but it is beauty and comfort that I reflect back. At times like this, when I’m staring down from my car, I think of this poem again.
It is truly remarkable that I can trace my journey, with absolute clarity, back to its lines. This thread of poetic function, abstract as it may be, fosters an overwhelming sense of contentment.
***Star Zahra is an Abuja based poet.
