I.K. Gyasi banished me from writing, then made me columnist
The day I.K. Gyasi died, I received 33 emails and 19 telephone calls from my contacts globally.
I am no friend or relation of Mr Gyasi, and did not know him beyond newspaper writing.
The emails and telephone calls did not fail to remind me about the problems that attended that relationship.
We had another thing in common: Vandalism.
We belong to Commonwealth Hall, University of Ghana; Mr Gyasi entered Vandal City in 1962, and I in 1994.
He had written for the Echo, the Hall’s news publication, which had collapsed when I was a student.
Radio Universe was born.
Master of game
There is, however, a more specific matter that brought I.K Gyasi and me together.
Earlier readers of the Ghanaian Chronicle, especially, would remember my shameless banter with I.K. Gyasi, the celebrated educationist behind ‘Bluntly Speaking’, a column that ran for 20 years (July 1996 to August 2016).
His entire writing career, however, spanned 50 years of intensive education.
His friend, brother and mentee, Africanus Owusu-Ansah, asked in his tribute: “Which Ghanaian newspaper hasn’t I.K. Gyasi written for?”
He also hosted shows on the radio, served on boards, including the Otumfuo Education Fund, and published some fine books on the English language.
Ibrahim Kwaku Gyasi remained a scholar who “transported the masterful use of language and mechanical accuracy into the stratosphere of creative excellence.”
The statement above (in inverted commas) would easily attract the red pen of careful language users like I.K. Gyasi.
In 2001, I wrote an article on Ghanaian English, arrogating to myself powers reserved for grammarians, to decide which expressions passed my standard for correct English.
The feature was published in The Ghanaian Chronicle under the provocative title, ‘Go ahead, not take the lead’.
I was young and impressionable, but presumptuous enough to correct other people’s English when my English needed a lot of correction.
I had recently graduated from the School of Communication Studies at the University of Ghana, and felt I had some fresh ideas to change the world.
With another degree in English Language, I was confident I had the authority to tell Ghanaians how to speak English.
I received a lot of praise, including a letter from a lady who offered a ‘scholarship’ to marry me.
Ghana had suddenly found their Gomoa Shakespeare, having beaten the most prominent Gomoa scholar, Prof. Kwesi Yankah, to be the Fante Nobel laureate.
Suddenly, I.K. Gyasi pounced to end my glory, choosing to sarcastically use my name as the title in his scathing rejoinder on January 14, 2002: ‘Quesi Tawiah’s English’. Line by line, I.K. Gyasi tore my every word into pitiful shreds.
My honour abused, I resolved to step away from newspaper writing, to count my ‘English losses’.
The ‘scholarship lady’ nursed my ‘linguistic wounds’ with a kiss, and urged me to write again to the old man that I was no small fry.
On January 30, 2002, The Chronicle screamed again: ‘Quesi Tawiah Writes to I.K. Gyasi’.
I made more mistakes. I.K. Gyasi pounced again, this time, reducing me to a soldier fighting with a water pistol in the Russia-Ukraine war.
Gyasi wrote, so we can
With the energy of a disgraced villain, I filled my water pistol with a keg of anger powder doused in fermented concentrate of shame, to hit back, describing him as an “academic tyrant of a former headmaster.”
Mr Gyasi marked the script with the lens of a merciful grammarian, taking time to teach the basic writing rules.
Did I write back?
The scholarship lady deserted me–along with my mojo, leaving me with the hard lesson that women do not settle for losers.
I mopped together the last surviving vestiges of my broken pride (I.K., please, pardon this construction) and sought refuge in England to study law.
I found my mojo again.
I started to write, this time, staying away from people’s English.
I built quite a following in the blogosphere. My roommate and coursemate in communication school, Egbert Faibille, a former Chief Vandal, offered me a column in The Ghanaian Observer.
Then came George Sydney Abugri, flattering me to write a column for The General Telegraph, a paper he founded after retirement.
I was a columnist at Papa Kwesi Nduom’s ‘Today’ newspaper.
I continue to write, this time, for The Newscenta.
In between, I have been shortlisted for the John Lorenzo Natali Prize for journalism.
EOCO Boss, Raymond Archer, would win a huge prize in a competitive category.
The scholarship lady left me; I.K. Gyasi didn't. He taught me.
Even today, my friends tease: ‘I.K. Gyasi will get you’.
From the grave, I still see his red pen editing large portions of this tribute.
Fare thee well, teacher.
Quesi Tawiah,
Ottawa, Canada.
E-mail:
