September in Accra does not come with rainfall. Not normally. But we live in turvy-topsy times, and so it isn’t absurd that I’m eagerly expecting rain this September morning in Ghana’s capital as I wait for my studio visit with music artist, Akan, in a few hours. Where are you dear water? By the time Akan comes to get me however, almost 2pm, a strong sun has overtaken the skies. On our short walk to the studio, I mention that it was in this same month three years ago that he released his debut album, ‘Onipa Akoma’. Since then, the album has cemented its place as one of the momentous Ghanaian music albums of all time and a direct successor to Obrafour’s ‘Pae Mu Ka’, a work declared by experts as being to hiplife what Nas’ Illmatic is to hip hop.

Akan was born and raised in Accra as Bernard Nana Appiah. In the early years, his folks made sure that he spent school holidays with his grandfather who lived in Kwahu, in the country's Eastern Region. Akan started rapping in high and teamed up with five friends to form the group Y6K. Amongst themselves, they would just rap and rap whilst kicking it after school. He went on to record his first song in 2007.

Despite glowing endorsements from, and collaborations with, Ghanaian music industry OG’s the likes of Jayso, Sarkodie, Efya and Blitz The Ambassador, Akan isn’t the most influential artiste in terms of mainstream popularity. However, he commands a genuine love from fans; a deep-rooted affiliation and endearment engendered by his steadfastness in the face of mainstream pressures. An example of this came in 2015 when he changed his stage name from Quabena Shy to that of the ethnic group to which he belongs. And as though diligently executing an unstated duty that comes with such an action, he raps and sings almost exclusively in his mother tongue; and draws much of his worldviews from Akan philosophies.

A narrow alley leads us into the small compound of a purple house. Akan opens a door and we’re in the studio. It’s a rather modest space, dim. “This be where the magic dey happen,” Akan says to welcome me in. In regular English, that pidgin statement could mean two things: this is where all the magic happens or this is where the magic is happening. Considering Akan’s artistry, both meanings apply; but the latter is more fitting here. Therefore: what is this magic that is happening? It is the rapper’s as yet untitled sophomore album. And I am here to hear some songs from it.

But some questions first. Is Akan anxious about a possible sophomore slump? “No. No pressure whatsoever. Nothing we’re doing here with this album is even taking ‘Onipa Akoma’ into consideration. So, we’re not trying to match or surpass it. This is all fresh energy, a fresh experience.” I ask if this album, too, is going to be conceptual. (‘Onipa Akoma’ explored the contentious relationship between what the heart seeks and what the mind wants). My question is received with something between a smile and a scoff, as if to say that anything otherwise would be absurd.

“It should be,” he answers. “To be able to focus on something is to have a better understanding of it - how it started, where it’s going, how it’s going to end. How it operates, basically. This idea inspires me, especially in these times of social media when everything is so saturated, making it so difficult to focus. So hard. I truly see this as a chance to focus and bring along the mind of whoever listens.” He sums the coming album up as an address - and an offering - to the human species and specifically Black people. He is focusing on questions such as “the reasons we are where we are at the present moment in time, why we do what we do, why we go through the things we go through...”

Music time. Akan asks producer, TwistedWavex, to play us something, anything. Twisted clicks play on the song whose looped instrumentals had been playing, low volume, the whole time. Akan’s tone is laidback as he opens the song with a repetition of these phrases: ‘Anansesɛm yɛ asisie o // Yɛsesa soa wo ara’. It is a traditional performance; a call and response routine that precedes the telling of Anansesɛm - stories of the legendary picaresque spider-man of Akan folktales. Akan follows this routine with the narration of an Ananse story authored by himself, leaving the traditional make-up of the Ananse family unit intact.

The next song Twisted plays speaks more directly to the album’s given thematic core. It is titled ‘Akwasi’, the Akan day name for males born on a Sunday, which doubles as the default day name for white men. To the Akan people, whose land the white man had come to occupy, Sunday is considered the most important of all the days for white people because that is when God was to be visited and worshipped. The narration on ‘Akwasi’ is done in first person and speaks of the many unfortunate events - and resultant ruptures - that occurred due to the white man’s invasion of the narrator and his people. The substance therein is not exactly novel; it is a field that has been mined, extensively and necessarily, by post colonial African artists. There’s nothing new under the sun, as the saying goes, but Akan certainly comes in to the discussion with his own new suns.

The album - or it’s motivations - is heavily autobiographical. So, with a track like ‘Akwasi’, he is neither merely regurgitating what some predecessor artist has said nor is he trying to cash in on elucidating Blackness. This is real, personal shit for him. “There were a lot of things I didn’t understand, like why I felt intimidated whenever I saw a white person. And like, why is an Akan person named Bernard? I was asking myself the why of all these things. And so, digging deep and focusing - to understand the white man in relation to myself as a Black person, and where all of these things are coming from - has really opened up my mind and taken away a lot of the fear, and I am so happy.” So happy in fact that Akan has decided to take Bernard off his government name.

The album also has a specific focus on children. “I feel like it’s unfortunate that I’m only getting to know some of these things at this point in my life. I wish I knew them much earlier. And so, it makes younger people coming up so dear to my heart,” he says. “You’ll hear a lot of references to kids on the album because that’s mostly who I want to communicate the project to.”

At Akan's request, Twisted blasts off the track ‘Nketenkete’ meaning Little ones. The intro voice is manipulated to evoke Jesus in Matthew 19:14, instructing that the children are not denied access to him. It’s a clever song. Akan employs traditional playsongs as conduits to impart ideas that he deems valuable. On the last bar of the second verse, he asks the babies, his momentary play partners, a rhetorical question so ordinary and so profound: ‘Wo bɛfa sika agya ɔdɔ hɔ?’ Will you choose money and leave love behind?

Beyond the album, there’s some more aural work Akan plans to do in service of the children. “I want to write a book for kids. An audiobook, narrated in Twi. There’s already so much material in English. And if I have kids someday, I don’t want to be reading to them at home in English. They’ll get that at school, anyway. At home, I would like to raise my kids differently; not in the same way my parents raised me.”

TwistedWavex, who produces most of the album, believes that Black/African children who hear it are likely to feel emboldened. “They’ll believe that they are worth everything in the world, and have the power to make any change they’ll like to make,” he says. “Working on these songs, I remember saying to Akan ‘This is like my life story, this is something I needed for myself.’ Some of the things he says hit me so hard and set me straight. I hope that the album reaches as many of the targets as possible - Black people, Black kids.”

Akan’s own wishes for the album aren’t so high-flown. He’d love for people to play it for
kids and if kids are brought along to the concerts. He’d be satisfied if just a few people’s minds are changed - if they understand who they are, if they have no fear, if they are proud.

As for me, I can only make a verdict after I hear the whole album. But there’s this much I can say for now - by the end of the third song that was played for me, the water that I’d yearned for earlier in the day, had finally come - it settled in my eyes; and under the skin on my arms, in welts.

Photography Eric Gyamfi
Words Moshood
Styling Daniel Mawuli Quist
Costume The Slum Studio

Published on 17/02/2021