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Art On The Beach – Weekly Art Exhibition Series Kicks Off

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Ozzies Beach Palace has teamed up with TIC Ghana to introduce a weekly art exhibition dubbed ”Art on the Beach”. The two-day exhibition will give artists all over the country the opportunity to exhibit their works on a regular basis.

Ozzies Beach Palace aims to give its customers the full cultural experience with the addition of art to its already existing vibe of great live music and good food. The first edition kicks off this weekend with an art exhibition by Courage K. Hunke.

The art exhibition will be open on Saturday & Sunday (12th & 13th of September) from 12pm to 7pm each day. Ozzie’s Beach Palace is located at South Labadi Estate, adjacent to the Sandbox Beach Resort.

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“Mahama Made No Investments In Creative Arts Sector” – Mark Okraku Mantey

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The President of the Creative Arts Council has stated that the erstwhile John Mahama administration left no notes on policies initiated for the Creative Arts industry during the 2017 transition. According to him, workers of the Ministry also alleged that zero investment was done since the Creative Arts was added to the Tourism Ministry.

“In 2017 we met the Tourism Minister, Elizabeth Ofosu Adjare to find out what they left behind in terms of monies, investments and after an hour of talks, nothing was mentioned about the Creative Arts.

“So I took time to find out why and her team told us that since the addition of creative arts to the Ministry, they have not made any investment,” he said

Speaking at the CreativeArts4More campaign at the Accra Tourism Information Center on Wednesday, Mark Okraku Mantey disclosed that his team had to start from scratch.

“Indirectly, this government inherited zero note for the creative arts so we are starting afresh,” he said.

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Check Out Pictures From The Burna Comics And Audiomack Event In NYC

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Over the weekend, Brooklyn hosted the special pop-up event Burna Comics, which saw Burna Boy‘s comic book world come to life. Hosted at Anyone Comics in Brooklyn, attendees were able to browse and grab limited editions Burna Boy comics, merchandise, and food, as well as enter a chance to win tickets to Burna’s next concert in NYC. The event was free and followed health guidelines.

If you remember, Burna Boy’s latest album Twice As Tall came accompanied by a comic book to “put the project in perspective abs some insight into the album title and why I chose it,” the artist mentioned. Well, Burna and the team at Audiomack helped that come true IRL.

Speaking about the Burna Comics event, the Nigerian star mentioned: “The best part about creating a project is the idea of your listeners being able to engage with it! I haven’t been on tour in months so I’m excited for my fans to have a chance to engage with my art! I feel blessed!”

Check out pictures from the Burna Comics x Audiomack event in NYC below.

Photo via Audiomack/Purple Agency PR.

Source: okayafrica

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“Stonebwoy Has The Best Team” – Kay Studios Commends Stonebwoy For Establishing A Team Of Professionals

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Just because you’re an independent musician, doesn’t mean you can’t surround yourself with a great team of people to help progress your career even further. Kay Studios, a Ghanaian professional photographer and videographer, has commended Stonebwoy for establishing a team of professionals working to accelerate the Burniton Music Group (BMG) and Bhim Nation brand to a well deserved apex.

In a Instagram post sighted by www.gbafrica.net, the photographer and videographer revealed that, the reggae/ragga & dancehall artiste’s great team of people including, manager, publicist/PR, lawyer, booking agent, radio plugger, distributor, publisher, designers, photographers & videographers work in a coordinated way, towards a focused, agreed goal.

According to him, he has noticed that, his team of professionals disburse projects that define or are in synchronization with the ideology of his brand. He added that, the team also help land more exposure for his music and other public relation matters by pitching it to publications including the music press, online blogs and playlist editors and more.

Kay Studios commended Stonebwoy’s legal team who help navigate the complexities of his music licensing, racking up deals, and also giving advise on legal issues and disputes. He also gave props to road manager, manager, and security details for delivering timely duties.

Kay Studios is an Accra-based creative who has been increasingly shaping perspectives, changing narratives, capturing emotions through his lens and leaving long lasting memories on the mind of his patrons and consumers, including musicians and brands. With an impressive portfolio, consisting of works of Stonebwoy, Bisa KDei, Fameye, Medikal, Gyakie, Ice Prince Zamani, the young creative is considered a professional in the photography industry and has a solid support system that is partly responsible for his current success rate.

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ZIKORA: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie To Release A Literary Fiction Novel On Oct. 27

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The emotional storms weathered by a mother and daughter yield a profound new understanding in a moving short story by the bestselling, award-winning author of Americanah and We Should All Be Feminists, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. “Zikora,” a short story that will be released Oct. 27 as part of Amazon Original Stories (Prime members and Kindle Unlimited subscribers will be able to download it for free), follows the titular character through a pregnancy.

When Zikora, a DC lawyer from Nigeria, tells her equally high-powered lover that she’s pregnant, he abandons her. But it’s Zikora’s demanding, self-possessed mother, in town for the birth, who makes Zikora feel like a lonely little girl all over again. Stunned by the speed with which her ideal life fell apart, she turns to reflecting on her mother’s painful past and struggle for dignity. Preparing for motherhood, Zikora begins to see more clearly what her own mother wants for her, for her new baby, and for herself.

Taken from Entertainment Weekly, this is an Excerpt from “Zikora,” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

All through the night my mother sat near me but never touched me.

Once, I screamed, a short scream that lanced the air in the hospital room, and she said, “That’s how labor is,” in Igbo, and I wanted to say, “No shit,” but of course she didn’t understand colloquial Americanisms. I had prepared for pain but this was not mere pain. It was something like pain and different from pain. It sat like fire in my back, spreading to my thighs, squeezing and crushing my insides, pulling downward, spiraling. It felt like the Old Testament. A plague. A primitive wind blowing at will, evil but purposelessly so, an overcoming in my body that didn’t need to be. Hour after hour of this, and yet the nurses said I wasn’t progressing. “You’re not progressing,” the smaller nurse said as though it were my fault.

The room felt too warm and then too cold. My arms itched, my scalp itched, and malaise lay over me like a mist. I wanted nothing touching my body. I yanked off my hospital gown, the flimsy blue fabric with its effete dangling ropes that gaped open at the back as if designed to humiliate. Naked, I perched on the edge of the bed and retched. Relief was impossible; everything was impossible. I stood up, sat down, and then I got on my hands and knees, my taut belly hanging in between. The clenching in my lower body came and went, random, irregular, like mean surprises.

The bigger nurse was saying something.

I shouted at her, “I need it now!”

“You’ll get the epidural soon,” she said.

The smaller nurse needed to check me. I rolled onto my back. An invasion of fingers. She was gloved and I couldn’t see her nails, but her false eyelashes, curving from her upper lids like black feathers, made me worry that her nails were long and sharp and would pierce through the latex and puncture my uterus. I tensed up.

“Bring your feet up and let your legs fall apart,” she said.

“What?”

“Bring your feet up and let your legs fall apart.”

Let your legs fall apart.

What did that even mean? How could legs fall apart? I began to laugh. From somewhere outside myself I heard the hysteria in my laughter. The nurse looked at me with the resigned expression of a person who had seen all the forms of madness that overtook birthing women lying on their backs with their bodies open to the world.

“You’re not progressing,” she said.

Then came a wave of exhaustion, a tiredness limp and bloodless. I was leaving my body. I could die. I could die here, now, today, like Chinyere died in a fancy Lagos hospital that had flat-screen TVs in the labor ward. It was her third childbirth and she was walking, chatting with the nurses, stopping to breathe through each contraction, and then midsentence, she paused and collapsed and died. She was my cousin’s cousin. I had not liked her but I had mourned her.

My heart was beating fast. I’d read somewhere that maternal mortality was higher in America than anywhere else in the Western world—or was it just higher for Black women? The subject had never really interested me. I’d felt at most a faraway concern, as though it was something that happened to other people. I should have paid more attention. Now I would die in this hospital room with its rolling table and its picture of faded flowers on the wall, and become a tiny nameless dot in the data, and somebody somewhere would read a new report on maternal mortality and mildly wonder if it was Black women who died more often.

My doctor came in looking unbearably calm.

“Dr. K, something is wrong. I just know something is wrong,” I said.

My body was turning on me in spasms and wrenches I had never before known, each with a dark promise of its own return. Something had to be wrong; childbirth could not be this gratuitous and cruel.

“Nothing is wrong, Zikora, it’s all normal.”

“I’m tired, I’m so tired,” I said, in my mind the image of Chinyere pregnant and dead on a hospital floor.

“Epidural is almost here. I know it’s difficult, but what you are feeling is perfectly normal.”

“You don’t know how it feels,” I said. Before today, he was the lovely Iranian doctor I’d chosen for the compassion in his eyes. Today, he was a monstrous man pontificating opaquely about things he would never experience. What was “normal”? That Nature traded in unnecessary pain? It wasn’t his intestines being set on fire, after all.

I caught my mother’s glance, that icy expression she had when I was a child and did something in public where she couldn’t slap me right away as she would have liked.

Once, I was about nine, and my father’s second wife, Aunty Nwanneka, had just had a baby, my brother Ugonna (“Your half brother,” my mother always said). To visit the baby, my mother asked me to wear a going-out dress, red and full skirted, as though for church. Aunty Nwanneka offered us plantain and fish, the house smelled of delicious frying, and my mother said no thank you, that we had just eaten, but when I went to pee, I told Aunty Nwanneka I was hungry, and she brought me a plate, smiling, her face plump and fresh. Later, as we walked to the car, my mother slapped me. “Don’t disgrace me like that again,” she said calmly, and for a long time I remembered the sudden vertigo, feeling surprise rather than pain as her palm struck the back of my head.

I was disgracing her now; I was not facing labor with laced-up dignity. She wanted me to meet each rush of pain with a mute grinding of teeth, to endure pain with pride, to embrace pain, even. When I had severe cramps as a teenager, she would say, “Bear it, that is what it means to be a woman,” and it was years before I knew that girls took Buscopan for period pain.

Excerpted from “Zikora,” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, with permission from the publisher, Amazon Original Stories. Copyright ©2020 by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

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