My interior world is filled with melody, and more. On solo walks down random streets, writing in my head, music invades that internal territory, edits it, punctuates it. The spatial amnesia that guarantees I will lose myself en route to familiar destinations is calmed a little as a tune circulates in my brain.
Searching for the right word is like trying to retrieve the name of an earworm. Yesterday morning’s elusive title was a song that took me back to my early years in rural Ghana, to the compound where we lived behind my father’s clinic, and the mysterious acquisition of a musical loo roll – a one-trick gift from a visiting overseas friend: as you tugged on a sheet of tissue paper, you were played the first eight bars of ‘To Each His Own’. It was a novelty for more than one reason in that era: the music was a tuneful surprise, but the associated memory is of a new luxury – a flush toilet.
I enjoy being a listener and a seer, of sorts. Creativity emerges when senses collide, collude, conflate. If my eyes dim, my hearing must step up; if my ears are somewhat muted, I savour whatever taste is in view. While I was structuring a catalogue essay for the October Gallery’s 90th-birthday exhibition of Ablade Glover, Inner Worlds, Outer Journeys, the imagined noisy bustle of his vibrant market scenes backgrounded my critique.
Chromesthesia is a blessing. Yes, music comes in different shades; artwork can be melodious, lulling or loud; syllables can taste nutty or mushy or crisp. Back in the day, I wrote song lyrics, occasionally emulating the vocalese I admired, as performed by King Pleasure, Oscar Brown Jr, Lambert, Hendricks & Ross. And what brilliance that a master lyricist inserted ‘aurora borealis’ into a popular torch song, ‘Midnight Sun’.
For me, the best writing has rhythm, not always predictable. I often refer (as. corroborated by my collected writings, Part of the Story) to the first three words I remember learning to spell as a four-year-old: ‘fascinating’, ‘necessary’ and ‘picturesque’. The beat of their syllables undoubtedly helped.
Reappraising my own words, whether on the page or in a lyric, tells me that nothing is ever finished. There is invariably room for fine-tuning. I once began a piece of writing: ‘I love things to put things in, sometimes as much as I treasure the things to be put there.’ Bags, boxes and pockets are necessities. Things with hidden depth. Things that transform to delightful extras, waiting to be forgotten memories retrieved. Unexpected bonuses. ‘PotS’ (Part of the Story) is an apt acronym for the collection of someone as much archivist as hoarder.
The most effective book jackets and album covers contribute to an enjoyable vibe. Music inspires words. Words conjure up music. On the publication of my 1992 anthology Daughters of Africa, I compiled a playlist with a global cast, spanning Cape Verde’s Cesária Evora to Brazil’s Tania Maria, vocalists hailing from the scores of countries represented by contributors, as well as others claiming gaps yet to be filled, making links defying time and borders, as I hoped would happen by bringing together more than 200 women of African heritage.
Reviewing the 2013 debut novel of Taiye Selasi, whom I later welcomed to the anthology New Daughters of Africa, I was struck by the rhythmic musicality of its portentous opening sentence: ‘Kweku dies barefoot on a Sunday before sunrise, his slippers by the doorway to the bedroom like dogs.’
As with language and tempo, things of beauty connect vision and touch. The Adinkra symbols of Ghana – stamped on fabric, pottery, calabashes – represent deep concepts, exemplifying the philosophical alongside the artistic. Sankofa is the symbol that has continuously grounded me, centred me, featuring on a pendant in countless old photos. It literally means ‘turn back and fetch it’, a reminder that learning from history can show us the way ahead.
In Cape Town last November to participate in the International Women’s Forum conference, I was honoured to share a platform with one of those whose voice had accompanied me on earlier literary journeys, Letta Mbulu. We were joined by a singer from a younger generation, Thandiswa Mazwai, born in 1976, the year of the Soweto uprising (and whose recent album was titled Sankofa). In my head now runs Letta’s song, ‘There’s Music in the Air’, released in 1976. How appropriate that the theme of the conference was ‘Ubuntu – I am because we are’.
A version of this article appears in the May 2026 issue of ‘The World of Interiors’. Learn about our subscription offers
