I bought this novel by Ghanaian author Nii Ayikwei Parkes as an e-book while I was in iso with Covid in Ghana in 2022 and had finished all my hard-copy books. It would have been the ideal place to read it because I could have got immediate explanations and translations from my Ghanaian in-laws, but I couldn’t get the download to open.
Even once I was back in Australia, it took a few weeks to get the download sorted and by then I had lost momentum and no need for e-books. But finally, I have read it! And perhaps being at home is a better place to read the book after all, because it immersed me in the sights and smells and sounds of Ghana which I enjoyed a lot, after more than a year’s absence from a country that is in some ways my second home.
Tail of the Blue Bird is told from two perspectives, alternating between the voice of Opanyin (elder) Poku, a hunter and storyteller living in the small, traditional village of Sonokrom, and the third-person narrative of the experiences of Kayo Odamtten, a young Ghanaian man who trained and worked as a forensic doctor in the UK. On returning to Ghana Kayo has had to settle for working as a lab manager: the local police have no interest in employing a forensic scientist.
There are SPOILERS (sorry).
I most enjoyed the parts of the book told from Opanyin Poku’s point of view as the language was so evocative of Ghana, and he irresistibly reminded me of older Ghanaian men I have known. The author also italicises the non-Akan words in Poku’s narrative, which is both amusing and a political statement – making a point about the ‘othering’ use of italics for non-English words in so many books written by Anglo authors.
The story begins with Opanyin Poku telling us of the discovery of something horrible in the hut belonging to Kofi Atta, an unpleasant man who Poku’s mother had warned him against since childhood. A young woman, drawn into the hut by the sight of a blue-headed bird, runs out screaming. This young woman – ‘some Minister’s girlfriend’ – is traumatised by discovering what appear to be boneless human remains. She complains to her boyfriend the Minister, who complains to the Chief of Police, Inspector Donkor.
Police from Accra (Ghana’s capital) descend on the village: ‘one, one – nine policemen’, who disregard traditional protocols and disrespect the elders, including Opanyin Poku. The result – to which they are largely oblivious – is that the villagers have no interest in helping them solve the case.
Frustrated by lack of progress and hoping to win the Minister’s favour and thus a promotion, Donkor commandeers Kayo to investigate the strange incident. Well, perhaps ‘commandeers’ is an understatement. ‘Cruel and unusual pressure’ is probably a better description of Donkor’s methods.
In contrast to the nine policemen, Kayo not only has forensic skills, he also has not forgotten that he was well brought up. This turns out to be the most important quality needed for solving the case. When Kayo gets to Sonokrom three days after the strange remains are discovered, he approaches Opanyin Poku with respect, asks the village chief’s permission to investigate, and thus, even before he’s viewed the crime scene, he has set himself up to find out the truth of what happened.
The remains in the hut are covered in maggots by the time Kayo arrives with his camera, his test tubes, and his police assistant Garba. Strangely, the villagers say they cannot smell the terrible stench of rotting flesh. And Kofi Atta, the hut’s owner, is nowhere to be found.
From here, the story unfolds as Kayo spends his days investigating the alleged crime and providing occasional medical services, such as bone-setting, to the villagers, and his nights getting drunk on palm wine, admiring the barkeeper’s beautiful daughter, and listening to Opanyin Poku tell the strange and terrible story of ‘Kwaku Anansi’. This story is the key to solving the mystery, which the reader can also do, if not wedded to the need for a scientific solution.
By the end of Opanyin Poku’s tale, Kayo understands what happened because he has listened, because he has respected the storyteller. It rang very true for me that the truth of the matter was in Opanyin Poku’s storytelling. My Ghanaian partner would often explain things and situations through stories, circling around the issue for a while before getting to the point. He was the first person to tell me Anansi stories.
I think having some familiarity with Ghanaian, especially Akan, language and culture is a big advantage when it comes to reading this book. In fact I’m not sure what it would be like to read it without any familiarity, as you’d be looking things up every other sentence, and even then, would miss inferences and subtleties. Even with my knowledge (from having a Ghanaian family), I had to look up a few things and I imagine I missed a lot. For example I didn’t immediately pick up on the symbolism of the blue-headed bird (a bee-eater). I had to go back and re-read, so pay close attention or you will miss that it is a major clue. It also helps explain the book’s title.
Another example is Poku’s choice of the name of ‘Kwaku Anansi’ for the story he tells Kayo and Garba. If you don’t know anything about Ghana, you won’t know that Anansi the spider is the originator (the weaver) of all stories. He’s a trickster, a joker, and stories about him usually show the flawed side of human beings: the narcissistic, the greedy, the sly. They are amusing but cautionary tales in which Anansi may be punished for his transgressions or will at least regret them (until next time). If the protagonist of a yarn is Kwaku Anansi, as a listener you know that you must pay attention.
And without knowing Ghana, you also won’t know how to pronounce Kayo’s Ghanaian name – Kwadwo (Kwajo – Monday-born) which Opanyin Poku uses in preference to the nickname Kayo (KO) adopted while in the UK. I interpreted this as Poku emphasising his relationship to Kayo as an elder, and also his reminder to Kayo – a western-educated man – of the importance of his heritage and traditions.
Tail of the Blue Bird is a whodunnit with a difference, and not just because of its traditional setting and magical elements. This is because the crime in the book is not the one that Kayo is trying to solve. It’s the bigger, pervasive crime of violence against women and girls that Opanyin Poku describes in his story of Kwaku Anansi.
Poku speaks of how the villagers tried to stop the violence, drawing upon all that their traditions offered them while also being constrained by some of those traditions (like that universal constraint: don’t interfere in other people’s business). In the end, the resolution is taken out of their hands by the spirit world and justice is served.
While in real life I don’t find magical justice a satisfactory solution, the book’s important take-home for me was the clear message that domestic violence is a crime against humanity. In Opanyin Poku’s words:
‘The wise ones say that sometimes when the wrong that is done is bigger than us, justice is taken from our hands because we cannot carry it, and, in our zeal to hold it aloft, we may injure ourselves or those around us.’
These words ring true to me when I look at the chaos sometimes triggered by the reactions of people (and even governments) to injury or injustice. Even if you don’t believe in a god or gods that will provide punishment or retribution, it’s true that you often need to stand back and take a wider view, because what may be perceived as a crime that only involves individuals is really connected to much larger patterns and systems in society. And although I wanted the domestic violence situation in Poku’s story to be fixed much sooner (it takes decades), the truth is that solving the crime of systemic injustice takes a long time.
Border Crossings 