On the day I met Kakaha, those feelings came out pouring out as tears. Contrary to what I had been told, she was alive. She met my apologies with forgiveness, reflecting an idea of authorship that is unfamiliar in Western individualistic cultures. While we crave recognition, many other cultures make objects they free into the world unsigned. Among everyone in the pottery cooperative I visited in Tanou Sakassou, Kakahá was the ‘lucky’ one — the one whose name had reached me by chance. Reached us.
The cooperative was established by another woman, Koua Aya, in 1986. Since then, pots have been made non-stop, day in, day out. Koua Aya was first joined by 11 other women. In the early 90s, they decided to accept men. The men started making different shapes – bigger pots and purely decorative works that replaced the traditional vessels women had been making for the home – which have long since been substituted with plastic or metalware. These bigger sculptural pieces are mostly bought by foreigners with big houses.
Whatever the output, the pieces are not signed, often requested by the buyers – many the children of the post-colonial powers, in keeping with the age-old dynamic where Westerners have the upper hand. Most of the potters don’t mind: they make knowing that, once gone, the piece is no longer theirs. They make to make a living, with no other agenda. That’s probably why, when I went to Tanou asking about Kouame Kakaha, she was surprised. ‘How does she know my name?’ she asked.