Prince Mensah
Prince Mensah was born in 1977 to Dr.
Louis and Rose Mensah. He attended
Adisadel College, Extra Mural Academy,
African-American HIV University(USA)
and Mediation Training Institute(USA). He
has written an extensive body of work
including plays that have been staged at the
Arts Center in Accra. He presently lives in
the United States.
    INTERVIEW WITH PRINCE MENSAH

    1. Please tell us a little about yourself-- your writing credits, your work to
    promote emerging African writers, and the themes in your poetry.

    I have been writing since my pre-teens, as a high school student in Adisadel College,
    Cape Coast, Ghana. I started with poems and plays, since they gave instant
    gratification. I mean, you sense the reaction and appreciation from audiences after a
    poem is recited or a play is acted. I begun writing short stories for the BBC and, though
    I never had a head way with them, I realized how writing was a powerful catharsis for
    my internal rumblings.
    Predominant themes in my poetry are the intercourse of culture with outside influences,
    the eternal debate between a person's identity and his society, together with plain old
    nostalgia.
    To date, I have written about fifty poetry anthologies, twenty-five plays, ten
    screenplays, fifty short stories, five novels and various articles. My works have been
    published on One Ghana, One Voice, the Free Press of Ghana and the P & P magazine
    in Ghana.

    2. Your poem "Ancestor" shows a persona in a nostalgic moment about an
    interaction with an elderly figure, who is now an ancestor. What value do you
    think ancestors hold in the African present? Do you believe in the power of
    ancestors?

    Our past as Nubians was glorious. It was the very first king on the face of the earth,
    Nimrod, who oversaw the building of the tallest and largest real estate on the earth.
    Move over, Donald Trump. The building was the Tower of Babel. It was the largest
    apartment in the world because everybody on earth at the time lived in that tower. The
    real story is that Nimrod was black. See Genesis 10:8-12, 11:1-9.

    I used this story as a precursor to my reasoning why ancestors are pivotal to our self-
    worth as a people. The media has been overtly biased in the glorification of the Anglo-
    Saxon history, to the detriment of other equally important and interesting cultures. There
    are a lot of Africans, blacks in general, who have no sense of identity as a people. Our
    history is so rich with inspiration that we have no excuse to flunk at this game of life.
    Ancestors give us a chance to evaluate our strengths, by building on them and our
    weaknesses, by not repeating them. I believe in the power of ancestors because they
    hold a lot of clues to what we can be doing as a people to move ahead. The fact
    remains true of Africans. We have an inherent wisdom that enables us to confound
    those who think they can control our destiny.
    I am not brushing aside the excesses of dictators and the intransigence of several
    cultures to re-invent themselves. Those are problems that face other parts of the world
    as well. I am, rather, focusing on the parts of our social fabric that makes us unique in
    the world.

    3. How has life as a Ghanaian living abroad affected your writing?

    Definitely. I have grown to appreciate my culture because I now realize the pristine
    values that it contains. It hurts a lot to see how people back home gulp down any
    absurd idea that has the label of 'Western culture'. I live in the United States and I
    always run into Americans who admonish me not to change what I had been taught
    back in Africa. My writing, as a result, has become eclectic to a point where I play the
    dual role of interpreting Africa to the outside world and explaining the outside world to
    my own people.

    4. Your publication credits show your steady contribution to the website One
    Ghana, One Voice. What do you think is the role of internet outlets like
    OGOV?

    One Ghana, One Voice is definitely a powerful tool that has worked in the establishing
    of an online presence for my poetry. Rob Taylor (the editor) is an open-minded
    individual, a pioneer in the exploration of African poetry. I hope life rewards such
    gracious people. Internet outlets are integral to the introduction of African poetry to the
    rest of the world. There is a need for faithful readers who can market these portals to
    the eyes and ears of the global poetic community.

    5. Recently, an Author-Me.com editor of an African anthology of short stories
    referred to Africa as a "courageous country", and one African blogger,
    Wordsbody, reminding the editor that Africa was a continent, responded with
    the following words:

    "It is a constant source of frustration, despair almost, for the average African -
    this Western mindset that insists on seeing the African continent as one
    unfathomable mass of miser."

    What's your take on this issue?

    It is a sign of the unfortunate naiveté that exists in Western cultures about Africa. This is
    not only found within illiterates. It is found among people who should know better.
    People with college degrees. For starters, Africa is one and a half times bigger than the
    USA. Africa has 53 sovereign states, including all the island groups. It is the cradle of
    the world's civilization. It is the core of mankind's existence. Originality oozes from our
    literature. Our cultures are distinct and unadulterated. We borrow from no one. It is
    disingenuous for any intellectual worth their salt to speak in demeaning or inaccurate
    terms of this great continent.
    However, it is up to us, as enlightened Africans, to invest in media outlets to portray
    positive aspects of our communities. There is a dire need to educate, to counter the
    proliferation of negativity about Africa. I get sick and tired of forwarded e-mail
    messages containing really poor and desolate pictures about living in Africa. I wonder
    why there are no uplifting stories, as if there wasn't any.

    6. What writing projects are you involved in currently?

    I am currently writing on a new poetry anthology entitled, 'Via Dolorosa'. It is about the
    various struggles we face in life. I am also working on a novel about an American with
    ancestors from all over the world. Hope everything turns out fine.


    FIVE POEMS BY PRINCE MENSAH

    ANCESTOR

    The old man spoke parables, maybe
    Proverbs but we dozed off
    His cold stories by warm fires.
    The night was filled with echoes,
    Echoes of his rasp voice talking,
    Saying old stories of the tribe.
    Scribe without pen, he wanted ears,
    Tears that one day we will forget
    Only to regret ignorance of the past---
    Lasting dysfunctions of the young ones.

    The old man spoke of the ant, the bee,
    The spider and his web, the tough
    Leopard and beasts with greedy desires.
    My mind is filled with memories,
    Memories of what he said when I was listening,
    Leaning forward, interested as he described,
    Prescribed antidotes to Life’s illness.
    I was witness to wisdom through ancient lips,
    He slips to me that one has to always think---
    Blinking with tears for the young ones.


    ALL IN A DAY

    The hills are far, faraway.
    It is young morning but old
    Dreams decide how it goes.
    The wind is sweet on the skin,
    Lying to Will to take a rest
    But slowly trickles the day.

    The hills are far, faraway.
    Time had her value not in gold
    But in actions one chose.
    I kiss spouse and hug kin,
    My mother holds me close to breast
    But slowly trickles the day.

    The hills are far, faraway.
    My feet are not bold
    Enough to roam close.
    I must go if I must win,
    No one can wait to be first
    But slowly trickles the day.

    The hills are far, faraway.
    I am on my way into cold
    Places, traps, unseen foes.
    Complacency cannot be my sin,
    My wits shall ever be in zest
    But slowly trickles the day.


    THIS AFTERNOON

    This afternoon, I shall run through
    These plains on barefoot.
    I will mock the wind with a sprint,
    Taunt the river with a dive into deep
    Places where darkness rules
    With invisibility.

    This afternoon, I shall be true
    To my dreams, shoot
    Stones at birds with catapault, hint
    A girl of my intentions, sleep
    Through the dusk, honor fools
    With complexity.

    This afternoon, I shall never do
    What shall be kaput.
    I will roll in grass with coat for lint,
    Plant seeds so tomorrow I reap
    Fruits for which laziness drools
    Over eternity.



    DRY EARTH

    Tongue sticks to roof of mouth,
    Visions of a soundless shout.
    A sea of sand and gravel stretches far
    Where green leaves live brown lives.
    Two idle cocks decide to spar
    Till chicken-soup hungry owner arrives.
    Water is luxury in these parts of town,
    The sun is one radiant tyrant
    That steals laughter, replacing it with a frown
    Made so by angry bites of driver ant.


    Trees and the breeze that eases
    Itself through crackling leaves.
    I watch from eyes that see drought
    On a beauty pageant among my people----
    So much so that scarcity has clout.
    Accepted, admitted by my people
    To be definition of what is a land of plenty,
    Robbed by circumstances and made empty.

    The nights are cold and stomachs talk,
    Others grumble, others grow acclimatized.
    To live on this dry earth is like a walk
    Through thorny fields, traumatized
    By ghosts of skinny people, unused tools,
    Fertility changed by lack of water.


    The sky taunts with dark, gloomy clouds,
    I take her on her seduction.
    One will say this is a land of fools---
    But hope never seems to falter.

    Our land might be wrapped in dry shrouds
    But our minds are in reflection.
    We shall live, ever standing tall
    For one drop of rain changes it all.

    MAD MAN

    Passers-by wonder why he lies in dirt
    Of clogged gutter, smiling,
    Waving, blowing kisses to angry ladies---
    His oblivion to situation shocks those
    Who knew him when he was lord
    Of the tongue, gallivanting upon
    This earth---looking down on all,
    His head was up, up in the sky.

    They say he jilted a lady, led her on
    Through plains of lies
    Till Truth shone like midday sun.
    They say he used her, made her forlorn,
    Wounded, covered with flies
    Of rejection---her crying became his fun.
    They say she went to see the witch-doctor
    For a cure to her ailment
    Of living with a man who did not care
    To consider his infidelities the factor
    For her predicament---
    Blowing her concerns into thin air.

    He who was elegant now lies in filth,
    Victim of Life’s chiding,
    Living low among dogs with rabies---
    One kind puppy licks his nose,
    A passer-by sacks it with a rod.
    Some watch in pity---some with scorn.
    He was real high so hard was his fall
    But those who knew him still want to cry.

    They say he got drunk one cold evening,
    Staggering through stone and gravel.
    He fell, rolling through thorns.
    They say he woke up with thousand sores, fuming
    At unseen assailants----people marvel
    At how his head grew little horns.
    They say he saw what was not to be seen,
    He had no permission from life
    To play the buffoon.
    He has moments of clear, clean
    Sanity and he ponders over life
    But the door shuts real soon.