It’s story time people! But there’s no bon-fire or moon light. It’s 1.40 minutes of stunning visuals accompanied by a voice speaking in igbo—the creation of Akwaeke Emezi titled Ududeagu

It’s all so dreamlike. There’s the bed, all the white fabric and the curtain billowy against an ornate burglary proof. The actor, his athletic, light-skinned body a poetic contrast to his black dread locks, long enough to wrap around his face twice over.

Igbo is a beautifully-sounding language, but you’ve never heard it this sonorous, thick with the texture of poetry as if sounding from some mythical place.

It is subtitled, so you know it is a tale about a spider. But it could as well be a philosophical fable about something so deep that Plato would have trouble grasping it.

And when you try reading the tale out loud, it has a rhythm that makes you think it could very easily be a poem.

Enjoy and have a fabulous weekend!

UDUDEAGU from Akwaeke Emezi on Vimeo.

TEXT

My grandfather told me before there were kings there was a spider.
They made him out of knots, weaving him tight till his soul was a sinew.
Everyone knows that the weavers are woven
But there are other things that Spider knows.
1. Webs do not hold.
2. You can’t stop someone from leaving.
3. Slow down. There are many ways to leave.
4. Some are more final than others.
That is how they say it, the way my grandfather told me

***

Akwaeke Emezi is an Igbo and Tamil writer born in Umuahia and raised in Aba, Nigeria. She currently lives in Brooklyn and has been writing since she could write. Check out her story on Brittle Paper HERE. See more of her short videos HERE. And follow her on twitter @azemezi

Chimamanda Adichie has written 3 novels, none of which you’ve read. Her name comes up over cocktails and you find yourself smiling like a sheep and nodding.

You want to read novels. God knows you’ve tried. But the moment you settle down in that comfy chair in the living room and try reading…it starts with your mind wandering. Then the obsession with your phone. Before long, you are deep in sleep.

I feel for you, but really you have no excuse. I wish I could tell you that it’s okay to live a life without novels. Reading novels is like sex. You can choose to live without it, but you’ll not be doing yourself any favors. 

Here are 7 tips to make reading novels fun. 

1. Skip:  You do not have to read every word in a novel. Tell me, why does it take one author four pages to describe a window and another author just 3 sentences? Clearly, there’s no rule for how much an author can write. So there shouldn’t be a rule for how much you read. Don’t waste time being bored with lengthy description, battle scenes, philosophical reflections, or historical back-story. At times, a novelist will include lengthy songs or poems in a novel. They’re also okay to skip. 

2. Bite: When I was 17, I spent 3 days in bed reading George Elliot’s Middlemarch. Okay, those days are pretty much over.  We don’t have access to time in long stretches like we used to. “Free time” comes in small fragments. So snatch little chunks of novel-time here and there when you’re on the bus, before you go to bed, when you wake up in the morning, or while waiting at the doctor’s office.

3. Love at 100th sight: I consider myself a die-hard novel lover. But very few novels have held my attention in the first 20 pages. With most novels, be prepared for a period of courtship. Give yourself and the novel time to figure out whether you are good together. It’s up to you to decide how long to wait for a novel to charm you—20 pages, 100 pages. But be generous. Give the novel enough time to prove that it deserves your attention.

4. Till Death…: That’s a no! It’s okay to abandon a novel. Except it’s for a class, never read a novel just to finish it. If after staying with a novel things do not seem to be working, feel free to let it go. There are way too many novels in the world for you to feel bound to read a particular one. Find novels you love. Don’t feel beholden to must-read lists. 

5. Wait: Sometimes, it’s a matter of waiting for a novel to find you. I’m forever thankful that I waited till I was in my 30s to read Bridget Jones Diary. So much of what makes the novel beautiful—the idea that 30s is an awkward phase for women—would have passed right over my head if I had read it earlier. Of course, I’m not saying that only women in their 30s can enjoy BJD. I am simply pointing out the danger of forcing a book on yourself instead of waiting for the book to recommend itself to you.

6. Choose Your Device:  I still crave paper comforts—the smell, texture, and weight of a book, but that’s me. Try out different formats and devices—laptop, phone, tablet, kindle— to see which one works for you. Paper or screen, it’s the same story.

7. Cheat: Reading more than one book at a time is allowed. Right this moment, I’m reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and rereading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Why? Because novels are sometimes tied to my moods. The Bell Jar is for resetting my nerves after hours of laboring in the prison-house of dissertation writing. Esther’s naive and childlike voice is soothing. Tolstoy’s massive tome lets me lose myself in an extended soap-opera-ish tale of war and romance. I read him when I wake up. It has a caffeinating influence.

We’re kicking off the Caine Prize story-review series with Aaron Bady’s review of Billy Kahora’s story, The Gorilla’s Apprentice.

Kahora’s story, published in Granta (2010) is one of five stories shortlisted for the Caine Prize.

Billy Kahora

by Aaron Bady

Jimmy knew all about being watched. What his mum called love.

Orphaned children and animals are always precarious members of the human family, no matter how “human” they may seem in moments of comfort. Against the backdrop of the Post-Election Violence in Kenya, in 2007, Billy Kahora’s “The Gorilla’s Apprentice” opens with an invocation of this simple fact—the way humans can be animals to other human animals. He does this by showing us an orphan looking into a cage at a gorilla, silently, an animal who was “Captured and Saved from the Near Extinction of His Species After the Genocide in Rwanda,” even as Kenya burned on the headlines of the Sunday Standard, smoke from Kibera intruding on their reverie.

Which is the animal? Which is the human?

Except Jimmy isn’t an orphan, as it turns out. He has a “Nairobi Orphanage family pass,” but we shouldn’t move too quickly to clarify this counterintuitive jumble of the words “family” and “orphan,” to realize our mistake and forget that we made it. The mistake is the point: Jimmy has a mother—and an absent father, too—but the story told by his “Nairobi orphanage family pass” is a much more unsettling story about the ways being or not being an “orphan” is not a simple matter of having or not having a parent. You can be abandoned by your father, and your mother can refuse to allow you to be a child. Your brother can kill you dead in a moment of confusion, or fear, or even love.

If we know that animals are often “captured” to be put on display in Zoos, to be exhibited like prisoners of war, like Ota Benga, then this is a zoo which does not call itself a zoo: this is an orphanage.

But if a zoo can be an orphanage, can an orphanage be a zoo? What else might be something other than its name?

The story told in that moment, at the beginning of the story, is about readerly confusion, when we realize, suddenly, that that the “Nairobi Animal Orphanage” is a place where orphaned animals go, to be rescued, to be saved, to be rehabilitated. But if animals are human, are humans animals? This is a story we don’t like to tell, in which maybe humans aren’t humans, families aren’t families, and nations aren’t nations, a reality we would rather not look at, but which intrudes on our reveries like smoke from burning tires. Sometimes an orphanage is really a zoo, no matter what words are being used; sometimes a child is really an orphan; sometimes being “loved” is really to be watched.

Animals don’t have names, and they don’t speak or weep for the dead, because if they do have and do these things, then they are human. But maybe humans who kill, who mute their violence, who lose their names, are just animals, too. Maybe underneath the Jimmys and Sebastians and Charleses and Winslow, we are just animal meat, as indistinguishable and un-grievable as water in water, and maybe sometimes that reality becomes too pressing to ignore. Sometimes we eat at “carnivore restaurant,” a place where the meat appears as commodities, cleaned up, washed, priced; sometimes we see the violent force that turns a human into a thing.

Billy Kahora’s “The Gorilla’s Apprentice” is a story about a child and a man, a child who knows things and a man who has seen things. The child wants the man to teach him how to talk with the animal, how to turn violence into love, but the man, fleeing from violence and himself, has no answers for him, can tell him nothing. The man hides from being seen, from love; he knows that to be embraced will mean his death. It does. And the child watches, wordless.

Read The Gorilla’s Apprentice HERE. 

Come back next Tuesday for Richard Ali’s review of Diane Awerbuck’s story, “Phosphorescence.” Read it HERE. 

Post image via etisalatprize.com

 ***

Aaron Bady is a post-doctoral fellow at the University of Texas, teaching African literature. He writes the blog zunguzungu.

Follow Aaron Bady on twitter: @zunguzungu

If you’re “bewifed” by “five savage wives” and childrenised by “sixteen voracious children,” what do you do when you’re suddenly “dejobbed?”

You write a letter in which you tell your boss that you resent being “violently dejobbed in a twinkling.” You also point out to him that he is clearly wrong for giving you a sack on charges of laziness. How lazy can you be if you’ve “pitched sixteen infant children into” the world? 

Lol. 

It actually happened. In 1929, an aggrieved government employer in the city of Calabar sends a letter to his boss asking him to reconsider the decision to thrown him out of work.

The writing is melancholy but endlessly funny. It’s so bad that it’s lovable, poetic even. The grand poetic imageries are my favorites. Neither Shakespeare nor Soyinka could have thought up a line as arresting as “pitched sixteen infant children into this valley of tears.” 

Enjoy and have a fabulous weekend.  

#NOTE: Scroll past the image to see the full transcript of the letter.

click image to see full letter

Calabar
February 2nd 1929.

Kind Sir,

On opening this epistle you will behold the work of a dejobbed person, and a very bewifed and much childrenised gentleman.

Who was violently dejobbed in a twinkling by your goodself. For Heavens sake Sir consider this catastrophe as falling on your own head, and remind yourself as walking home at the moon’s end of five savage wives and sixteen voracious children with your pocket filled with non-existent £ S D; not a solitudery sixpence; pity my horrible state when being dejobbed and proceeding with a heart and intestines filled with misery to this den of doom; myself did greedily contemplate culpable homicide, but Him who did protect Daniel (poet) safely through the lion’s dens will protect his servant in his home of evil.

As to reason given by yourself — goodself — esquire for my dejobbment the incrimination was laziness.

No Sir. It were impossible that myself who has pitched sixteen infant children into this valley of tears, can have a lazy atom in his mortal frame, and the sudden departure of eleven pounds monthly has left me on the verge of the abyss of destitution and despair. I hope this vision of horror will enrich your dreams this night, and good Angel will meet and pulverise your heart of nether milestone so that you will awaken, and with as much alacrity as may be compatable with your personal safety, you will hasten to rejobulate your servant.

So mote it be – Amen

Yours despairfully

Sgd. Asuquo Okon Inyang.

Source: The British National Archive via Letters of Note

“The President I Want” by Chimamanda Adichie is a direct address to President Goodluck Jonathan, in which she slams his response to the abduction of over 200 girls in northern Nigeria.

The writing consists of a long inventory of actions, attributes, and dispositions she expects from the President of a nation such as Nigerian—a Nation in the state of unrest. 

 But what I find most striking about the text is that it reads like a liturgy or an incantation.

If you picture Adichie kneeling in a shrine and speaking the following words into cowries held tightly in her hand, you’d hear an earnest and beautifully cadenced supplication to the gods. But like all prayers, Adichie’s chant is half plea, half command—”I want…

The repetition of  the phrase, “I want,” and the word, “President,” clearly unifies the piece and transforms it into something that is more lyrical than an essay, something poetic perhaps. 

I reformatted the essay to make its poetic/ incantatory rhythm more audible. Enjoy!  

The President I Want by Chimamanda Adichie

(a political canticle)

I want President Jonathan to be consumed, utterly consumed, by the state of insecurity in Nigeria.

I want him to make security a priority, and make it seem like a priority.

I want a president consumed by the urgency of now, who rejects the false idea of keeping up appearances while the country is mired in terror and uncertainty.

I want President Jonathan to know – and let Nigerians know that he knows – that we are not made safer by soldiers checking the boots of cars, that to shut down Abuja in order to hold a World Economic Forum is proof of just how deeply insecure the country is.

I want the president to slice through the muddle of bureaucracy, the morass of ‘how things are done,’ because Boko Haram is unusual and the response to it cannot be business as usual.

I want President Jonathan to communicate with the Nigerian people, to realize that leadership has a strong psychological component: in the face of silence or incoherence, people lose faith.

I want him to humanize the lost and the missing, to insist that their individual stories be told, to show that every Nigerian life is precious in the eyes of the Nigerian state.

I want the president to seek new ideas, to act, make decisions, publish the security budget spending, offer incentives, sack people.

I want the president to be angrily heartbroken about the murder of so many, to lie sleepless in bed thinking of yet what else can be done, to support and equip the armed forces and the police, but also to insist on humaneness in the midst of terror.

I want the president to be equally enraged by soldiers who commit murder, by policemen who beat bomb survivors and mourners.

I want the president to stop issuing limp, belated announcements through public officials, to insist on a televised apology from whoever is responsible for lying to Nigerians about the girls having been rescued.

I want President Jonathan to ignore his opponents, to remember that it is the nature of politics, to refuse to respond with defensiveness or guardedness, and to remember that Nigerians are understandably cynical about their government.

I want President Jonathan to seek glory and a place in history, instead of longevity in office.

I want him to put aside the forthcoming 2015 elections, and focus today on being the kind of leader Nigeria has never had.

I do not care where the president of Nigeria comes from. Even those Nigerians who focus on ‘where the president is from’ will be won over if they are confronted with good leadership that makes all Nigerians feel included.

I have always wanted, as my president, a man or a woman who is intelligent and honest and bold, who is surrounded by truth-telling, competent advisers, whose policies are people-centered, and who wants to lead, who wants to be president, but does not need to – or have to- be president at all costs.

President Jonathan may not fit that bill, but he can approximate it: by being the leader Nigerians desperately need now.

 A young woman must come to terms with the conflict raging between herself, her body, and society’s perception of her body. She confesses to the reader her tortured attempts to make her body conform to the rule that it won’t be beautiful until it shrinks. Wana’s writing is lush and delicate with just the right amount of rawness to keep the character honest and relatable. — Editor’s Note

 

You look into the mirror. It’s a full length one, not like the one that cuts you off at the collar bone. It is the one that goes down to your knees at least. You stare. You stare at yourself naked, the congealed clumps that cluster across the middle, and the rolls that protrude right above your flattened bottom. You flick the flesh with your finger, it barely moves. It is a thick solid mould. The stare continues, this time from the roundness through the glass in front of you. You pinch the roll of flab that flops above your pelvis. It fills your hands. You press your palms against the sides, pushing the flesh until it forms a ball in the middle. You wish something could cut it off, melt it off even. You turn to the side, you take a deep breath and hold it in but the rolls remain unperturbed, so you let the breath go.

The nipples of your breasts drop at waist length sharing the same line as your belly button. It is heavy. You feel the pain through your shoulders neck and back, again just right above that flattened bottom. The breasts now resemble the udders of a cow. Thankfully there are no stretch marks on them yet. It seems you are blessed with good skin. Well at least that is what they tell you. You raise your hands up to reveal dried up scabs of undergarment wire dug through flesh and a red rash from elasticized straps rubbing against hot yellow skin. The price you have to pay to keep these sagging bags of mammary tissue in place. Your face is still pretty though, cute, child like

Other times they stared at you. The kinds of stares that made you fear to ask for seconds. Their eyes roving through every wobble, their words prodding each sticky roly-poly piece of flesh like a pin pricking for a quick deflation. You hoped it would. You hoped their words would prick you open and the gunk inside would ooze out. Drip by drip, clump by clump, you would shrink until you became beautiful.

You decide it is time to do something. Strangely it isn’t the first time and you seem to have lost count. You are afraid it wouldn’t work, or you might never be able to sustain it. So you never say you are doing something about it anymore because you have said it too many times before.

You had tried different things. From pills that make your tongue dry to pills that keep you wide awake at night. You called those the thirst pill and zombie pill. There was the one that kept your bottom glued to a toilet bowl for days. It was the rave of the moment. You called that the ‘Shitting’ pill. They used to say then that you would shit it all out.

It would all melt like molten magma, dissolving into a huge pile of splattered excrement flushed away into infinity. That one pull of the lever would change everything. It would change the way he touched you, the way he looked at you. It would change the feeling. It would change everything!

The magic of the pills defied logic, but you tried them anyway. The results only reminded you of the stupidity that made you take them in the first place.

Then there was the taste of rice heaped on a plate and coated in sauces laden with fried goat skin and offal; rubbery chunks of intestines, furry and towel-like tripe, cubes of liver and blocks of beef. Your teeth masticating in bliss, sometimes too impatient to chew for much longer. The heat from the blitzed chillies as it stung your tongue, your lips and your nose dripped with phlegm. The oil sinking to the bottom of the plate as spoonfuls are shoveled into your mouth, then cooled with sweet and colored carbonated fluid. It fizzles on your tongue, rinsing down the left over grains in your mouth and down your throat.

You brushed your teeth, then brushed your tongue. You dug the toothbrush deeper, until it all came out. You did it many times more. It became routine. Eat till you could barely breathe. Brush till your throat spanned and, like an open faucet, let everything out. There was talk of the putrid smell, but there was also talk of you getting smaller.

You have genuinely tried before, given it your best shot. Hours running on treadmills and cycling to bare boredom. You gave up because the results were less than desirable, disappointing really, and you didn’t even cheat. So you went back to what you knew.

He never used the words you expect him to. Every week was an intervention. “You need to get healthy,” he would say, another time, it was “You need to be biologically viable.” It sounded like a breeding machine needing an overhaul.

Once he launched into an anecdote of a lady he knew whose roundness was twice yours, and now she had gotten healthy. He cannot comprehend what it is like to own a body that refuses to obey to your demands however hard you push it. But you aren’t doing this for him. You are doing it to get healthy. You have adopted his pseudonym  ‘get healthy’. It sounds much less vain; more mature perhaps, realistic even. Like a necessity. Something you must do. Something that is for the greater good.

You think it is from a good place, well at least you believe it is. But sometimes you wonder what words he would use if he really said the words he wanted to. You wonder how it would feel if you looked any different, healthy in his words.

It is the New Year, so you attempt walking, nothing too tedious just brisk walking. You wake up at 6am and you brisk walk for an hour. You meet other walkers. Women, men, young and old. It seems everyone is trying to get healthy. Walking is just ok. It isn’t fun It isn’t exciting. It is just walking. You walk past the cars, the multi-colored nursery, the leaking pipes, the ugly houses, the noisy church, the piece of land that has now turned to a plantain field. You inhale the generator fumes, and the dust and your ears ring to the yelling of the bus conductors. You wake up and you walk.

You get a call. It’s Nonye, your friends cousin. She sounds excited, says she has something that would change your life. Last time she was trying to get you to join a pyramid scheme. Before that, you heard she had been jilted by her Igbo-American lover after their introduction ceremony. They had met on an MSN chat room. She always had a thing for men who lived in America. They said after their ceremony, he went back to the states and never called.

She came to meet you at your office, wheeling in a red-checkered trolley bag. The kind that pensioners carried around when you lived in England. You were stunned at how she looked. She was four dress sizes smaller, left with a huge head and equally huge tits which sagged like yours. It reminded you of a tabloid headline back then that read “Tits on a stick.” Her skin looked leathery and her pores were visible on her face. Your eyes found it difficult to get past her head and chest. She resembled those head-bobbing dolls on office desks. You kept a smile on your face and told her she looked amazing.

She said she wanted to put you on her detox plan,

“I know you are beautiful and comfortable with yourself, but trust me I can make you more beautiful.” You didn’t really know if you were beautiful or even wanted to be more.

She brought out a transparent thirty centiliter plastic bottle from her trolley bag. The content of the bottle looked like clouded urine. She said it was a mixture of juiced grape fruit and ginger. She left out the part that she had watered it down to get more bottles and more money. She urged you to taste one. The bottle was warm, hot. You opened it, it had begun to ferment. She bragged about her high profile clients. They had lost a lot of weight drinking her fermented citrus and ginger concoction.

She left you with twenty bottles. Said it was a trial run so it was free. “You have to drink three bottles daily.” One with fruit for breakfast, one with salad for lunch and one with steamed fish for dinner. You did it for two days then chucked the rest in the bin. It tasted like what it was, a rotten blend of watered down grape juice and ginger. It gave you heart burn. You went back to walking.

You purchased a scale and you broke it. You bought another one, but it was broken before you bought it, so you couldn’t take it back. You could predict the snarky remarks.

The telly is on at work. Its “Ruby on the “Style Network.”  It is the episode where she is forced into group therapy and attempting the twelve-step program. This episode is similar to the intervention series on “Discovery .” The doctors always ask for the experiences that trigger the emotions that make the patients want to “use.” You try to search deep for yours.

You wonder weather it is when uncle would ask you to cream his back then play with him. You are an adult now and not one to play victim. Truth is most people that had uncles and aunties back then had been touched up every now and again. At least you got off with a little pinching and fiddling, and the occasional squirt on your tummy, nothing too damaging. You couldn’t tell. No one would believe you. If they did, it would be too traumatic for them to deal with. At least for your mother, who was still reeling from your father leaving her for a younger woman and abdicating his financial duties to boot. She was broke, single and was consumed with what she had fondly come to see herself as—”the laughing stock.” You wondered whether the problem was your father leaving. You had been told before that he may have left you hollow, bitter and cold without you even knowing it. At least according to an old boyfriend. “You need to reconnect and reconcile’,”he would say, “he is still your father.”

Attempting to “shrink” yourself was no use. You were too cynical, too self aware. You weren’t one for passing the blame buck. It worked for people who had real problems. Not you, you really just liked to eat. “Dya ya won ke iwo,” your mother would say in her sinister tone, “eat till it comes out of your nose.”

You saw Nonye a few months later. She was back to inhabiting her old body. Apparently, she ran into some immune problems from starving herself of real food. Aftermath of the prolonged detox. She is taking online nutrition courses now and still plans to bottle her juices. She says she is branching into healthy packaged soups and  smoothies. “I hope you will be there to support when it kicks off.” You have your doubts and she knows it. For as long as you have known her, she’s never been capable of seeing anything through.

He still talks about getting healthy, squeezing the rolls on your sides when he makes love to you just the way uncle would have pinched your pre-pubescent nipple. “Is it me or are you shrinking?” he asks.

You still walk, you still brush, and—touch wood—you will still shrink.

Image is by the endlessly talented Mickalene Thomas. Love her work! Check out more of her stuff {HERE}

***

Wana Udobang is a journalist, writer, poet and gender activist living in Nigeria. She currently works as a radio presenter/producer at 92.3 Inspiration FM in Lagos. Visit www.guerillabasement.com and  www.wanawana.net for more. Follow @MissWanaWana on Twitter.

Keeping our promise to bring you reviews of all five stories shortlisted for the  Caine Prize, we featured Aaron Bady’s review of Billy Kahora’s story last week. 

This week, it’s Nigerian novelist, Richard Ali, reviewing Diane Awerbuck’s story titled “Phosphorescence.” Awerbuck’s story was originally published in Cabin Fever, her 2011 short story collection. Read story HERE. 

Let us know what you think of the story and Ali’s take on it.

Diane Awerbuck

Richard Ali

Diane Awerbuck’s story, “Phosphorescence,” shortlisted for the 2014 Caine Prize for African Writing, is a tale of two characters framed by death. The first is a swimming pool that Alice has visited everyday for the last fifty years but that has been marked for demolition. The second character is Alice’s granddaughter Brittany. Failing at a suicide, she has been sent down to Cape Town expressly to keep away from death, away from the “people she hangs out with.” Brittany’s father, Sidney, a Johannesburg plastic surgeon, is Alice’s only child.

The story is simple enough. Alice, granddaughter in tow, heads out for her customary swim while Brittany, aloof and indifferent to the significances of Graaf’s Pool to her grandmother, sits on the sand, listening to music. Yet, the impending demolition of Graaf’s Pool has hung over Alice’s structured life for a month and each swim—being possibly the last—each swim marked with dips into memory and the implications of long familiarity, is an act of defiance for the older woman. Casting cares and swimwear away, Alice swims naked. She takes a longer swim than usual so that when she breaks the surface, she finds a worried Brittany waiting. Brittany decides to join her grandmother in the pool. But just as they get used to the older woman’s now shared “half-secret” place, they are disrupted by the roar of bulldozers come to life with demolition crew and the sudden reality of death amongst the debris of love and Graaf’s Pool.

Diane Awerbuck writes beautifully. She writes in a manner similar to fellow South African J. M. Coetzee in his better work. Consider this gem of perception—“Her top went next, then the shirts – three of them, layered archaeologically—until she [Brittany] was standing in her girlish underwear, a mystifying combination of cotton and wire scaffolding.” It says a lot about the character through whose eyes we see this. It is amusing to think of lace underwear in terms of “wire scaffolding,” but the image of clothes being “layered archaeologically” is a refreshing first. This is a case of language being used effectively given that “Phosphorescence” is at its core a story about age and youth and about the scars of a ruin left on the body by a failed suicide. But “Phosphorescence” is not for all this a story about loss. It is framed by death, yes, but it is really a different story.

The tension of the story lies on two levels—first, a grandmother’s has difficulty comprehending a granddaughter’s attempt kill herself, even while being aware of her own fragility and proximity to death. The second tension, equally important, is the imminent demolition of Graaf’s Pool and with it fifty years of Alice’s memories, including the birth of her son, the people who have haunted it, everything. The first tension is resolved at the point where Brittany joins her grandmother in the pool and comes up for air, both women grinning at each other. “With their hair wet,” observes the narrator, “they didn’t look very different.” The second tension is resolved by the bulldozers moving in to destroy the physical haven that was once Graaf’s Pool while also trapping the two naked swimmers in the pool

But there is an escape, and it is in crafting the means of their escape that this South African storyteller establishes her credentials as an important voice in African fiction for, by a sleight of hand, the tragic end of the pool, it’s loss, the destruction of its significancies is redeemed by Alice and Brittany who are reconciled by virtue of their shared immersion in the pool.

Towards the end of story, in one of the most moving moments, we find Alice gritting her teeth, shivering and then surrendering to Brittany’s—and youth’s—guidance. This is the thawing of the tension between them such that in the very last line, they “held hands.”

Of course, the colorful underwater phosphorescence of luminescent planktons is gone, of course Graaf’s Pool is demolished, of course Alice will die eventually. Yet, the point is that for a while, for the dizzying while during which the short story is rising and falling like a thrown stone, there is a defiance against death and a renewed will to live, to care and to love. And that really is the point. In achieving this, Diane Awerbuck’s story comes as perfectly as fiction ever will to reality—”Phosphorescence,” without doubt, is a near perfect story.

Read “Phosphorescence” HERE. 

Come back next Tuesday for Nicholas Ochiel’s review of Okwiri Oduor’s story, “My Father’s Head.” Read it HERE. 

***

Richard Ali is a Nigerian lawyer and the author of City of Memories [Parrésia, 2012]. He edits the Sentinel Nigeria Magazine and is Publicity Secretary [North] of the Association of Nigerian Authors.  He lives and writes in Jos, Nigeria.

Follow Richard: @richardalijos

Pearl Osibu

By Pearl Osibu

I’m Pearl Osibu — Literary writer, blogger, fashion designer. Notice, not a screenwriter. Or shall we say I wasn’t a screenwriter? I, now most definitely, am, and that’s the tale. The rest is detail.

Afrinolly partnered with Ford foundation and gathered together a potpourri of writers of different genres— the screenwriters, the novelists, the bloggers, the poets and well . . . the screenwriters *giggles*.

Anyway, we have a mandate. Write us a script, each and every one of you. Entertain us, educate us, and for christsakes, don’t bore us; and if you don’t know how, here’s Femi Kayode, he’s gonna teach you and you’d better learn fast. And by god, we did, did we ever.

And just so we knew they weren’t playing, we had the best people, experts in their fields all, come speak to us. Among them Femi Odugbemi; CEO, DVworx, Professor Bolaji Owasanoye on governance and Conflict, Dr. Godwin Ojo on Environment and Conservation, and Ms. Bolaji Fati and Sir Chris Akwarandu on Reproductive Health and Rights. We did have social issues to tackle after all.

So they keep us in this really nice hotel, feed us three times a day (our waistlines are still in recovery), show us the gym and pool. And then proceed to ensure that we have time for nothing except work. Which I think is the whole point of workshops.

Meet the participants.

Jude Idada

Jude Idada – AMAA Award-winning director, producer, writer of prose, drama and the most beautiful poetry ever (I started reading his collection Exotica Celestica—which I insist on calling Erotica Ecclestica—and nearly didn’t turn my script in as a result). He’s also got to his credit a collection of short stories “A box of Chocolates,” along with a play and a novel. All this you can find online. What they cannot tell you, though, is that he is very articulate and serious one moment, and then spoils it by coming to class wearing lipstick. And that is all you need to know. Next.

Jenim Dibie

Jenim Dibie – Poet turn pharmacist turn cosmetologist turn poet turn prose writer. Jenim. Her poetry collection “SCARCAST” was published last month and they are beautiful poems. She gave us each a free copy on the very first day. She is so shy. It is the first thing you notice, right after her flawless makeup. So quiet too, she chooses to speak to us through her work, and we respect, accept and endorse.

Jude Dibia

Jude Dibia – Jude. Author of three novels – Unbridled, Walking with Shadows and more recently, Blackbird. I cannot get enough of Jude’s books and you would think that’s all I couldn’t get enough of. Then I encounter his eyes. Swoon-making, hazel eyes. Jude is so mild. He tempers my exuberance whenever he’s around. I just get mellow. And you will never find a more courteous and proper gentleman. He had us reeling with laughter time and again. Then he spoils it by eating the most incredible amounts of food you never saw a slim person eat. And you wonder how he does it.

Kemi Adesoye

Kemi Adesoye – She wrote the screenplays for Figurine and Phone Swap. Like wow.  But you know what somebody said at the Workshop? “Kemi does not know she wrote Figurine and Phone swap. She cannot know.” And that tells you all you need to know. When you meet her, you will find a soft-spoken lady, wearing a kind smile, feet curled under her like a Buddha.

Tunde Aladese

Tunde Aladese – I’ve got a crush on her. No no, not the way you are thinking. This is all purity. Tunde is most well known for being head writer of Tinsel since 2010. But she’s worked on several other projects including Story story, Edge of Paradise, and the film, The Child. She has also written for True Love Magazine and worked as an associate producer on the talk show Moments with Mo. However, going by the reactions I got to pictures on social media, I would say the audience is most interested in her hair. Or the lack of it. She’s got this amazing Mohawk that makes me want to scrape off my dreads. Her sense of style was described at the workshop as “individualistic”. We agree. What with the little little dresses that show off her svelte, fashionably thin body that ties my stomach in knots of envy.

Haye Okoh

Haye Okoh – This beautiful, beautiful girl, mild mannered, sweet and self-effacing, unassuming. Don’t be fooled. Behind this facade hides a formidable strength of character and passion that is revealed in her work—photography. She runs a blog where you can get acquainted with her work, and in her words, “My photography tries to portray how I see my subjects and not necessarily what they are. I take pictures of any and everything. From people to windows to clouds; the model’s pose, the banker’s walk, the chef’s stir…anything I feel shouldn’t be forgotten. ” She is simply unforgettable. Oh she’s a fitness freak too.

Adeola Ike

Adeola Ike – My adopted mother at the workshop. Nope, she’s not old. She’s just so . . . like a mother. So gentle and always saying the kindest things to, and about everyone. When I saw her profile before the workshop (*whispers* Pastor’s wife, writer of ‘Christian’ novels), I was worried. And then on the very second morning, she pulls me aside and says the kindest words anyone has said to me in a while, (I won’t tell). Then I knew we would be fine. She’s written many soap opera scripts like Rough Edges, and Cyberia, and some episodes of the drama series Living in Lagos.

Yakubu Lamai

Yakubu Lamai – A cultured gentleman through and through, Yakubu speaks like a prince, a true wordsmith. No wonder  his was the first voice on Cool FM Lagos, when in October 1998, they opened with his  ‘Hello, welcome to Cool FM in Lagos.’ Don’t be fooled, this man is a fighter. Using documentaries, his real forte as a tool, this Film alumnus of Ohio University has engaged in all kinds of activism including civil rights, gender equality and a host of social concerns.

Michael Osuji

Michael Osuji – This screenwriter is the CEO at Konnekt Media group. And I don’t know much more about Micheal, even if he also supplied me with enough films to last me a few months. Here is who I, and most of us at the workshop do know all about *drum roll* His wife. Like wow, I have never heard a man talk about his wife so much. In fact, when we thought we might go for Karaoke, we banned him from bringing his wife since he had told us all about her singing prowess. This is a bad boy turn good and we love it.

Yomi Ososanya

Yomi Ososanya – A man of few words, Yomi is beyond enigmatic. Then I watch his short film, BLISS and I understand. I understand how he communicates with his silence. How in six and half minutes he can tell a story so profound and suspenseful I gasped several times. Watch him o. (And he’s got this voice that rumbles . . .)

Ejiro Onobrakpor

Ejiro Onobrakpor – hehehe…first I thought Ejiro was a girl because of his name. It took me all of the workshop period to get over my disappointment. But it was made easier by the presence of . . . never mind. He is definitely not a girl.  Google can tell you he is a ‎Director of production/film/screen writer/documentary film maker/event videography/—and he makes the most amazing wedding videos. If he didn’t do yours, you aren’t married (oops)—but what they won’t tell you is what a romantic he is. During the workshop, if there was love in a story, we all looked to Ejiro to find it.

Obi Okoroafor

Obi Okoroafor – Obi, sometimes Gerald (which caused some confusion) and sometimes Nwaswagger (which caused much eye-rolling) is an amazing screen/comic story writer, and excels at panelling. His catchphrase, “is it because I’m black?” which sends everybody rolling. But if you want all the movies you have ever been looking for, and those you never heard about, he is the go-to guy. There was a literal, actual honest-to-goodness queue for his hard drive. And oh, he looks exactly like Ojukwu, it’s uncanny.

Tayo Abereoje

Tayo Abereoje – is a screenwriter, actor and producer, living in Ghana. One word. Mischief. The things that come out of her mouth are completely at odds with her innocent expression. After a while, I stopped being shocked. I could never get enough of hearing her speak. When she spoke, the place when quiet, her voice rang so  . . . American. LOL. True. She looks nothing like how she sounds. And her views were always, uhm . . .  different. She will kill me for this.

Ben Chiadika

Ben Chiadika – I saw this somewhere, “with a bible in one hand and a script in the other . . .” and I thought that’s about right. This, possibly, six and half footer towered above the whole class. But when you look up, you see the gentlest face, pair of eyes and smile ever. That’s Ben. Then I find out he is a Pastor, and I can just totally see it. He’s been writing scripts since the 80s, a few of which are Drop of oil, Moving Fingers and Back from Hell. He is also an award-winning director. He has directed projects like Soul Sistas, Rough Edges, Cyberia etc. Talk of successfully straddling two worlds.

Onyeka Nwelue

Onyeka Nwelue – He should be most famous for his literary works, Burnt and The Abysinnian Boy  or for his music label which has Onyeka Onwenu signed on, or even for his work as a filmmaker. I really wish I could say that those were his claim to fame. But no, this enfant terrible of the workshop, who prefers to be introduced as “The Black Baron of Paris, His Royal Awesomeness, the dreadlocked African warrior prince” *sic* is a young, talented troublemaker. He is also known for his incendiary facebook updates and open letters to such political or celebrity figures as Tonto Dikeh and Atiku Abubakar. But the workshop agreed it was all a facade and Onyeka is a softie hahaha.

John Tukura

John Tukura – or Tee jay Dan as he is most popularly known is a writer and filmmaker – studied at the New York film Academy and has written a number of opinion articles about Nollywood. He is also very vocal on social media on a number of issues. The one he is most passionate about being anything that concerns his native Gbagyi, an Ethnic group in Niger state. It is what we will most remember about him (I think), how he plans to use his voice and work to campaign for social justice for his people.

Kayode Faniyi

Kayode Faniyi – Short story writer, blogger, and now screenwriter, this quiet, seemingly gentle dude hides behind that personae, and if I didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t know to prepare for the sheer brilliance and cogency of his mind (and the ever-lurking cynicism of course), unless you are an ardent reader of his blog, as I am. Oh and his mind is super-quirky. I never see his posts coming.

Olubunmi Familoni

Olubunmi Familoni – when this one opens his mouth, all our mouths fall closed. His deep baritone has nothing to do with the lanky frame it emerges from. But beyond that, this is a guy who knows his literature. And he writes it in such a visually descriptive way that the facilitator at the workshop could not help going back to his work over and over again as reference. But all this is when Bunmi is not arguing and dismissing people’s arguments, or being terribly brilliant on twitter. He blogs too.

Alexandra Hul

Alexandra Hul – Oh my! Tomboy of the workshop. She received a standing ovation when she wore a pretty formal dress on Easter Sunday. Dancer, screenwriter, director/producer (in training), she wrote the brilliant short film, “To Serve With All Our Strength.” Alex hides painful shyness behind great boldness that you have to admire. Then she loses it all when she begins to break-dance with the best of them.

Udoka Oyeka

Udoka Oyeka – Lady Killer. I should just leave google to say the rest. But no, this kickass brawny screenwriter, actor and filmmaker is equally plenty brains. Maker of the short film, Down and Out and another short, Living Funeral (8 nominations in AMVCA 2014, an AMAA nomination and has been selected for the Cannes Film festival!),  he is also one of the two people behind the much-talked about The Red House Seven. I very near swooned when I met him, even if I have not seen the movie. You know when everybody is talking about something/one. But he is oh-so-sweet with it. And ready to pitch in when and where help is needed

Femi Kayode

Femi Kayode: Facilitator extraordinaire, he has forever changed the face of workshops for me. When a man can take twenty or so people, many of whom have never met before, treat them like princes and princesses, turn complete novices to promising screenwriters at the very least, and get the experts to slow down; when a man is able to create an environment so relaxed and convivial (sometimes he’s facilitating from where he’s lying on the rug in the centre of the room), and is yet able to achieve his objectives, he has commanded, and will keep my respect.

And so ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new faces of movie making in Nigeria.

***

Pearl Osibu is a Fashion Designer/Stylist, Nigerian writer and blogger. She writes a blog titled Fifty Shades of Me  where she publishes her short stories and keeps up a commentary on topical, social issues.

Her works have been published in Sentinel Nigeria eZine, Jetlife Magazine, Metropole, NigeriansTalk, etc.

She lives in Lagos, Nigeria.

Follow her on Twitter: @pearlosibu

Here is the second of a series of Q&As with the three most recent alumni of Ebedi International Writers Residency. {Read the interview with Gertrude Uzoh HERE.}

Ebedi Writers Residency founded by Wale Okediran (Tenants of the House) is, perhaps, the best kept secret in the African literary community. Tucked away in Iseyin, a small town in the western parts of Nigeria, Ebedi gives resident writers  six weeks of peace and quiet in a beautiful and comfortable work/living space. Past residents include the likes of Doreen Baingana (Tropical Fish) and Yewande Omotoso (Bomboy).

Jumoke Verissimo is the second of the three most recent residents we’re interviewing. The Lagos-born poet lives and writes in Ibadan. Her poetry collection, I Am Memory, is one of the definitive texts of contemporary Nigerian poetry. 

In this interview, she tells us about her stay at Ebedi, gives us her take on poetry in Nigeria, and dishes on her two stray cats. 

Enjoy! 

You’ll probably think this is weird but I love your name—J.U.M.O.K.E. V.E.R.I.S.S.I.M.O.—sounds lovely. Jumoke is Yoruba. What ethnicity is Verissimo? 

I don’t think it is, actually. I would say thank you though—Verissimo is Portuguese—and it means truth. This blog entry: This is Lagos, would be useful in understanding the context of my surname name.

How was Ebedi being as a workspace?

Ebedi served me well. I wanted an inclusive place, somewhere not far from home, —because of my young family—and also rustic. Ebedi offered me these things without asking too much from me. So, work came easily.

I have this (probably uninformed) idea that a writer’s residence is like an artistic cubby hole where writers do nothing but write endlessly and obsessively. Is it true or am I just making things up? What’s a typical day in Ebedi like?

Indeed, there is a cubby, and you can do what you desire of it.  I went with my baby, so a typical day is influenced largely by her mood. I worked in the midnights and early mornings, when she fell into deep sleep. In the afternoons, I write, then spent time with my baby now and then (The residency provided a lovely woman, Jumoke, a namesake, who minded my baby during the day for a while). I liked that I could write and feel a sense of ease, mindless of having an infant around. The rest of the time was spent between thinking, cooking, reading, meeting the town, and keeping abreast of news.

Jumoke Verissimo (R), her daughter, and fellow resident, Funmi Aluko

What do you like most about the town itself and the house where you live?

I like the people. You have to discover them though, and once you do, you’ll love their openness and ease to life. The house offered the same thing—it opened itself to you and you decided what you wanted of it.

I hear a short story collection is on the way. Tell us more.

A short story is collection is on the way, eh? Indeed. The residency provided room to draft a collection of inter-connected short stories. What I see now is the possibility of submitting some stories from the ms to literary magazines in the following months.  That is all I can say of the project at this time. I’m really superstitious about discussing a work in progress. Elaborately.

If you had to pick a poem that you’d describe as the soundtrack of your life, what would it be?

Psalm 23 (King James Version of the Holy Bible)

Does Nigeria have a poetic tradition? Would you say poets such as yourself and the likes of Tade Ipadeola and Ede Amatoritsero write differently from the Soyinkas and the Okigbos?  

I suppose however that you are asking if we have been handed down some contemporary poetic tradition, like poets in the West placed themselves in schools or adopt poetic forms etc., Artists, not poets alone, continue to reflect on the past to reinvent itself.

Nigeria as a country is an ambiguous state that cannot be placed in a cultural portmanteau—it is a multilingual state, where numerous ethnic groups were amalgamated. The understanding here is that these ethnic states in the country have unique poetic traditions, and rich ones at that. These cultures have handed-down oral presentations that continue to influence generations, and those who are creatively inclined borrow from its aesthetics from time to time. Of course, there would be a time of apery, but it is sooner outgrown and originality sets in.

I love to think that poets, older and younger generation, source from the same tradition but represent differently, with a large influence from the media and socio-political environment of the time. We could say, the poetry of the different generations speaks into their time, and today, we are informed by a publishing that does parallel processing of ideas, that are written by us, but owned by all. The poets—Soyinka and Okigbo—wrote under strong influence of two cultures, the one they were born into (indigenous) and the other one molded their birth culture and developed perspectives, which were also influenced by the social happenings at their time.

This may sound silly but it’s hard not to think of the Nigerian literary scene as split between #TeamPoetry and #TeamNovels. Sometimes, it feels like novels and novelists enjoy more love from readers at home and away. What’s up with poetry in Nigeria? Why do Nigerians find it much easier to imagine their lives through stories than through poems? 

Hmm. The web…I think the internet can be delusional in many instances—as this. Novelists, all over the world, make more sales than poets; of course you’re as lucky as the late poet Seamus Heaney.

Anyway, Nigeria as a country lives in an alignment state of poetics and fiction—it’s difficult not to, not with the headlines. It’s getting worse.

I Am Memory is your first book of poetry, right? Isn’t it Kafka that said a book is worth the read when it hits you hard on the head? Reading your poems feels like receiving blows. Lol. It’s a collection of poems asking those difficult questions about contemporary African life. Hard-hitting but richly-textured imageries and language. It was a success. What’s next for you?

 Thank you. I do appreciate these kind words. A new collection of poems is soon to be published. There’s also a novel I’ve worked on for some time now too; it was longlisted for the Kwani prize.

Who would you suggest as a #MustRead contemporary African poet? And why?

I’ll be narcissistic and say me: Here’s a link to my book: I am memory (Dada Books) on Amazon.

That said, I’ll suggest a reader should engage as many Africa poets as possible. Each poet has a perspective that is unique, and needs to be discovered. At this time, Gabeeba Baderoon is a favourite. Why? She is the total package.

I know its cliché and borderline cheesy, but I like asking poets about love. Is there one imagery that encapsulates for you all that is complicated, weird, sweet, dreamy, f* up, fulfilling, and real about love?

Love is.

I love.

The imagery that comes to mind is the coconut—and don’t ask me what love has got to do with the coconut fruit.

Jumoke Verissmo in front of Ebedi Writer’s Residency

What follows is a list of what I like to call WTF questions. The key is not to take them seriously. Lol.

1. How important are titles when you write poems?

Tissued

2. Do you have a beauty obsessions? I’m a card-carrying make-up girl. Apparently, Chika Unigwe and Ayo Olofintuade both love shoes. Chimamanda Adichie is obsessed with hair blogs. Selasi lives and breathes clothes. You?

If I have any obsession at this time, I’ll be dead, or a first-class murderer. I love good things.

3. You have a stray cat? Do tell us more…

Yes, two cats came to our doorstep; we offered them food and they never left. One is dead now. The other one comes around after the ‘day’s work’, and when I’m not too busy, we talk or just stare at ourselves for a while and then part.

4. Are you one of those people who give names to personal objects? Think Ikhide’s Ipad a.k.a. Adunni.

Well, Yes. Sometimes.

5. I’m sorry, but I have to bring up the city question. You grew up in Lagos, but now live in Ibadan. Which of the two cities rocks the most?

Er…let’s just say, “and I…I…will always love you.” (That’s in Whitney’s voice, to Lagos). Ibadan is unveiling itself to me. It is a city to learn.

6. Nietzsche had Dionysus. Soyinka has Ogun. Do you have an alter ego?

David? You get to do all those “wrong stuff” and still become one of the most memorable kings in the bible. Common, that’s the life!

Also, I wouldn’t mind writing poetry that would become a sanctuary, for every generation.

***

Follow Jumoke on Twitter: @awapointe

Check out her website HERE

Ben Okri is a Nigerian novelist

1. To poison a nation, poison its stories. A demoralised nation tells demoralised stories to itself. Beware of the storytellers who are not fully conscious of the importance of their gifts, and who are irresponsible in the application of their art: they”

2. The greatest religions convert the world through stories.

3. The fact of storytelling hints at a fundamental human unease, hints at human imperfection. Where there is perfection there is no story to tell.

4. Stories can conquer fear, you know. They can make the heart bigger.

5. The mystery of storytelling is the miracle of a single living seed which can populate whole acres of human minds.

6. It should be clear by now that it is you, great readers of the world, who are at the root of the storyteller’s complex joy.

7. Storytellers ought not to be too tame.  They ought to be wild creatures who function adequately in society.  They are best in disguise.  If they lose all their wildness, they cannot give us the truest joys.

9. The best writing is not about the writer, the best writing is absolutely not about the writer, it’s about us, it’s about the reader.

10. Some people say when we are born we’re born into stories. I say we’re also born from stories. 

Teju Cole has been actively lending his voice to the #bringbackourgirls campaign/debates all this week. But a few days ago, he does something different. He writes a meditation on what life might be like for the girls while in captivity.

The deeply evocative piece is titled “Captivity” and was published in The New Yorker. In two days, the post has been shared 2000 times on Facebook. Everyone is clearly reading it. So read it too. HERE. 

Even before Teju Cole’s piece, Adichie took to the Nigerian blog, Scoopng, and called on President Jonathan to snap out of his inertia and do something about the abducted girls. She writes:

“I want President Jonathan to be consumed, utterly consumed, by the state of insecurity in Nigeria. I want him to make security a priority, and make it seem like a priority. I want a president consumed by the urgency of now, who rejects the false idea of keeping up appearances while the country is mired in terror and uncertainty.”

Another viral piece, with 4000 Facebook shares in four days. Read it HERE.  Also read our poetic spin on the same essay. HERE.

Taiye Selasi’s Ghana Must Go made the PEN Open Book Award longlist. The prize is awarded to the best book written by a writer of color. If Selasi wins, she’ll be 5,000 dollars richer. Wishing her all the best. {source}

In other news, she joined the chorus of aggrieved voices criticizing the current state of things in Nigeria, especially with the abduction of the Borno girls. She posted on Facebook: “When do we get to call Nigeria a failed state?”  

While it seemed like an obvious question to ask, not everyone thought well of it. Here are two commenters: 

Meji Dele:

With all due respect Nigeria’s leaders may be bad – but the state itself is not a failed state. We should remember that an island somewhere adjacent to the Atlantic had a situation not dissimilar to the atlantic in the 1970s – despite the troubles in Ireland, and the sometimes indifferent british government, nobody called Great Britain a failed state.

Wato Camille:

Nigeria categorized as a Failed State…depends on who is defining it. Flawed Yes! No law and order= SOMALIA. Political exploitation=BOLIVIA. Lack of property rights= NORTH KOREA. Forced Labor= UZBEKISTAN. A weak central government= COLOMBIA. Institutional racism/unjust justice system=AMERICA. Apathetic Government= Nigeria. #BringOurGirlsBack

We love it when African writers do things together. Godfrey Mwampembwa, a Kenyan cartoonist, Tope Folarin, the winner of the Caine Prize last year, Mukoma wa Ngugi, author of Nairobi Heat, Deji Olukotun, author of Nigerians in Space and Chinelo Okparanta, winner of the O’Henry short story prize—hung out at NYU earlier in the week as participants in the PEN World Voices Festival 2014. See more photos HERE. 

E. C. Osundu, who won the Caine Prize a few years ago, shared a photo of the manuscript of his forthcoming work. Hmmmm….cool title.

Congrats to Chinelo Okparanta for winning the O’Henry short story prize. Look out for the anthology of all 14 winning storiesin September.

The International Writer’s Program alumni first came into our view when she was shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Writing. Okparanta is the only African that graced the list of winners. We applaud her! {Source}

From Lagos to London to Paris, crowds are gathering in front of consulates and in city squares, chanting the same chorus: “bring back our girls now!”

On April 14th, an insurgent group called Boko Haram abducted over 300 girls from a school dormitory in a Northern Nigerian town called Chibok. In the three weeks since it occurred, everyone—from P-diddy to the Pope—has weighed in on the issue, either condemning the abduction of the girls or calling on the Nigerian government and the international community to intensify rescue efforts.

Chicago joined the growing number of cities organizing peaceful demonstrations to increase awareness around the missing girls.

I was there on Saturday at the Daley Plaza. Here is my attempt at documenting the event.

Hope this week brings us comforting news about the abducted girls.

Rev. Jesse Jackson being interviewed by the news crew.

Amara Enyia is a mayoral candidate

First of all, congrats to Nnedi Okorafor. The French translation of her novel, WHO FEARS DEATH (Qui a Peur de la Mort) makes the shortlist for the French Prize “The Prix Imaginales.” The prize is awarded to the best French translation of a fantasy novel. 

We are also loving the dark grittiness of the cover. The highly-sought-for South African illustrator Joey Hi-Fi designed it. Just in case you were wondering why the cover reminds of Lauren Beukes’s sci-fi hit, Zoo City, Joey Hi-fi designed that too. 

Seeing how captivating and artistic the cover of Okorafor’s novel is, we are not surprised that it is also up for best illustration award.

Congrats to Okorafor! In other news, she is leaving Chicago State University, where she currently teaches, for a tenured position at SUNNY, Buffalo. We wish her all the best! 

Want to spice up your literary experience and make reading LITERALLY pleasurable? Here is what you do:

1. Pick up a novel: make sure it’s a novel that means something to you. The theme of the novel doesn’t matter. It could be something as erotic as Fifty shades of Grey, as silly as Bridget Jones Diary, as depressing as Jude the Obscure, or as political as Petals of Blood.

2. “Cadillac of Vibrators”: you’ve selected your novel, and possibly even a passage. Now place  the much loved Hitachi Magic Wand or any vibrator for that matter on the right location. Turn it on while reading aloud—and zing your way to a climactic reading experiences.

Okay, you just had the experience of Clayton Cubitt’s participants in a 12-part video art project called Hysterical Literature. Cubitt, a NYC-based artist, records 12 different women reading a passage from a novel of their choice while being stimulated by a Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator. They read until they reach orgasm.

Watch!

Cubbit says the project “explores feminism” by countering the culture of shame built around the idea of feminine sexuality.

There is also, of course, the idea of of synching the intellectual act of reading and the bodily act of sexual stimulation. He is interested in the idea of distracting the mind with the body. How long would it take until reading becomes distracted by sexual pleasure? How long before the pleasure of the body completely takes over the act of reading?

Cubitt says the women featured in the video are not porn stars. “One reader is an adult performer and writer, one works in fashion, one is an actress and comedian, several are artists and filmmakers, one is a burlesque dancer and model.”

See more videos HERE.

Still keeping our promise to bring you reviews of all five stories shortlisted for the  Caine Prize. Last week, we featured Richard Ali’s review of Diane Awerbuck’s “Phosphorescence” and the week before  Aaron Bady’s review of Billy Kahora’s story.

This week, it’s the Kenyan writer, Orem Ochiel, reviewing Okwiri Oduor’s “My Father’s Head.” Oduor’s story was originally featured in Feast, Famine and Potluck (Short Story Day Africa, South Africa 2013)

Read story HERE. 

Let us know what you think of the story and Ali’s take on it.

Okwiri Oduor

 

“My Father’s Head” might be about the death of a father. Aaron Bady suggests that African women writers have a penchant for strategic dismembering of family/society by killing patriarchs: Mariame Bâ’s So long a letter, Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions, Taiye Selasi’s, Ghana Must Go, Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor’s Dust—all these novels begin with the death of the protagonist’s male relative. Bady adds that such a death not only liberates these female characters but constitutes their fictional worlds. 

Oduor’s narrator, Simbi, attempts to reconstruct her dead father. The only image she has of him is painfully partial. The solid form masked by his visible face remains imperceptible by her. Ajany, in Yvonne Owuor’s Dust, turns to painting to recreate her brother; Simbi turns to drawing.

In my mind I could see his face, see the lines around his mouth, the tiny blobs of light in his irises, the crease at the part where his ear joined his temple. […] I could see all these things, yet no matter what I did, his head refused to appear within the borders of the paper.

The father is headless until when his daughter can recall and remake him whole. This, after all, is the work of psychoanalysis: not a recollection of the past but a rewriting and redrawing of it.

The figure of the missing father and his ghostly return mirrors the exclusionary practices of man-dominated language. Such language is always marked by the possibility of a terrible return of that which is rejected, that is, woman.

This cutting off of patriarchal figures in African women’s narratives might be seen as necessary violence for the creation of spaces in which women can rebuild their worlds beyond the spectre of male domination. This envisioning of the world without man is an overturning of current psychic conditions: entering into a world defined by man, the author redefines her symbolic world, and redefines man himself by herself.

Oduor’s narrator declares:

And yet it was not my father I was mourning. I was mourning the image of myself inside the impossible aura of my father’s death.

Okwiri Oduor’s narrative bravely makes demands of the reader that—I cautiously wager—no previous Caine Prize story has dared. First, she abandons plot. There are moments when she makes a tentative gesture towards plot, but it only to emphasize its absence, as is evident in one of the opening moments in the story.

It all started the Thursday that Father Ignatius came from Immaculate Conception in Kitgum.

However, Father Ignatius has no stake in the story other than as a reminder of Him, that is, God, whose face, the Bible says, no woman or man can see, and live. After the opening third of the novel, Father Ignatius never appears again except briefly, to exorcise Simbi’s house for a fee. All that remains: Simbi, immaculately conceiving of a Father.

A series of scenic elaborations follow: “the water pipe has burst and we are filling our glasses with shit”, “Kadima’s wife sits on the dough and charms it with her buttocks”, “feet […] smelt slightly fetid, like sour cream”, “eyes burst and rolled in rain puddles”, and so on—interspersed with “African” cultural code, such as, “It is only with a light basket that someone can escape the rain,” and “Only the food you have already eaten belongs to you.”

Abruptly, in the last third of the story, a monologue and a change of register: “Let me tell you: one day you will renounce your exile, and you will go back home […]“

Who speaks this speech? Who is addressed? Who is invoked and implicated in “you”? The impassioned speaker continues:

You think that your people belong to you, that they will always have a place for you in their minds and their hearts. You think that your people will always look forward to your return.

The story, such as it is, then resumes.The speech, an interrupting declamation, presents the surrounding narrative as an extensive aside to a primary schism.

We might imagine Oduor at her desk, writing into the night, perhaps recalling Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye in which Freida’s father’s naked body causes her and her sister to “feel shame brought on by the absence of shame,” when, after their father “had moved on, the dark took only him away, not his nakedness. That stayed in the room with us. Friendly-like.” For Oduor’s protagonist, Simbi,

[N]o matter what I did, his head refused to appear within the borders of the paper. I started off with his feet and worked my way up […]

Oduor’s story recalls the phantasmatic men in the life of Liz, the protagonist in Bessie Head’s A Question of Power. These men whom Liz both encounters and imagines are simultaneously fathers, paramours, companions, and tormentors. Simbi’s father seems to be(come) her lover:

[T]he vendor said to me, “Is it true what the vegetable-sellers are saying, that you finally found a man to love you but will not let him through your door?”

That evening, I invited my father inside.

Oduor, writing against alienation, creating a “Here”, which Keguro Macharia insists “is an important term in women’s cultural production,” and of which the speaker of the mysterious monologue says, “And you, you will have to tell them stories about places not-here.”

Oduor, haunted, writing, then, perhaps in a moment of distress, carving that monologue into the page, and destroying the dissimulation of story; her narrative being the uncertain ground on which other fantastic philosophical and poetic struggles are underway.

 

Read “My Father’s Head”  HERE. 

Come back next Tuesday for Kola Tubosun’s review of Tendai Huchu’s story, “Intervention.” Read it HERE. 

***

Orem is a lapsed mathematician and perspiring writer from Kenya. He muses at @nochiel, scribbles inconstantly at Life as Fiction, maintains an inbox at nochiel[at]gmail[dot]com, and writes with the Jalada Africa writers’ collective.

Wole Soyinka did a bit of hustling when he returned to Nigeria in the late ’50s, after his time at Leeds University. He dabbled into a lot of things, one of which was writing plays aired on Radio Nigeria.

But in 1960, he landed his own weekly radio show. The show was called “Talking Through Your Hat” and featured Soyinka’s humorous take on all sorts of things. Apparently, the show did well. People liked listening to his “madcap commentary—” as one literary critic describes it.

In one of the shows, Soyinka talks about his visits to Paris in a delightful mix of fact, humorous exaggerations, and witty quips.

When Soyinka first went to Paris, he had the flu. “It is inevitable,” he says, “that my immediate recollection of Paris should be linked forever with this mysterious flu.”

Two years later, Soyinka is once again in Paris, but this time he is living the life of a Paris Boho. He is irking out a living as a folk musician. What I would give to see Soyinka playing an acoustic guitar in some dinghy Paris Cafe.

Anyway, the good thing about being a hungry, itinerant folk-singer in Paris is that Soyinka gets to experience the city in a way that regular folks can’t.

Here, in a nutshell, is Soyinka’s Guide to Paris. Feel free to use it in your next visit:

Arc de Triomph

As far as Soyinka is concerned, all the major landmarks are overrated. “The Eiffel Tower is a bore,” he says, “so is Arc de Triomphe, and the Champs Élysées.

Want to experience the real Paris? Soyinka says to ditch the guidebook and walk, especially, at night.

In fact, the best way to see Paris is not to follow the usual Points of Interest which you get in guidebooks. As in any other city, you simply must set out and start walking. Walk in different direction each day, and simply follow your nose. And at night especially. There are more wonders perpetrated in Paris at night than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Beware of summers in Paris, Soyinka warns. In the summer, something happens called the American Invasion. So if you’re looking to just experience Paris, and not a “Little Rich America,” you might want to plan for a Fall, Winter, or Spring visit.

The summer, Paris is not the Paris of Parisians—it is merely a tourist center. It becomes a sort of Little Rich America Overseas. 

Of course Soyinka’s nightly walks through the streets of Paris and his performances as a musician took him to the more exciting parts of town—places like La Methode, a cafe in Quartier Latin, where he encountered transvestites—”that curious breed of human beings,” as he puts it, “the neither-nors…the Third Sex.”

Soyinka was clearly captivated by these non-conventional forms of sexuality: “Sometimes I would spend a whole hour trying to decide whether a particular specimen was a man pretending to be a woman or a masculine woman playing copy.” Well, uncle Wole, you sound awfully intrigued, no? I mean staring for an hour!

Soyinka reminds us that the “Parisians are famous for their love of the belly.” If you find yourself in Paris, never forget that one of the many roads to the heart of the city passes through your belly.

What do you think is Soyinka’s idea of “the most intriguing element of French Society?” Not fashion, not even food, and certainly not the landmarks. It’s “the clochard!” The vagrants,  tramps, beggars, homeless, who Soyinka says “have renounced all allegiance or responsibility toward their fellow men.”

Any Soyinka reader knows he has a thing for the homeless, the mad, the vagrant—people who inhabit the fringes of social life. We see these figures pop up in various forms in his plays and novels, from The Interpreters to The Beatification of the Area Boy. It’s nice to see that Soyinka’s fascination with this dispossessed multitude begins much earlier.

Here you have it. Soyinka’s 1960 remarks on Paris.

This post would not be possible without Bernth Lindfor’s amazing collection of Soyinka’s juvenilia titled Early Soyinka. If you’re curious about Soyinka’s writing before he became popular, order the book HERE. 

***

Arc de Triomphe image by Iwillbehomesoon via

Image of tourist woman by Jean Francois Gornet via

Image of paris at night by Fraser Mummery via

Image of pastry by Phil Hilfiker via

Image of man sleeping by Siby via

Image of transexual man by Christer Stromholm via

Judges of the 2013 edition in Morocco deliberating on entries.

The Etisalat Prize for Literature is awarded for the first published fictional work by an African author.  Noviolet Bulawayo won the first edition of the prize with her debut novel, We Need New Names.

Believe it or not, a year has passed since the prize, sponsored by Etisalat Communications, was first announced. We won’t easily forget the powerful social media buzz created around the prize and the elegant award ceremony.

It’s now time for the second edition, and you could be the winning author taking home these goodies.

• £15,000
• A Samsung Galaxy Note
• A Montblanc Meisterstuck pen retailing for as high as 2000 dollars.
• Book Tour: As any emerging writer would tell you, promotion is as important as it is expensive.  If you win, you get to go on a book tour in three African city on Etisalat’s bill. 
• Creative writing fellowship at the University of East Anglia  

As you think about whether to send in an entry, here are a few things you should know: 

1. The deadline for entries is August 8. Find the application form HERE.

2. The Etisalat Prize is a first book prize—with “book” defined as a minimum of 30,000 words and “first book” defined as “first printed production.” 

3.  For the 2014 edition, the book has to have been published between may 1st 2012 and may 31st 2014.

4. Books must be published in English. No translations or books published in African languages. Sorry. {Read Carmen McCain’s criticism of this rule HERE)

5. The publisher of your book will be the one to enter your work for the prize. Note that only publishers who have published a minimum of 10 books are eligible and that each publisher can send in a maximum of 3 different entries.

6. You’d need to have a passport of an African country. That’s how I’m interpreting the statement—eligible novels must be “by an author of African citizenship.”

7. If you’re the solitary-artist type, a private person who hates cameras and the public eye, this prize is probably not a good fit for you. When you’re shortlisted, you’d be expected to “cooperate fully with Etisalat Corporate Communications, making [yourself] available for interviews, events and other opportunities.”

8. The folks at Etisalat understand the fact that African writing it tied to the African publishing industry. At the shortlisting stage, publishers based outside the continent will be required to have a “co-publisher partnership with an African based publisher.”

If the prize is right for you, contact your publisher and get things rolling.

I’ve always been uneasy about Unoka’s death. Unoka is the father of Okonkwo, the principal character in Achebe’s 1958 classic, Things Fall Apart. He is thought to be a lazy man because he loved making music instead of farming yams. He falls ill with a wasting disease. One day, he is taken out of his own home and abandoned in the forest to die. The narrator gives away very little about the reason for this act of legal violence against Unoka. All we are told is that his swelling body is an abomination against the Earth Goddess.

I have now read Things Fall Apart more times than I can count. But with each repeated reading, it has become more difficult to accept his death as a matter of fact. I’ve always imagined that if I were to meet Unoka, I’d ask him these sort of questions. 

***

I would tell him: Was it lonely being different from everyone else? Was it saddening knowing your family thought very little of you, that your son could not bear the thought of you?

What was your crime, really? That you loved singing, and dancing and playing the flute? That you loved to watch the birds returning for the dry season and the songs children sang to welcome them? That you loved these things more than you loved farm work? Sad because if you lived in our present world, you’d have been called an artist. What did it feel like to have been born a century before your time, to be so misunderstood that you are thrown into the forest—discarded—like trash?

Were you frightened the day they came for you? When they yanked your sore and swollen limbs, did it hurt? Did you plead with them to let you die, no matter how wretched the death, in your own house? Were your children watching as they heaved you on their backs? Did you catch a glimpse of Okonkwo’s eyes? Did you see in his eyes a mix of shame and gratitude that you had finally disappeared from his life? You lost everything—your home, your family, your clan. You lost everything except for your flute which they said you took with you. Why did you take it with you?

When you lay there under a tree in the horrid darkness of the evil forest, were you scared? Did you see others like yourself or perhaps their decaying carcass and weather beaten bones? No matter how hard I try, I can’t quite imagine how horrid a place the evil forest must have been.

Did you think to play the flute to soothe your broken heart, to scare of evil spirits, or to mourn others like yourself?

How did you eventually die? Where you torn limb from limb by a wild animal? Was it hunger and thirst that finished you off?

The evil forest isn’t always too far from the roads leading to the farms. Did you sometimes hear your neighbors passing by on their way to their farms? People who came to your wedding, who came to celebrate the birth of your first child, who danced with you in festivals. Do you hold it against them for looking on as you were dragged out of your home and left to die a death too lonely and too painful to imagine?

They said your body had to be taken out of the clan because it was an abomination to the Earth Goddess. Who the hell is this Earth Goddess anyway? And why did she authorize your death?

If you were such an abomination, they should have killed you. But of course, it is not just your death that they wanted. Your death would not be perfect if you didn’t suffer.

But sometimes, I imagine you didn’t die at all. When I listen hard enough, I hear you playing the flute with your dying breath. Just when you thought it was all over, a spirit-maiden appears. She’s drawn by the sound of your music, and she saves you. She rescues from the death and the darkness and the loneliness of the forest.

***

The image is by Nigerian photographer Kadara Enyeasi via African Digital Arts. Check out more photos HERE.

We currently have a crush on Taiye Selasi. Don’t judge. We are simply captivated by the portrait of a woman who carries her literary profession and her love for fashion with such grace and elegance.

{Check out her recent high profile photo shoot HERE}

Women like Selasi refuse to choose between intellectual prowess and a commitment to high fashion. Nothing absurd about writing for three hours and then putting on false eyelashes while deciding whether to wear Jimmy Choo or a Louboutin heels to a fashion interview. 

In a recent interview with Net-A-Porter—an online luxury retailer—, Selasi reveals a bit about her life as a writer, heart break, and her obsession with fashion.

“Writing,” Taiye says, “is a calling and an obligation.” If her debut novel is anything to go by, she has answered that calling with passion and great talent. But she also “loves the miracle of a comfortable pair of significant heels.”

That’s why she’s the first to grace a category we have invented for women like herself—The Diva-Intellectual. 

For those of you wondering about the ideas behind her flawless sense of style, check out her “Style Resume.”

STYLE RÉSUMÉ

NAME: Taiye Selasi

PROFESSION: Novelist

MY STYLE: A hybrid. I mix my Nigerian mother’s love of color with my own experience of growing up on the East Coast, where neutrals are everything

FAIL-SAFE PIECES: I love heels, but Rome’s cobblestones have taught me a grudging love of flats

GO-TO LABELS: For the perfect gray T-shirt, Alexander Wang

Dressing up is for Selasi both an expression of power— “Sometimes women are a bit like warriors going into battle. You think, ‘Today I’m going out into the world to conquer and suitable armor is required.’”— and an element in the art of seduction—”In the performance of womanhood, you’re setting yourself up to hunt and be hunted.”

 It appears that the novelist’s heart was very recently broken, as is evident from this statement:

Lately, I had the experience that I think every woman should have once: I rushed into something. My whole life, [even during] university at Yale and Oxford, I’ve always been very rational and careful, and then after my first novel was published, I decided to erase all that and I ended up in a whirlwind of a relationship that just recently ended.

“Does heartbreak help the writing?”

Yes, you go into a pit of despair and come out with a book in your hand. I’m cheerful about romantic disasters. A good cry, a stiff drink and the company of friends helps. We had a joke that in the life of a woman who travels, there are some men who areamuse-bouches. Palate cleansers, if you like…

Read the full interview HERE.

We wish her the best as she weathers through this “romantic disaster” and continues work on her second novel.

Still keeping our promise to bring you reviews of all five stories shortlisted for the  Caine Prize. So far, we’ve featured 

Orem Ochiel’s review of Oduor’s “My Father’s Head.” 

Richard Ali’s review of Diane Awerbuck’s “Phosphorescence” 

Aaron Bady’s review of Billy Kahora’s story

This week, it’s the Nigerian writer and editor, Kola Tubosun, reviewing Tendai Huchu’s “Intervention.” Huchu’s story was originally published in Open Road Review, Issue 7, New Delhi, 2013. 

Read story HERE. 

Tell us what you think of the story and Tubosun’s take on it. 

Tendai Huchu

“Intervention” could be read in many different ways: as a tale of distant compatriots grown impotent by time and distance; the futility of armchair activism or the inevitability of same in the face of real challenges; or as a common allegory on the state of the continent in tumult.

It could, however, be read simply as a story of love, lust, disappointment, and one man’s care-free interrogation of it all. That man was Simba in this case, a poet, along with his friends, Z and Tamu (and their girlfriends).

The texture of Huchu’s story goes from casual to mundane to judgmental observations of people made by the principal character, Simba, who lives in the United Kingdom, far away from the scene of electoral action in Zimbabwe, his hometown.  The story climaxes at the end of a national election in Zimbabwe where the president who has ruled since the country’s independence in 1981 was “elected” into office for another term. Then it descends gently into the chaos of domestic dispute between lovers and friends: a not so subtle subplot that had followed the story from the start.

So, is this an allegory on the state of our impotence and confusion on the continent? I’m more inclined to that conclusion. Or, in trying to find other ways to appreciate a story so ordinary yet representative of a slice of some immigrant life from a failed African country, I might be forced to dismiss it as a neophyte attempt at storytelling (at worst) or an effort carefully riddled with levity, for particular effect (at best). The characters are naïve if not simple, and prosaic if not uninspired. An example:

“…I never cast a single stone in this entire charade. I was consumed with overwhelming fury, seeing what Tamu was doing to this little princess. How could he sit there, chatting nonsense about his privacy, as she trailed the list of names from his phone.”

Apart from the fact that the last sentence is missing a question mark, the expression itself is not that striking, especially in a work of fiction aspiring to Africa’s largest literary prize.

In an earlier scene, Simba says: “I gave him my wtf face”, written exactly as quoted, with small letters for “wtf” which one assumes does not mean “Welcome to Facebook”.

Maybe the pedestrian storyline of a bunch of immigrants in England watching and pontificating about their home elections does call for equally carefree characters speaking in insipid turns of phrase. Or maybe the primary character is an extension of a writerly experimentation that didn’t quite achieve its goals. Either way, one is left with a feeling of deep dissatisfaction when it all ends. This is 2014. A failed African state and the disappointment of its emigrated elites isn’t such a tantalizing storyline except something new is added in the form of great and captivating writing.

More:

“The kids didn’t speak Shone, so we were introduced in English, and check this out; I was “Uncle Simba”… The kid just looked at me blankly like I was talking effing Zulu.”

Effing, really? Who is this character? A twenty-two year-old Zimbabwean visiting England for the first time and intent on convincing us of his acquisition of street and teen lingo?

So, maybe the writer didn’t care much for inspiring our imagination or challenging our capacity for linguistic fireworks. Or maybe he couldn’t. We may not know until we read his other offerings.

Or maybe the story is a deliberate simplistic portrayal of simplistic existence. Zimbabwe goes on in its charade of a government. AIDs continues to ravage the continent. Sudan is now two countries. Egypt has changed its government more than twice in three years. Boko Haram has turned the fragile Nigerian state into a colander of dust and dead bodies. Kenya is fighting Al-Qaeda on its streets. Somalia is a violent ghost of whatever was there before, and Libya after Gaddaffi hasn’t lived up to Western (and African) hopes of its survival. Yet here we are in a quotidian cycle of daily vanities: dating, fucking, cheating, smoking, etc, and goofing around in our new realities, too impotent to act in any meaningful way. On this level, I understand and appreciate the effort and direction of the work. Otherwise, I should also probably go for a smoke (and hopefully not “cry like a pussy.”)

In any case, if it is the writer’s first, it shouldn’t necessarily be his worst. Next, please.

Come again next Tuesday for the review of Chela’s story. Read it HERE. 

Post image: via RAS News and Event.

***

Kola Tubosun is a linguist and editor of the NTLitMag (@NTLitMag). He blogs at KTravula.com and can be found on twitter at @baroka