If Mugabe once asked to greet the Zimbabwean Big Brother Africa runner up, there’s a chance that he’d want to meet and congratulate Noviolet Bulawayo if her novel wins the prestigious Booker Prize. In a recent Guardian interview, she is asked what she’d do if that ever happened. Her response?  ”Out of principle I wouldn’t…I don’t think we’ll be seeing ourselves shaking hands any time soon.”

In case you hadn’t heard, Bulawayo’s debut novel, We Need New Names, is on the Booker long list. The novel also made it into the Guardian First Book Award long list. Lots of good vibes her way from Brittle Paper. Hope she wins both prizes!

Here’s more of what she has to say on Zimbabwe and Mugabe in the interview.

On returning home after 13 years of being away: 

“I knew from news and stories that things were hard, but being there and seeing it for myself was just heartbreaking. Even now knowing that there are no answers, and it’s not going to get better any time soon, is crushing.”

On Mugabe: 

“There was a time when he was good for the country but I feel like that time is gone. The last election spoke to it all, obviously. I think a balanced person would be hard pressed to just stand and say this guy is a good guy, with all the facts on the table. It’s quite sad that a country with so much promise is forced on its knees because of the ruling party. I just hope that culture changes.

The Election: 

“The election wasn’t stolen by the west, the violence of 2008 wasn’t carried out by the west. It’s time to deal with facts as they affect us.”

On life away from home: 

“For me, life outside the homeland is a story of perpetual mourning for what is gone. It’s amazing how the simplest things can trigger that melancholy, from walking down the street and hearing on the car radio a song from home, to the smell of food, to a face that looks like somebody’s face.”

Find the full interview HERE. 

Three fragments on women, sex, and boredom.

Short and packed full of rich imageries. If you asked Ben Okri what these “stories” are, he might call them “an amalgam of short story and haiku, a “story as it inclines towards a flash of a moment.”

Thanks to Dami Ajayi for sharing his work!

1.

         A SWAIN’S MONOLOGUE

Why did we not fall in love?

I did. I swear I did fall in love with you, in slow installments, dulled by distance, tinkered by time. I was already in too deep before I realized that I had fallen. And that was before we had that really trite conversation about our favourite bars on campus. Then there was that long span of time that sandwiched our next encounter after our final exams.

So I came to you, brandishing my love. I watched you reward my proposition with amused smiles, a flash of yellow teeth; your lips parted demurely, the color of your lipstick complimented your gums.

I did not understand why it was so difficult for you to reason with me. We had known each other for about how long? Six years. Multiply that by 365. Add two days for leap years. Perhaps this is too much arithmetic. Just envision a big number, any number at all, in excess of five thousand, then imagine every one of them as days, inelastic days, days that must run their marathon course, two clockwise strolls.

Now imagine me coming to you after such a torturous and winding contemplation, asking for your hand. It must not be for sex and other guilty pleasures.  It must be for something more, something more spaced, some more articulate, long-lasting, infinite.

I know I have not been of good behaviour but what would you rather have a testosterone-powered youth do? I had to exhaust my post-pubertal recklessness, drain the power surge of that stupid delusion of overwhelming strength; now I believe bodies also give.

What will you drink? Do you mind if I smoke? You do mind if I smoke. But you’ll be having what, a bottle or cider? No, a bottle of red wine.

You don’t drink much, you say. But the scenery has set you in the mood.

I look around us, it’s my favourite bar. You don’t like this place much, but you don’t detest it enough not to sit with me and watch the local Juju musicians sing praises of middle-aged drunks with hysterical wives waiting at home.

This is a small town, where death and commerce transact daily. Everything else recedes into the mirage of meaningful life; the spoils of the genocide was not worth the bloodshed, the rubble of crumbling properties. But here, the men and their kept women are expending sweat, dancing, hearts thickened with Dutch courage; I see a night of sleazy motels, discarded condom wrappers, gratifying ceiling gazes. Great casual sex sometimes breeds insomnia.

You say you can’t love me, not with this glowing cigarette pacing up my lips every so often. You can’t date a neo-Sango faithful were your exact words. I don’t laugh at your clichéd comment which you had meant as a joke. First off, I don’t care so much for your joke. Your presence and mine seemed to have merged, suspended by some sort of magnetic field, or was it the alcohol?

The Juju music stung the air, the piano was out of tune, the speakers had lost their baritones and diaphragms, and the microphone parts were held together by wallows of duct tape. Beyond the occasional elegant falsetto that climbed above the mediocrity, the music was tedious. That was when you asked me to take you home.

The car’s windshields were down as if we implored wind gusts to aerate the tension between us. We knifed through the smooth asphalt and the night. I wanted to turn into your junction when your hand touched the steering wheel.

The mess of my room, the laundry pile scattered across the rug, the creaking fridge, the pungent smell of alcohol drying on used glass cups were invariably forgotten when the hot kisses began. You kissed like a passionate lover, playing darts with your pitch-fork tongue, flickering here and there; you even laughed sometimes when I couldn’t keep up.

What is the wine, I wondered? What is the feel of kinship in the midst of cogwheel bureaucracy, the late night vigil at the hospital playing clinical sentry who kept diseases at bay. Or was it just my imagination?

When the tomorrow comes will you remember last night at all? Or will you ask me politely to take you back to your place?

                                                                                                              2.

                                                                                      INTIMATE STRANGERS

There comes a moment in a club house when the DJ experiments unsuccessfully with less popular songs. The usual response of partiers is inertia: some partiers will dance languidly to the songs to douse the effect of the drinks they had taken, couples whose fleeting relationship blossomed might be kissing and touching themselves and yet, some, like me, will lean on the wall and smoke to pass time.

Usually the air in the club is stuffy, laden with cigarette smoke and people are woozy from either inhaling too much nicotine or from too many drinks. It’s a typical club, bourgeoisie in its patronage but they can’t keep the prostitutes out!

No one can pick them apart from the ladies who came in the company of male friends or sororities who came in the companies of themselves.

So here I am in the club, while the dance floor is on recess save an oddly-paired couple dancing a fast-paced salsa to a techno song. I am seriously considering retiring for the night to my hotel two blocks away.

I had left the serenity of my locale for the insouciant ethos of the city about an hour drive away in a rickety bus. The serenity of the dull town had begun to get on my nerves; the boredom had slowly morphed into ennui and was threatening to retch out my sanity. I thought some time away, perhaps a weekend, in the city powered on hormones and booze, will be a sort of release. But I seem to be wrong.

When I flick my dying cigarette stub into the air, I catch her eyes.  She is looking at me, perhaps assessing me like I am auditioning for the job of her mannequin. I look away into the dance floor gradually being rejuvenated with a song popular from two years back and I still feel the fire of her eyes on me, licking my body, lapping my features generously. This stare has a kind of intensity that can shred my clothes. A question plays in my mind. Who are you?

She looks well off in her short sequin dress. Her face is rid of make-up, except that the glossy lipstick merged with her skin nicely. Her eyebrows are dark perfect arcs. She has hoop ear-rings on. Her body is hunched like she is wearing stilettos. She stands several paces away from me, her demeanor cold but her eyes are fiery halos.

Is she a student? No, she is more sophisticated. She looks about my age, on the wrong side of the twenties. Can she be a prostitute? Prostitutes are too interested in commerce to stare or meet gazes. Is she seeking pleasure?

A thickset man in Mohican and leather jacket soon block my view and holds her waist. He kisses her neck; she arches her neck so that our eyes still meet. She opens her mouth slightly and a sound, perhaps a moan, escapes her.

I weigh my options. I can walk up to her and have a short chat. Perhaps she’ll be willing to come back to my hotel room with me. I can walk up to her after the Mohican guy has left and incur his wrath: some back and forth pushing, bottle-breaking on heads and splitting of lips. I can walk up to her and tell her it is rude to stare. I can walk up to her and tell her how beautiful she is. Or I can just look at her one more time and walk out of the club.

I draw a long look at her and left.

                                                                                                                  3.

                                                                                      DAFFODILS IN THE WIND

The door shut with a deafening shriek and he grabbed her. She let out a soft purr, her faculties soused in the countless bottles of cider she had taken at the open-air bar where they had met, where she had been waiting.

She had been waiting for a sign, for a word, an action, for anything at all. The ennui in that town was going to be the death of her—it threatened her sanity, constantly. She did have a job, which she despised. It spanned half a day; but this seemed to only worsen her abject loneliness at night when her room was deprived of air and she wished the cranky ceiling fan will just move.

She got a sigh instead. It came from behind. A man in a red face cap had just finished a phone call. He lowered his phone and reached for a tumbler of beer. She watched him relish the golden fluid, slurp it noisily like an infant.  She tried to restrain a chuckle.

In a moment, his chair migrated to her table and he was telling her about his town, where she had been posted, her dead heroes; the devastating war that ravaged them and the bunkers that became erosion sites; the massive rural-urban exodus and the ultimate annual Christmas return. His voice bore that eastern intonation that failed to caress consonants and spat them out like bad kola.

He ordered a plate of stewed goat-meat for her. She ate languorously at first until she discovered that the meat was properly made. It was also quite spicy, so he ordered another bottle of the cider she had been having. Then she had another plate and another drink. Then another drink…

Soon, she was in the passenger’s seat of his Land Cruiser, its fragrance reminded her of the after-tobacco scent in her late father’s car. The scent called from a past that seemed so far receded. The unfamiliar bumpy road seemed to wind on and on and her throbbing head bobbed like daffodils in the wind. She closed her eyes to the blast of the air-conditioner and she felt herself falling.

A door opened and she heard an indistinct laugh. Her leg hit a bottle that clattered on the floor. That was when the door shut with the shriek and he grabbed her.

Post image is part of this really cool fashion photography project—a collaboration between Nigerian art director Daniel Emeka and photographer Timmy Davies. Check out more photos HERE.

_______

Dami Ajayi works on his novella when he is not treating patients or editing fiction for Saraba Magazine.

Biyi Bandele’s adaptation of Adichie’s award winning novel had its world premier at the Toronto International Film Festival a few days ago. As more and more reviews trickle in, we’ll get a well-rounded sense of how good the film is.

Check out one of the first reviews:

The Good: 

…The sheer scope of its story is absorbing and fans of the book will enjoy its vision of a tense and changing country rent asunder by tribal feuds.

Powerful and moving performances from Chiwetel Ejiofor (12 Years A Slave), Thandie Newton (The Pursuit of Happyness) and Anika Noni Rose (Dreamgirls).”

Half Of A YellowSun [film] is at its best when it comes to design, costumes and make-up to reflect the changing nature post-colonial Nigeria, and while it does feel a little bit soap opera at times, nothing can be taken away from the intensity of the drama or the strength of lead performances.

“Adichie’s sprawling and complex story is shrewdly adapted by Biyi Bandele.”

…”the era is wonderfully captured, with special attention paid to how the apartments are designed and what clothes the two sisters wear.

The Bad: 

“[The film] lapses into melodrama at times.”

The Cast: 

“[Thandie Newton's] vibrancy adds much to the part of a woman who accepts everything to sustain her love, while Anika Noni Rose is wonderfully sarcastic and stylish as Kainene.”

Add to the pot the ever-impressive Chiwetel Ejiofor; Onyeka Onwenu as his strident mother and John Boyega (who starred in British fantasy romp Attack The Block) as the servant boy who works for Olanna and Odenigbo, and you have a well acted film that sustains interest.

See full review at Screendaily.com

Genevieve Nnaji

Anika Noni Rose, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Thandie Newton

Trailer

Image via Hubeet

What happened in the African literary scene all last month? Here are a few highlights. Enjoy reading and happy new month to you!

1. All Money No Hype: 

When the long list of the NLNG Prize for Poetry came out, it didn’t seem like the African literary scene cared. Those of us who new people on the list were pretty excited.

But there hasn’t been that much of a buzz around the prize within the broader literary community. Odd since we’re talking 100, 000 dollars.

Nigerian blogger Tolu Ogunlesi spoke for a lot of people in the community when he tweeted a few days after the long list was released:

Disappointing though, to see a $100k book prize (probably largest payout in Africa) play out in near-obscurity. Sad. Shame.

— tolu ogunlesi (@toluogunlesi) August 14, 2013

Thinking back to the Caine Prize and how everyone rallied around the prize and wrote and talked about the pieces and stayed up all night (literally) waiting for the announcement to be made, the silence with which the NLNG Prize has been received is odd, to put it mildly.

2. “Is This Her Best Look Yet?” 

The Farafina Trust Writing Workshop run by Adichie and sponsored by Nigerian Breweries took place this month and closed with a gala of some kind called The 2013 Literary Evening. It’s cool that Adichie got all dolled up for the event.

The popular Nigerian fashion blog, Bellanaija, said that this was the best she’d ever looked. Do you agree?

3. It’s Got to Feel Good Being Bulawayo

Bulawayo has got to be the most sought-after African novelist at the moment.  In the wake of being long-listed for the Booker Prize, her debut novel, We Need New Names, makes it into yet another long list.

This time, it’s the Guardian First Book prize. I’m rooting for her and also hoping that all this hype is helping the sales of her novel. After all, man cannot live on long-lists alone.

4. African Novelists Running Things on Twitter

Teju Cole and Wainaina Binyavanga are two of the 6 or so Africans who made the “FP Twitterati 100,” a list that comes out once a year. It’s essentially the “who is who” of twitter and tells you who to follow to get a global handle on things.

Teju and Wainaina made the list alongside the Pope and Bill Clinton. Pretty cool, no?

On related news, Twitter should begin paying people like Teju who keep coming up with fun things to do with twitter. The other day, the Nigerian-American novelist had Twitterville spellbound with a series of tweets that’s being called “Teju’s Dictionary.” Here are selections:

AFRICA. A country. Poor but happy. Rising.

— Teju Cole (@tejucole) August 26, 2013

VIRGINITY. An obsession in Iran and in the olive oil industry. It can be lost, like a wallet. — Teju Cole (@tejucole) August 26, 2013

SUNSET. Beautiful. Like a painting. Post on Instagram and hashtag “no filter.” — Teju Cole (@tejucole) August 27, 2013

NEWSPAPERS. Bemoan their gradual disappearance. Don’t actually buy any.

— Teju Cole (@tejucole) August 26, 2013

PRETTY. On Facebook, to indicate an unattractive woman.

— Teju Cole (@tejucole) August 26, 2013

5. Happiness, Like Water

Congrats to Chinelo Okparanta! The Caine Prize shortlistee’s debut collection of short stories titled Happiness, Like Water was published on the 13th of this month. I picked up a copy three weeks ago and encourage you to do the same. While reviews are still trickling in, the few that are out seem to focus on the social commentary of the stories.

Kirkus praises the novel for capturing “the vibrancy of [Nigeria's] heart” and “the soul of its people.” Financial Times says the collection “tells of a society caught between tradition and modernity.” Granta seems excited about the fact that the stories ”offer a clear-eyed view of an often traumatic family life, questioning the purpose of their time on earth, and whether there is a hereafter, or a different kind of afterlife altogether, outside of Port Harcourt.” For the Daily Beast, it is about how Okparanta’s stories “illustrate” women’s “struggle to control their fate in the face of oppressive circumstances.‬”

*sigh* When will readers stop evaluating African novels on the basis of their social significance?

6. Great Month for African Crime Fiction: 

a. Cassava Republic, an indie press based in Nigeria, released the Nigerian edition of Mukoma Ngugi’s crime thriller, Nairobi Heat.

b. Cordite Books, a newly established indie press based in Nigeria, launched an African crime fiction imprint.

c. On related news, Helon Habila who owns Cordite jointly with the folks at Parresia Books, got everyone thinking deep thoughts about contemporary African fiction when he said on Brittle Paper that crime fiction captures the African Zeitgeist. Here is how he puts it:

“I think, if you want to capture the African zeitgeist, the spirit of the times, you can do that best through crime stories.” – See more HERE.

This is all I have for this month. So much is already  happening in September, so stop by again for another digest of happenings in the African literary scene. 

Old-school African novels are filled with scenes where men look at women. Much less frequent are scenes where men are captivated by the bodies of other men.

There is one such scene in The Palmwine Drinkard.

It’s been 7 months since the Drinkard left his home. He’s spent much of that time traveling from town to town, picking up scraps of news about where his dead Tapster might be. On one of his stops, he meets a town chief who is mourning the loss of his daughter. She’s been abducted by a creature called “complete gentleman” under very strange circumstances.

A trader in the local market, beautiful beyond words, the girl was unmarried; not because of a shortage of suitors. Out of pride maybe, she had refused many offers for marriage. One day, she went to the market and never came back. A skull disguised as “a complete gentleman” had lured her with his “fake” good looks and spirited her away to his skull town, deep, deep inside the forest, past the borders of towns and villages where humans lived.

This is how things are when the Drinkard waltzes in and announces himself as “the father of all Gods,” or what we today might simply call a “Superhero,” promising to bring the girl back to her bereaved father.

Nothing exceptional about this story. Growing up as a little girl in Benin City, I and my friends would sit on the steps of our army tenement housing in the pitch blackness of a power outage, and we would tell and retell versions of this story: A beautiful and proud girl who refuses all her suitors meets her downfall when she falls in love with an evil creature disguised as a handsome trader, or prince.

In our versions of the story, the girl is never saved. She disappears, never to be seen or heard of. And the purpose of this rather morbid ending? I’m guessing to teach us how not to fall in love with creeps? Tutuola changes the script. He saves the girl from the skull but also redeems her in the eyes of the reader.

(Let’s proceed without pausing to think about why he would make such a change.)

As a prelude to his quest in search of the girl, the Drinkard decides to do some bit of investigating. He knew the “complete gentleman” would be at the marketplace, where he often visits with other creatures, also disguised as humans, to shop and sell, and so on. Here is the Drinkard’s account of the encounter:

I could not blame the lady for following the Skull as a complete gentleman to his house at a. Because if I were a lady, no doubt I would follow him to wherever he would go, and still as I was a man I would jealous him more than that, because if this gentleman went to the battle field, surely, enemy would not kill him or capture him and if bombers saw him in a town which was to be bombed, they would not throw bombs on his presence, and if they did throw it, the bomb itself would not explode until this gentleman would leave that town, because of his beauty. At that same time that I saw this gentleman in the market on that day, what I was doing was only to follow him about in the market. After I looked at him for so many hours, then I ran to a corner of the market and cried for a few minutes because I thought within myself why was I not created with beauty as this gentleman, but when I remembered that he was only a Skull, then I thanked God that he had created me without beauty, so I went back to him in the market, but I was still attracted by his beauty. So when the market closed for that day, and when everybody was returning to his or destination, this gentleman was returning too and I followed him to know where he was living.

The reference to bombs is, however, not arbitrary. Tutuola was most likely referring to aerial bombings. In the thick of the second world war, he trained for two years as a blacksmith for the RAF, the branch of the British military responsible for the air raids on Germany during WW II. Tutuola had to have been aware of these raids and clearly thought of the bombings as a highly sophisticated and lethal form of the modern war machine.

If a body is so beautiful that it renders such a force powerless, what would it not do to the desires of a girl?

Small wonder that the Drinkard spends hours stalking this figure all around the marketplace. The fact that he is moved to tears is something to think about. It’s easy to see how his crying feminizes him in relation to this spectacular male body. But what desire also lurks within those tears? What desire drives his attraction to this body?

The Drinkard, I should note, is not attracted to the “complete gentleman” the same way the bomber is. The bomber’s captivation is not an attraction. It is instead a form of arrest. It’s the same thing that happens to the bomb itself, an inanimate thing—”the bomb itself would not explode until this gentleman would leave that town,” explains the Drinkard. The bomber is never moved to the point of following the man everywhere. He, like the bomb, is simply arrested in his act of destruction and made powerless.

The Drinkard’s form of captivation is an attraction that makes him follow the man. This is no small difference. Earlier, he had suggested to us that “following” is a specifically feminine reaction to the creature’s beauty: “if I were a lady, no doubt I would follow him to wherever he would go.” Well, he does follow the man even though it was only through the market place. It could well be that he was simply tailing the fella the way a detective might, but no. His is very clear that the cause of the following is an attraction that despite his best efforts he is not able to control. He follows the man the same way the lady did, pulled by a force that is evidently erotic in nature. That’s why when he returns from taking a minute to cry, he is able to say: “I went back to him in the market, but I was still attracted by his beauty.”

In the end the Drinkard reins in his attraction, but only because he is able to see, with the eyes of a diviner, the true nature of the creature. He sees the bit of decaying skull that skulks within creature’s magical body. “I remembered,” he says, “that he was only a Skull.”

Something tells me that if the Drinkard had let himself go, the “complete gentleman” might have treated him way more nicely that he treated the girl. Maybe he’d have gotten himself an enchanted and enchanting boyfriend instead of a lovely wife.

Post Image: “State of the Nation” by Kudzanai Chiurai

Feature Image: Afro Inspired Collages by Sincerely Overwhelmed

Why do you write?
Because I dreamt it:
The deepest truths can be found In our dreams,
So can a great deal of debris
Floating from the ego.

Do you have any pre-writing rituals?
This is the censored version. I have to be absolutely cold sober to write. No glass of wine or tipple of gin for me. Which is a shame as I have a high regard for gin.  Usually the routine involves making tea, staring at a wall or inanimate object for an uncomfortable length of time, and taking my bra off!

Read full interview here.

Chino Odimba is a playwright, born in Nigeria and raised in England.

Africans on Writing is a collection of short remarks by African writers on writing and the writing life. 

Your pastor secretes holy milk. That is the story being whispered by everyone in the church – choristers, ushers, and the women. They say he is God’s anointed. A man anointed by God must have all his body parts and fluids blessed too. With just a wave of his hands, people fall in multitudes and when he talks the breeze ceases and the roof trembles. He orders a member of the church to command the crippled to rise and the cripple rises and walks. He lays his fingers on the eyes of the blind and he sees. He touches a widow’s sick son and he is healed. The widow receives holy milk from him too and that is not a problem because he is the anointed one. Who can say no to God’s anointed?

Your pastor secretes holy milk and that is why every Sunday, women who were barren come to give testimonies of what God has done for them.  ‘If not for Pastor Samuel, there would be no baby suckling at my breasts! Praise God!’

‘Halleluyah!’

It happens every Sunday. Now every Thursday, a special prayer session holds for barren women and women who need special blessings from God. If a woman has been barren for long, she is asked to wait behind for special prayers. That woman has been found worthy by God, your pastor ministers to her in private.

You have been attending the church for four months; that is how long you have lived in this new city. Saving Grace Incorporated is located in the heart of the city, the gigantic edifice a magnificent sight to behold. You are attracted to the church because of the aura that surrounds it; at your new office everyone talks about it. Every young lady who loves fashion knows that the things in vogue are Blackberry Z10, Saving Grace Inc and pinging dresses, in that order. Your pastor is handsome, with comely facial features – a finely chiselled nose, clear white eyeballs enshrouded by long eyelashes and his full sensuous lips. His broad shoulders fill out his designer suits and when he does not wear a tie, his 22 carat gold neck chain sparkles in the reflection of the glass pulpit. Every lady in the city loves to sit in the church, listening to his melodic voice and basking in the intense stare from his glistening eyes as he surveys the faces he admires. His long fingers swipe his iPad’s screen as he preaches.

The first time you attended Saving Grace Incorporated, you fell in love with your pastor. It was not a carnal passion, but deep reverence, the kind one feels for spiritual leaders. But now, you cannot remove your eyes from his face, his suit, his shiny black shoes and his iPad. You love the way he walks, with elegance and poise. In his church, your soul finally finds rest like a hare thirsting for water. Your soul yearns for his words and his gaze as they linger on you the three times you go for offering before the end of the five hour service.

Now you dream of him on most nights. You see him standing before the congregation, holding his iPad and his left hand resting on the pulpit. In your dream, his face looks angelic, his black suit and white starched shirt sparkling like the robe of Jesus Christ. When he notices you, he drops the iPad, walks down the aisle to the pew you are seated and you stand as he bends to bring his lips to yours. Sometimes you dream that after kissing him, he walks down the aisle with you, people clapping and singing:

Here comes the bride! Parararam!

Here comes the bride! Pararararam..!

When you wake, you don’t know whether to pray, and bind the evil spirit that put the dreams into your sleep or to thank God. Sometimes, you notice wetness beneath your night gown, and throughout the day you lick your lips and savour his kisses. In your office, Zainab wonders why you are always in a daze; one moment, smiles tug at your lips and after a while your lips contort in a worrisome pucker. She calls you the worrying-and-smiling-lady. You always talk about the Saving Grace Inc in the office, telling everyone why they need to desert their own churches and embrace the God of the Saving Grace Incorporated. You talk to them about Pastor Samuel; how angelic he is, how divine he is. You tell them that God has sent him to change and heal the world of all afflictions. You recount the number of lames that can walk because of him, the blinds that can see, and the insane that have been made sane. You tell them about Alhaji’s wife, a Muslim converted to Christianity who attends the Saving Grace church. How she donated a Murano jeep to Pastor Samuel and he invited her to a special prayer session and she conceived. You spoke about her testimony last Sunday and how she has promised God to sow a seed of a Lincoln Navigator when she delivers the baby. Zainab shakes her head, calling you Pastor Samuel’s messenger, sometimes she calls you the public relations officer for the Saving Grace Incorporated.

You convince Zainab to follow you to church and she agrees. You are dressed in your new jeans trouser, the one that Zainab’s brother who lives in London bought for you. He thinks that by sending you gifts from London he will get you to marry him. You wonder why men do not realise it when women do not like them. You enter the church and heads turn and stare, men gulp saliva and you are sure that other ladies are weighing your worth with their eyes; checking out your jeans, shirt and the brown jacket you are wearing. You are sure that your perfume is wafting into their nostrils. You sit with Zainab as she looks around the large church, admiring the chandeliers hanging elegantly on the ceiling, the tall white air-conditioners in all corners of the church and the large projector-screen on the wall which Pastor Samuel uses to teach prosperity and success.

The church is not full yet, but Pastor Samuel climbs onto the altar, checks on the microphone, and places his iPad on the pulpit. He looks up and scans the congregation. His eyes connect with yours and he beckons on you.

‘Me?’ you whisper as if talking to Zainab.  He says, ‘Yes, you. Come!’

You walk elegantly to the altar, conscious of your gait. You are conscious of the hundreds of eyes that trail the movement of your buttocks.

‘Can you please help the ladies over there with the curtain?’

‘No problem, sir.’ Your mouth quivers, his eyes lock with yours. You look down and your eyes descend on his well polished shoes. His cologne wafts into your nostrils – you try to identify the designer perfume he wears and the name of the designer suit. You stare at the curly hairs on the back of his palm.  You turn to go and he says, ‘Excuse me!’

‘Sir?’ You turn.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Pastor. I am fine, thank you.’

‘Please see me after service.’

‘Ermm… yes, Pastor.’ You move to the side of the altar where some young ladies are having some difficulties drawing the curtains. As you lift the first curtain into a bunch and tie it into a knot. A beautiful lady who is average in height walks out from the vestry and sits at the end of the altar. She is Mummy Ada, the pastor’s wife. You gape at her – her head-tie, her long skirt, her blouse, and her beautiful make-up. You are jealous as you imagine her in bed with your pastor.

After service, you walk to the back of the church with Zainab, there are a lot of young girls waiting to see Pastor Samuel. There are some rich men and women too. Your pastor is standing with his wife, she shakes hands with everyone who comes close to her husband and talks briefly with them. When some hand envelopes to your pastor, she collects them and smiles. Sometimes, your pastor steps aside shortly to discuss with a person who has come to see him and then rejoins his wife. So when it is your turn, he says to his wife;

‘Excuse me, Sugar.’ He takes your hand and steps some feet away from his wife.

‘My name is Pastor Samuel, I am the Senior pastor here.’

His alluring eyes search your face and you are shy. So you look away, and say; ‘My name is Blessing.’  He smiles.

‘You have a nice name. What do you do?’

‘I am a call centre attendant for MTN. I am new in Lagos.’

‘You have a nice work. How long have you been in this city?’

‘Four months, sir.’

‘I hope you are enjoying Lagos. But Lagos corrupts good girls, so I am glad that you are always in the church. I see you here every Sunday.’

‘Oh, Pastor. Out of your over one thousand congregation, you manage to notice me?’

‘Yes of course–’

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ you ask, because you are conscious of his wife, who must be wondering what he was discussing with you. Your body is hot inside already and you cannot remove your eyes away from his long fingers, clutching his iPad.

‘What do you do every Wednesday? We hold special prayer session for young people. Perhaps you may like to come?’

‘I will be delighted. I have been meaning to come for some time.’

‘So see you next Wednesday. And dress just the way you look today. Exquisite.’ He whispers. He walks back to his wife. You turn and say; ‘Good bye, Mummy’ to his wife, and she approaches you. You wonder what she wants with you.

‘I love your shirt,’ she says.

‘Thank you, Ma.’ You tell her your name and she asks if you can come to their house on Tuesday and help her prepare some food for some of her business partners that will be visiting.

‘I will be delighted to help, Ma,’ you say. It is an opportunity to meet with the pastor again. By then your heart is thudding like your mother’s pestle against the mortar.

‘Give me your number and I will text you our address. Thank you.’ You give her your mobile phone number and leave with Zainab.

‘Blessing! What were you discussing with that man?’

‘He is not a man. He is the Pastor,’ you snap at her.

‘And the Pastor is not a man?’

‘He is, but you shouldn’t have said that man. You should have said ‘what were you discussing with the pastor’ Haba!’

Zainab laughs aloud. ‘Okay, now tell me, what were you discussing with your Pastor?’

‘Nothing. He thanked me for helping out in the church with the curtains. He said I should always come for the Wednesday prayer sessions for young people.’

Zainab is quiet for a while. When you get to the road and stand waiting for your taxi, she speaks. ‘Okay o. So Blessing, will you attend the Wednesday prayer session?’

‘Oh yes, and you must come with me. Won’t you?’

She says nothing. The taxi drops you at your house which is not very far from the church and leaves with Zainab. As you unlock your door, you get a text message from her. It says: Be careful with Pastor Samuel.

That Sunday, you prepare ofe akwu and play Asa’s The Way I feel several times in your self-contained; one room and parlour apartment. You cannot sleep that afternoon, because his image has fogged your head like smoke.

Every Wednesday, you attend the prayer session and he sees you. You are sure because his eyes connect with yours as he preaches. It has been over two months after he talked with you and you have not missed the Wednesday prayers. In town, people still talk about Pastor Samuel, they mention the number of girls that have aborted for him and how they cannot talk because he pays them off – you convince yourself that it is not true. If it was true, he would have approached you again after the first time you talked with him, or on one of the several visits you have paid his wife.

Each time you visit Zainab, you talk nonstop about Pastor Samuel and she retells a tale she heard in a hair salon about his escapades with women. She tells you that sometimes he uses his connection to get visas for his female friends and fly them to London or Canada or Romania for a day or two, on his short holidays or meetings which the church finances. At night you remember Zainab and all the people gossiping with your pastor’s name in your prayers.

It is another Wednesday and you are surprised that your pastor has asked one of his junior pastors to call you. You meet him at the back of the church and he is talking and going to his car at the same time. When he gets to his car he stops.

‘You are really a child of God. I see that you have found a special place in the heart of God already.’

‘Why do you say so?’

‘The holy ghost has ministered to me about you. You are always at the church, on Sundays and on Wednesdays. I like that. That is faith at work. And most times you help out in arranging things in the church. I am pleased with you. You are doing God’s work and he has His blessings in folds reserved for you.’

‘Thank you, Pastor.’

He unlocks his car. ‘Now tell me, what troubles your heart? Yesterday I saw you in my dreams, the fourth time since the last time we talked.’ You raise your head in astonishment and stare at his handsome face. His eyes sparkles, you look at the sprouts of hair on his chin.

‘I see you in my dreams too, sir.’

‘Oh!’ he looks surprised. He asks you to enter the car, you hurriedly do so, turning to look around to ensure that no one sees you as you go into the pastor’s car. As soon as you settle into the cosy leather seat of the BMW, he places his hairy hand on your lap and you shiver. You recall the stories you have heard about his blessed hand. The images of those times he’d placed his hand on the blind and their eyes opened, rushes into your head and you swallow saliva.

‘You see me in your dreams?’

‘Yes, Pastor… but I don’t mean it that way—’

‘Not to worry, my dear sister Blessing,’ he turns his face to you. ‘God is talking to you. God is telling you to open your heart for the blessings that have been blocked from you for years by the kingdom of the wicked ones.’ You open your mouth to speak but he removes his hand and starts the car and drive out of the church slowly. You unconsciously stretch your skirt to cover your laps very well. When the car eases into the Lagos traffic, he says; ‘Sister Blessing. You are beautiful, you know that?’

‘Thank you, Pastor.’

‘Oh, Blessing. Why don’t you call me Samuel. Always, call me Samuel. That is what my friends call me. Or are you not my friend?’

‘I am your friend, Pastor.’

‘Samuel.’

‘Samuel,’ you respond. Both of you laugh.

You find yourself giving him the direction to your house and when the car stops in front of your house. He says to you; ‘What food did you cook?’

‘Pastor, I have vegetable soup in my fridge–’

‘I am famished.’ He alights from the car and you find yourself walking into the building and opening the door of your apartment for him. Once inside, he grabs you swiftly to your surprise and kisses you so tenderly on the lips.

‘Pastor,’ you moan as his lips cover yours. The room is very dark as you have not touched the switch. His hands are on your waist, moving down to your large buttocks. He presses himself so tight against you and suffocates you with his kisses so tender and warm. You hit him on the shoulder lightly as you call; ‘Pastor… Pastor…’

He lowers you on the rug and lies on top of you. His hand finds its way down your shirt and he undoes your buttons. He finds your right breast and takes your nipple into his mouth and you moan.

‘Oh God… Oh God…’ you call, and even though it is very dark, you see an angel on your roof. You are sure.

When you see the angel, you close your eyes and kiss him back fervently. You relish his lips as you moan unconsciously and then he unbuckles his belt. He unhooks your brassiere.

‘Pastor, no!’ you call as the image of his wife, who is your friend runs into your mind. You use your two hands to cover your breasts and his two hands are on the floor as he hovers over you. The smell of his cologne is strong in your nostrils. He smells good.

‘Pastor… this is a sin,’ you stutter.

‘Who said so? What do you know about the bible?’

‘Pastor!’

‘Yes. There are a lot of portions of the bible that were deleted to brainwash Christians. Haven’t you heard the story before?’

‘No, Pastor.’

He laughs a little quietly.

‘Don’t you know about Emperor Constantine and what he did with the bible and Christianity?’

‘I don’t know, Pastor.’

‘Now listen to me, I am your pastor. I cannot lead you into sin or into what will lead you to eternal condemnation. No, we are about to make love, the greatest gift God gave to mankind. Through love, the world is replenished. Why do you think God made sex the sweetest thing on earth? And we are His children and He loves us. Do you think God would deny mankind of that pleasure?’

You hesitate. ‘No, Pastor,’ your voice cracks. ‘But it is meant for married people.’

‘That definition was giving by humans. Who knows God’s heart? No one, the bible tells us. How do we know that God did not sanction it? Was it not man that wrote the bible? I cannot deceive you–’

‘What about your wife, sir?’

‘My wife? Some people have found favour in the sight of the Lord, you, my wife and a few others. And–’

‘Do you have sex with others?’

‘Blessing, I am a Pastor, when I mean finding favour, I mean God’s blessings. I pray for people and they receive blessings, I lay my hands on them. If I like you I lay my hands on you. My wife is a very successful woman because I don’t just lay my hands on her, but we make love. And each time I see you in my dreams, God tells me to reach out to you. This last one, I saw us making love, and I knew you need his blessings, especially as you need to make a choice of a good husband and to know if that guy in London is the best husband for you.’

You tremble. You wonder how he got to know about Zainab’s brother.

‘How did you know, sir?’

He kisses your lips again. ‘Do you doubt God?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then, allow this holy milk to quench your thirst for blessings.’ His lips find your neck. Tears trickle down your cheeks. You moan.

It has been going on for three months now, he comes to your apartment on his way to the church for his midnight prayers, spends time with you till 11pm and leaves. You cook Jollof rice with a lot of pepper, and vegetable soup with a lot of kpomo and gizzards for him. He showers in your bathroom and applies his cologne which has found its way by the side of your bed. Each time he leaves, you curl yourself into a ball and weep, out of frustration and out of love. You wonder if to stop because part of you tells you that you are committing a huge sin, but you are in love with him. You also wonder why you got promotion a month after the first day he came to your apartment and you received the holy milk.

On a Friday, he enters without knocking because the door is open. Your pot of rice is simmering on the fire in your little kitchen. He sits with you on the couch and you help him unbutton his shirt, as you tell him about your day, and he talks about the new branch he is establishing in Abakaliki. The television is showing some new music on Channel O. He kisses your lips and prevents you from talking as you try to explain why you did not come to see his wife.

‘Wait, Samuel. I was telling you that I didn’t bring Madam’s new micro SIM-card today as I’d promised her. I forgot. Now, she cannot make calls because of my stupidity.’

‘Don’t worry, Sugar. I will take it to her.’

‘What? So where will you tell her you met me. There is no midnight prayer today at the church.’

‘Yes, I told her I was going to visit a church member whose wife is sick at Apapa. I could tell her I passed by the church and saw you.’ He begins to kiss you again and you raise your hand as he removes your night gown. You unbuckle his trouser and he steps out of them. A few minutes after he has entered you, the door opens just at the same time that you hear a knock. Pastor Samuel halts, you turn and both of your eyes behold the chocolate-complexioned woman standing by the door, her mouth agape. Her eyes empty.

When his wife runs out of the apartment, he reluctantly dresses up without a word and leaves. You sit on the couch, nude, tears running down the sides of your face. Just then you recall that you have not seen your monthly flow for over a month.

These stunning images are the work of Lagos-based photographer August Udoh. They are part of a project titled Preach. See more photos HERE.  Check out more of his work here. 

Obinna Udenwe is a prize winning Nigerian writer. His works have appeared in the Kalahari Review, Tribe-write, Flair Magazine, Kadunaboy and in Literary & Travel Magazine. When he is not travelling all over the world, he shares his time between Abakaliki and Enugu.

 If the next time you’re on Third Mainland Bridge, it is hijacked by a band of daredevil, grenade throwing terrorists, will you be the hero that saves the day? How far would you go to prevent the longest bridge in Africa from being blown to bits. What price would you pay to protect Lagosians whose lives have been put at risk?

The traffic was unusually light that Friday, on Oshodi Apapa Express Road and I was grateful. By my side in our only car sat my wife Shayo; we had an appointment with the doctor. It was one of those days. By one of those days, I meant we just had a mute war.

My Picanto surged forward trying its utmost to surprise me with its power; I was not impressed. How could I when even Okada riders left me in their wake? I could not even bear to imagine how people looked at my 6ft 8in frame hunched in this annoying round looking piece of metal on wheels. I felt like screaming! If only I could say SUV every time I mentioned the ‘make’ of my car. Please forgive my grouchiness, like I said it was one of those days.

I woke up at 7am and I wanted to be sick, faint or even die; any excuse to go back to sleep for a long time. The bulge from Shayo’s tummy was reason enough. She had developed a horrible sense of humour since she became pregnant and in recent times, our relationship had degenerated into a monosyllabic tragic-comedy. Our once picturesque marriage was now a thing of history. I glanced at her at the other end of our King-sized bed. I had won the battle for choice of bed; I could not afford another uncomfortable position at night, having nightmares of my Picanto. I was sure she knew I was awake. She was awake too but she did not move. We played this annoying game every morning; She would wake up first but not move. Then I would wake up but not say a thing. When I went to the bathroom, she went to the kitchen, when I was dressing up, she sat in the parlour and whilst I was having breakfast, she would be in the bathroom. When I go to the car, she would be busy getting dressed. Now we were both in the car, silent. How did it get this bad?

We took turns stealing looks at each other knowing we could see each other from the corner of the eyes. I laughed out scoffing, as she turned her head to the window, but nothing was funny. This was just so annoying. We had been together for only three years and we already had enough of each other. How did my parents do it for 45 years? How oh God? If I had a choice right then between marriage and the monastery, I would be in a cassock before you say ‘Jack Robinson’.

And it all began with a simple laugh…

The Maroko Sandfield Bus stop was a little crowded the night of Friday, the 13th day of August, 2010. I had made the bad judgment of coming this way, instead of taking a bus that was heading for Obalende, in the hope that I would get one of the BRTs straight to Ikorodu Road. ‘Today is Friday, everyone will be out having fun’, I muttered to myself, as I packed my Samsung Galaxy S II, Blackberry Bold 9700 and 13” Apple Macbook Pro. Yeah, I was the typical African, all the latest gadgets and no idea what I was doing with them. I was hoping to get home early, possible hangout with the gang and play some Fifa 10, before bed. How wrong I was.  Three BRT buses and 30 minutes later, I was still unable to get into any of the busses. The sheer pandemonium that broke loose the moment a BRT bus was in sight was a marvel; you could literally see ties flying, high-heeled shoes sticking out from the centre of the rush and at one point, a wig even came off! It was then I heard the laughter, musical, harmonious, drowning out the royal rumble right before my eyes. I did not have to look back to know that its source was beautiful, gentle and petite. I waited for the laughter to die, then I turned around gently, hoping to steal a look. She was waiting for me.

***********************************************************

‘Hi Shayo, how are you? Hello? Hello?’ No response.

This girl is such a clown, I thought, as I looked at the phone again to see if the call was still connected. Then I heard it; soft, gentle, it was my name ‘Kefas’ and I smiled as I shook my head. She always had this effect on me. I really liked my name, but oh, how I loved the way she called it. I would stand by the mirror sometimes and try to mimic it but I could never replicate the glint in her eyes and that mischievous smile, when she called my name. I could feel her smiling over the phone, enjoying her silent prank. She did it all the time; onetime she kept me on the phone for six minutes before she said a word!

****************************************************************

‘Where are you from?’

Those were the first words she asked me that night. I got a little uneasy at the question. Women have a way of finding things deeply buried. They would randomly ask about something and hit a soft spot without even realizing they did. My mother said it was the Holy Spirit.

‘Are you there?’ I shook myself out of my reverie and turned to meet her glare.

‘ You better don’t go creepy on me o! I have already done as much bravery as I can afford tonight by taking this taxi with you Mr Stranger’ she said and raised her eyebrows, waiting.

‘I’m sorry’, I muttered. ‘I’m Kefas’

‘Shayo’ she said. ‘I hope it will be a pleasure to meet you Kefas’ she said as she extended her hand towards me. I grabbed it eagerly.

************************************************************

I inhaled the atmosphere that filled the back of the yellow painted cab we had boarded. This was our last resort. There were no more BRT buses, the crowd had only increased and it was getting late. I tried to hail a cab a couple of times and as expected the price had doubled, all the cabs were trying to milk the situation. I saw Shayo from the corner of my eyes also unable to reach a fair bargain with several cabs. With each failed attempt, we inched closer to each other until we were standing side by side. At the sight of the next available cab, we both chorused ‘Anthony!’ we looked at each other and laughed.

‘You first’ I said. She walked to the Volkswagen Golf painted in Lagos State’s taxi colours. I watched her talk with the driver and get in. Good luck, I thought to my self, but then I noticed that the cab was reversing to my side. She peeked out from the back seat.

‘You are going to Anthony too right?’

*****************************************************************

‘Where are you from?’ she asked again and this time I had an answer.

‘I’m from Jos. That’s Plateau State,’ I said. ‘I’m Berom. Do you know Berom People?’

She shook her head.

Of course, she would not. Berom people were as scarce as anything down in southern Nigeria. I had only come across one of us in my time in Lagos and only his name gave him away. We were traditionally farmers and bricklayers who loved hard work.  Except for rare and interesting names like Miskom Puepet*, Chollom*, Pangwuilti, Fom Bot*, Vou Gyang Bot Dung*, Dazang, Davou etc. we were as hard to find, as we were hard to miss. There were three physical features common with most Berom people and most of us had at least one; Huge, very dark and handsome. I had all three.

I told her about the Hills of Jos, about the Kusa* Mines, about the local hockey game Baram* and many other wild tales of my childhood and my limited Military experience as ‘child soldier’ at the Nigerian Military School Zaria, Kaduna State. I talked about my experiences with guns and basic military formations. I noticed her become fascinated and begin to relax.

************************************************************

‘Marry Me’.

Silence.

‘Shayo?’ She looked at me and she shook her head. I died.

Friday, the 13th day of May 2011, we were at the Four Points Hotel having an early dinner.  I watched her walk away; navigate her way through the tables and out of the door. I was unsure whether to follow her. A little relieved I had decided to make it a private affair, I ordered my wobbly legs to stand and chase after her, doing my utmost to look dignified. Why would she say no? Everything had been perfect the past nine months. I had even prayed about it and everything felt right. She made me laugh and I made her laugh and cry – She said that was a good sign. So why run away? Did she go to the ladies’? Where was she?

‘Excuse me Sir’ the steward at the hotel came across to me. I guessed he wanted his money. I reached for my wallet but he restrained me.

‘Your friend has settled the bill sir, but she asked me to tell you that she wants to do it from the beginning.’

The beginning? What is wrong with this girl, I thought, perplexed. Did I just waste nine months of my life? Kai! These Yoruba girls get wahala* ehn! I was fuming.

Wait. I tried to call her but she kept rejecting my call. Where was she? Except… Ah! The beginning! I ran as fast as my big frame would allow, past the intersection leading to The Palms or Shoprite as most people called it, my feet slamming heavily into the paved road. I noticed the watchful eyes of the officials of the Lagos State Traffic Management Authority (LASTMA) as I dashed up the Maroko Sandfield pedestrian bridge, wary pedestrians already clearing a path for me to pass through. As I descended the bridge, I saw her, holding her shoes in her hands, smiling, the setting sun a perfect backdrop behind her, its reflection calm in the river. The beginning.

The Picanto picked up pace as it climbed the 3rd Mainland Bridge, on a hot Friday the 13th day of July 2012,  still trying to impress me.

‘Can you wind the windows down a little? Shayo asked from beside me.

The buttons are on your side of the door too you know, I thought to myself but then I obeyed. I knew an olive branch when I saw one.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

‘I will survive, the baby is going to be big I can tell.’

‘Is that a good thing or bad thing?’

‘it’s good when he is out but bad when he is coming out.’

‘Oh now I get your point. Any name suggestions yet?’ I asked her, wary of putting mine out there first.

‘I have written two down and I am praying about it’

Shayo, the prayer warrior. A smile began to form on my lips. She looked at me and shook her head. She knew what was gong through my mind at all times. She was my wife and even if I had hoped she should die sometimes, or wished I could just run away or wake up and find out it was all a bad dream, I loved her.

The explosion was loud and compelling. Two cars in front of us somersaulted and exploded as everyone slammed on their breaks. I could hear the sound of metal crashing into metal as several cars collided behind us. The commotion was intense but thankfully, my Picanto was safe. The silence was heavy. No one knew what had happened. Then we heard the gunshots. Glass shattered all around us and there were screams from the children in the Black Escalade beside us. I watched in horror as the driver’s body ripped open and splashed blood all around the windscreen. I quickly opened my door and jumped out, I made a sign at Shayo to do the same whilst keeping her head low. For the first time I was so grateful to God I drove a Picanto, the bigger SUVs around it had protected it.  Shayo and I met at the back of the car and we sat down. She was breathing heavily. I could see many people lying on the ground, some running backwards. There was Blood everywhere. This could not be happening on 3rd Mainland Bridge. Where was the police? Was it a robbery? I was about to signal at Shayo that we had to move backwards and away from the gunshots when I saw it roll past me.

Grenade!

I counted instinctively, as I covered Shayo with my frame; one, two, three, four and explosion. I heard screams further away from us; more blood. The danger was getting closer and they were targeting the cars behind us. I had no clue what to do but I couldn’t panic; not now, I had to do something for my wife and my unborn child. The children in the car beside us where still inside crying and shouting. I crawled towards them and opened the door. Luckily, it was open.

‘Come’ I said to them quietly. Two of them came out. Twin girls.

Silence again.

They followed me to where Shayo was. I looked around and counted eight people huddled up beside their cars unsure what to do. I made a sign at everyone that we had to move quickly and quietly away from the mayhem in front. I looked at the twin girls.

‘What are your names?’

“Vou and Hannah’ one of them responded. They were still sobbing. I shook my head in disbelief. What a place to meet my kinsmen.

I told them to follow Shayo and they all began to inch their way past the cars, quietly away from the gunshots. I turned and gently stood up to peer over my Picanto, above the other cars and my heart stopped.

There were eight of them standing in front of two white busses they had parked right in the middle of the 3rd Mainland Bridge leading to the island; eight men, causing all these chaos! They wore masks and their language was definite. I had heard it before and I knew who they were. They were so close it was a miracle they had not seen us. I looked behind me. Shayo and the rest were not in sight. Good. I turned to look at the men again, strutting around with AK47s. I could see hand grenades dangling from their belt pouches and one of them had an RPG strapped across is chest. This is not a robbery, I thought, this was war.

I almost let out a scream as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see the reassuring camouflage of the Nigerian Army. The man who touched me was a Colonel. I could see the infantry insignia on his left breast and his name-tag read ‘L. Kachallah’. Another kinsman, I sighed.

‘Oga, you shouldn’t be here’ he said. ‘Go to the back and find a way out of here. The place is blocked at the back there. There is really no way to get out except you climb and jump across to the other side of the bridge.’

My God, Shayo. I thought.

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked him.

‘We cannot allow these people to ruin our country’ he said. ‘My security detail have two SMGs and I have a pistol. We will do what we can before the police get here.’

There were three of them. The Colonel, a Corporal and a Lance Corporal.

I turned to go and felt blood on my neck before the Colonel knocked me to the ground. The terrorists had noticed us and opened fire.  The Colonel and his crew returned fire and a battle ensued. I kept my head down and prayed with my eyes closed, wishing the whole thing away. What was I supposed to do?

There was silence again.

The Colonel had been hit on the shoulder.  The Corporal was fine and attending to the Colonel. The Lance Corporal was dead beside me. It was his blood that had splashed on my neck. The Colonel looked at me, winked and gave me a thumb up. I was stunned. He had ben shot for heaven’s sake and he was winking at me? I shook my head as I dusted my clothes and sat on the ground. I looked up and straight at the barrel of a gun aimed at the Colonel’s head. In one swift motion, I grabbed the Lance Corporal’s gun beside me and squeezed the trigger. The Colonel reacted immediately, rolling to the side, as he shot off two rounds at another terrorist sneaking in beside my Picanto. The Corporal seized a hand grenade from the pouch of the terrorist I had shot and let it fly towards the bus were the remaining terrorists were huddled. One, two, three, four; explosion then silence.

The Colonel looked at me again and raised his eyebrows. I nodded that I was fine. He mouthed ‘thank you’. Then he waved at the corporal who crawled forward towards the terrorists. I moved forward towards the colonel and together we crawled gently by the other side of my Picanto. Silence still.  We could see the Corporal. He was standing by the mangled bodied of five terrorists. He shot them again then waved at the Colonel.

‘It’s clear Sir!’ he said.

The Colonel and I walked towards him as the door of one of the busses burst open and another terrorist jumped out shooting. He killed the Corporal. The Colonel shot the terrorist and ran to the Corporal. There was nothing he could do.

The Colonel inspected the first bus; driver side, nothing, no one. We opened the back and we stopped dead in our tracks. The bus was rigged with explosives. Even to an untrained eye, I knew it was serious. The Colonel muttered  ‘Jesus Christ’ and dashed to the other bus. It was the same thing. Both busses had synchronized timers: 1 minute 50 seconds.

He looked at me and said.

‘Do you know about bombs?’

I shook my head.

‘We can’t leave these busses here’ he said. ‘If we do, the bridge will collapse and everyone and thing on it is gone. People are still trapped at the back there.’

‘So what do we do?’ I asked apprehensive.

‘We have to get the busses over the guardrails and into the water. That is the only way. We can quickly swim to safety afterwards. However, I can’t drive two buses.’

The realization hit me! Is he expecting me to drive one of the busses into the water? Never. I have a pregnant wife to take care of. She needs me.

I could see the colonel smashing the driver’s side glass of a Toyota Rav4. He came running back holding a mobile phone, wincing under the pain of his wounded shoulder.

‘Quick,’ he said ‘do you have your phone with you?’

I shook my head.

‘Okay we will both use this. I am sending an SMS to my wife. To let her know just in case something goes wrong. Are you married?’

I nodded.

‘I’m sorry but you have to give me your name, her name and her number’

‘Kefas Dazang’ I replied solemnly

The Colonel looked up at me and smiled

‘Sho’* he said in native greeting

‘Kaja’* I responded.

He quickly finished the message and dispatched it. Then ran towards the Bus in front.

‘Come on!’ he shouted.

I didn’t move. He walked back to me, put his hands on my shoulder and led me to the bus behind. As I closed the back door, I looked at the timer: 60 seconds.

I got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I was numb.

The Colonel reversed the bus in front to my side. We waited side-by-side, our vehicles facing the guardrails protecting 3rd mainland bridge.  He rolled down his window and shouted at me

‘Kefas, No Greater Love… no greater love!’ he smiled. That wink again.

I had heard those words before, but I couldn’t remember where. The colonel revved his engine and I revved mine and together we sped towards the guardrails of the bridge.  30 seconds.

We smashed into it, the front of the vehicles capitulated and then the vehicles in synchronized motion catapulted over the railings and into the water below.

I thought about my Shayo, my wife. She should have gotten the message by now. I am doing this for her and the child, the child for whom I must live by example.

Greater love… Ah, now I remember those words; spoken by the man I gave my life to: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his brethren.

The Colonel wasn’t planning to swim away; he must have thought I didn’t notice that his left hand was now useless. What he didn’t also know was that I couldn’t swim. Greater love?

As the vehicles hit the water, I was not afraid; I had no needs, no worries, nothing. I knew where I was going.

This is how light wins darkness, I thought with my eyes closed.

Four, three, two, one.

Post/feature image by Nigerian artist David Osagie

Author image by yuki-vampaier

Rikimaru Tenchu is a Nigerian, born and honestly bred within its system.

A writer, poet, and social commentator who lends his words to every social activity that promotes progressive change, Rikimaru believes that writing is the key to driving and maintaining social and communal growth. He also believes the pen is mightier than the sword.

You may find him swinging his ‘sword’ in countless diverse expressions, drawing ink with each furious slash at such concerns as family, ethnicity, religion, love, politics, career and many other demons he has had to battle.

A self-acclaimed Shinobi-no-mono, he employs this deadly art with devastating effect, via his subtle weapons; stealth, diversion and speed, in delivering his message to his readers.

He is a believer, a surreptitious romantic, an avid gamer and currently lives in Lagos, Nigeria.

Around the time I started my first novel, I came across the words: “Non-fiction uses fact to help us see the lies. Fiction uses metaphor to help us see the truth.” I pinned the words on a piece of paper to my noticeboard, and tried and failed to find the originator of that observation. Later, I read an essay by the Nobel prize-winning South African author Nadine Gordimer, titled Witness: the Inward Testimony…She put into words the artistic journey I had accidentally embarked upon.

Gordimer opens her essay with the events of 11 September 2001: “Terror pounced from the sky and the world made witness to it.” She contemplates the media coverage of the felling of the twin towers, the difference between the reporter’s job, the pundit’s job and that of the writer. “Meaning is what cannot be reached by the immediacy of the image, the description of the sequence of events, the methodologies of expert analysis … Kafka says the writer sees among the ruins ‘different (and more) things than others … it is seeing what is really taking place’.” Gordimer called it “witness literature”.

Witness literature is fiction, not non-fiction, an interplay of sometimes real events or a context that is real, with fictional events and characters, combined with the aesthetic qualities of fiction. Witness literature is also not autobiographical fiction. It took me a while to understand why western journalists insisted on describing my novels as autobiographical, since they are no more so than, say, Chesil Beach is based on Ian McEwan’s actual wedding night.

I may, one day, become a different kind of writer, one who finds other kinds of stories and other kinds of reasons for shaping and fashioning them with words. But for the last decade ”witness” as been my quest, has it was Nadine Gordimer’s for 60 years.

— Aminatta Forna, The Guardian UK

Read more

Ahead of the TEDxEuston 2013 conference on business, politics and the arts for the African Diaspora that will hold on Dec 7th, we’re excited to inform you that the much-awaited movie adaptation of Chimamanda’s epic novel, ‘Half of a Yellow Sun’ will feature at the London Film Festival in October; and tickets will go on sale from Friday, 20th September. The movie was well-received at the Toronto International Film Festival last week, where it was premiered.

Tickets go on sale tomorrow, September 20. Click HERE to buy.

• Title: Half of a Yellow Sun
• Director-Screenwriter: Biyi Bandele
• Producer:  Andrea Calderwood
• Cast: Chiwetel Ejiofor, Thandie Newton, Anika Noni Rose, Genevieve Nnaji
• UK-Nigeria 2013
• 106 mins
• Sales Metro International

Watch Trailer

Anefiok Akpan is one of those poets who write like they are blacksmiths. He forges fragments of images and strings them together into a poetic montage. That way, the poem is unified without losing the individuality of its many parts. When you read this poem, take it in bit by bit, line by line, image by image. Rush it, and you’ll ruin it.

If you know your African literature, you’re probably wondering about the title. Yeah, Anefiok is riffing off on Wole Soyinka’s dense and compelling essay, “The Fourth Stage.” Read the poem. Accept Anefiok’s invitation to you to think about humanity’s struggle to grasp itself, the world, and the abyss that lies between.

My favorite line:

Chaotic and serene in the nostrils of a giggling god

Fourth Stage

Far below
The slippery slope of a thousand tears,
Condensed into a mountain-side pulpit,
Moulded parcels of sustained grief obits in silence,
Moistened eyes leapfrog harmony and
Cryptic darkness muscle the world to a form.
Far beyond the sheltered rallied consolations,
Orphaned tears swept a tribute to God.
In the hallowed distance of drained time,
A mergence of light, emptiness and umbilical cords
Earthen jubilations and muffled tattered joys…

As we ants about; load and unload and load again-
The earth lies undressed in the scabbard of a market square;
…Chaotic and serene in the nostrils of a giggling god.
The allure of the graveside invites gaudy dances still,
The chuckling reels of newborns echoes across the unformed.
We float around, hugged by the ovarian web of fate
Yet we foolishly struggle to un-ration ration rationally
Like strands of cigarette smoke in the tapestry of endless winds,
Hopeful of meaning out of these meaningful meaningless meanings,
So we chase the enlightened sun to its home in search for light,
Who throws a puff of darkness from it armpit, enjoy a laugh
And spring behind us again dressed as the prayed new dawn.

Between the welcoming claps and the farewell gazes,
The earth is the uterus; the grave the passage; the womb the entrance.
Like succulently lustrous yams are culled from rotten seeds-
He who must wake must sleep, for so was the world conceived,
Not of time but in time of death and birth and the lives in between.

Image Via 

A graduate of the University of Ibadan where he studied advertising, Anefiok currently works as a part time Copywriter and Social Media Analyst at the Nigeria Centenary Project.

Anefiok speaks Hausa, Yoruba, Ibibio, Efik and English. He loves traveling and meddling in people affairs and is an aspiring photographer. He is the 2008 winner of The Wole Soyinka/Dapo Adelugba Prize for Literature.

The title “Sex is a Nigger” is not the most shocking part of Naiwu Osahon’s 1971 erotica published by Di Nigro Press in Apapa, Lagos. Osahon, who blogs about African history and politics has since said that he wrote the novel partly to make a quick buck and partly to show that in spite of slavery and colonialism the black man has continued to take the lead in all things sexual. He would have us believe that like Achebe and Soyinka he fought the good fight against colonial discourse, though from the sexual front. Apparently, the story is based on Osahon’s experiences while holidaying in a Scandinavian country in the 1960s. Osahon said he has written children’s books—126 of them. 

“Sex is a Nigger” reads like a literary montage—a series of sexual encounters stitched together with Henry’s mission to escape commitment as the loosely running thread. When the novel begins, Henry is leaving Liverpool by bus—something to do with wrecking havoc on the entire population of female “Liverpudlians.”  His destination is Goteborg, Sweden where he plans to continue his work as the black sex-god he imagines himself to be. 

The excerpt below is a scene that takes place early on in his relationship with Sonja, his first Swedish paramour. The second comes earlier in the story shortly after his arrival in London from Liverpool, en route to Sweden. 

There are those who hail Osahon as “Nigeria’s pioneer pornographer.” Nigerian literary critic, Femi Osofisan, is a bit less impressed. He describes Osahon’s work as “hysterically vulgar,” “cheaply melodramatic,” and arising from “the low slums of artifice out of which no genuine perception can be reaped.” 

Read the two excerpts below and let me know what you think. 

1.

Shaving only took a few minutes, that is if one can call what I do shaving really, since I grow a mustache and a neat little beard. Still, naked I opened the bathroom door and was going to the bedroom to get dressed when I noticed a female figure in the room. It was Sonja, gazing with awe at my nudity, and I did not waste anytime.

I pulled her close to my naked body and rocked, fondled, kissed, and moulded her, everything to put her in the mood I was in. Then, very gently, I started to undress her, beginning with the zip at the back. She helped to slip the gown down and stepped out of it. Then I undid the brazier (sic) to reveal the ripest bosom in history. It was rounded, fresh and fading as I established contact. I could feel a drag, but I tried to stand erect, watching her buckle her knees. It was clear I now had three hands including a strong short one that had just matured. She held on to this lovingly while my other pair of hands went to work on her. Soon we were reeling on the floor, our faces wet with kisses, my full finger pricking her like an injection. The needle was effective, but it was soon obvious she would rather have the bigger needle. She directed the operation herself, and we went on and on until exhausted.

It was some while before she recovered from her trance.

“Darling, darling, I love you, I love you!” she was saying faintly. “I must keep you for myself. Darling, darling promise you will never look at another woman.” She did not wait for my promise, for a quiver of excitement seized her as I began again and she asked shakingly, “I will never let you down, Henry, never, never, never.” The words died in her mouth as she concentrated on my climax.

“Darling, how do you feel?,” she asked presently.

“Fine,” I said, “a bit tired, though.”

“I am tired, too, very tired.” She kissed me. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“You need a bath, darling,” I said.

“And you too, darling,” she replied. “You need another one now.”

She said she had come into the room when I went to the bath, and that she had been hiding behind the door when I opened it.

“Clever girl,” I said. “It was nice you came in at that time, darling, you have made my mourning. Now let’s go to the bath.”

A lot more romancing went on in the bath, but she later reminded me that we were to visit the park that afternoon.

2.

The door of the bus slid steadily to a close and the sudden jerk as it pulled off crushed me against a short, fat woman who shook her head and gave a weak smile that somehow concealed the freckles on her wide, oily face. For the rest of the journey, I could feel the highlands of her mountainous bosom rubbing hard against the upper part of my body. This gave me comfort, as it would to any other male who had escaped marriage during his long, exciting life. I was trapped close to her—too close in fact to turn in any direction, and during one of the periodic “listings” when we used one another for support, I felt myself harden against her. I wanted very much to raise my hands from where they were crushed against her legs to show that it was against my will. Instead, I found it easier to unbutton my fly with one hand while feeling under her skirt with the other. I kept expecting her to scream, until finally the bus stopped, lurched and found my rigid flesh in contact with her own. I closed my eyes as I rubbed gently against it. The bus swung again and again, and as our affair was reaching a peak I took a furtive glance around to note that no one was paying us the slightest attention. So I let my climax come, ruining her knickers, then leisurely we paled into a cosy trance, well content.

In the excitement, however, I had passed my stop and so had to alight at the next. Lonesome but thankful, she dished me a smile for services rendered.

*****************************

Curious about this series? Check out these links: 

How Keen are African Novelists on Sex?

Sex in African Novels Pt. 1: “Please, Ona, Don’t Wake the Whole Household.”

Sex in African Novels Pt. 2: “I Found Her Stretched Out Naked On The Bed”

Nadine Gordimer is asked all these “silly” questions that journalists would typically never ask an author. Her answers are funny but revealing. It’s a UK Guardian interview done during the 2010 Hay Festival. Amazing!

Nadine Gordimer

What is the most important lack in your life?

I’ve lived that life in Africa without learning an African language. Even in my closest friendships, literary and political activities with black fellow South Africans, they speak only English with me. If they’re conversing together in one of their mother tongues (and all speak at least three or four of each other’s), I don’t understand more than a few words that have passed into our common South African use of English. So I’m deaf to an essential part of the South African culture to which I’m committed and belong.

What’s the most blatant lie you’ve ever told?

Really can’t distinguish. Living through apartheid under Secret Police surveillance made those of us who opposed the regime actively, accomplished liars. You lied that you didn’t know the whereabouts of someone the police were looking to arrest, you lied about your encounters and movements; had to, in order to protect others and yourself.

What is the most demeaning thing said about you as a writer?

My eight-year-old son, when asked by a school friend what his mother’s job was, said: “She’s a typist.” True, I was in my study typing some fiction or other at the time; I overheard, through my window, his judgment in the garden.

You were awarded the Nobel prize in literature by the king of Sweden. Do you look back on that as the best moment in your life?

Best moment? Reinhold Cassirer and I had just married, and were at a party in London. He had gone to find a friend in an adjoining room. I found myself standing beside a woman I didn’t know, both of us amiably drinks in hand. He appeared in the doorway. She turned aside to me and exclaimed excitedly: “Who’s that divine man?” I said: “My husband.”

How do you react to a bad review of one of your books?

Ignore it if it’s by some hack, easily recognized by his/her poor understanding of what the book’s about. Pretend (to myself) to ignore it if its written by one whose judgment and critical ability I respect; and then take that judgment into account when, as my own sternest critic, I judge what I achieved or didn’t in that book.

While writing, do you take drugs, smoke marijuana or drink alcohol to beef up your creative imagination?

Only a double Scotch; hours after my writing day is over.

As a liberated woman, would you nevertheless prefer to have been born a man?

Both sexes experience the joys of love-making. If she chooses, woman has the additional extraordinary experience of growing a life inside herself, and presenting the world to it. It’s painful – all right. But the wider experience in life a writer has, the better the ability to identify with lives other than the writer’s own, and create varieties of character, states of being, other than his/her own. I sometimes think, for example, I’ve missed out on extending emotional experience by never having been sexually attracted to a woman. Anyway, a writer as such is a special kind of androgynous creature, all sexes and all ages when creating fictional characters, all the people he or she has known, observed or interacted with. So while I’m a woman, as a writer I’m a composite intelligence.

When are you going to write your autobiography?

Autobiography? Never. I am much too jealous of my privacy. Secretive, if you like. It’s all one has, in the end. Whereas anyone’s biographer has to make do with what’s somehow accessible, by hook or by crook.

 Read More UK Guardian

Making light of the situation [Boko Haram] helps us cope with the constant threat of violence. Every Sunday morning when I pull up to the concrete road blocks outside my church, policemen surround my car. One peeps through the window at my driver, his finger hovering close to the trigger of his gun. Another slides a bomb detector beneath the vehicle, then ransacks the trunk.

“We apologize for the inconvenience,” my pastor often says from the pulpit. “We’re only doing this to make you feel safe.”

But not every school or office can afford to hire guards and bomb detectors. I’ve heard some Abuja residents rationalize their insecurity by saying “something will end up killing you, anyway.” Especially in a place like Nigeria, with its many opportunities for death made easy. The plane in which you are flying could fall from the sky. The “doctor” performing your brain surgery may have never attended medical school. The bottle of water from the supermarket could have been scooped directly from someone’s bathtub.

Terrorists are just one more addition to the roster. They cause enough damage when they strike; we must limit their interference with the rest of our lives. That’s why we welcome events like Crack Ya Ribs. We must continue to go about our business, to live and to laugh. Read More

Nwaubani is a Nigerian author based in Abuja. I Do Not Come To You By Chance is her first novel and was published in 2009. While Nigerians love her novel, her essays haven’t been as popular. Earlier this year she got a lot of criticism for the NYT piece on house-helps. Read it here.

Anyway, I find this one quite confusing. Is she saying that Nigerians should keep calm, keep smiling, and carry on” in the face of an on-going violence that has so far claimed thousands of Nigerian lives? Or is there a deeper meaning to this piece that I’m just not getting? 

The Association of Nigerian Authors is the premier organization for writers in Nigeria. I’d always wondered about its function in the literary community, so I sent Richard Ali a few questions. Ali is the author of City of Memories and one of  ANA’s publicity secretaries. He clarifies a lot of things regarding the place of the organization in the community, makes a good case for anyone who is not sure about the benefits of membership, and reflects on ANA’s involvement in Achebe’s funeral committee. Informative and illuminating interview!

By the way, check out the schedule for the ANA convention set to take place this Thursday in Akure.  HERE. 

What is ANA? Is it a union of sorts, like the Actor’s Guild of Nigeria or is it more like PEN America? Can just anyone become a member?

ANA is the Association of Nigerian Authors and that is descriptive enough, I believe, of at least the scope of the body. It was founded in 1981 by the late Professor Chinua Achebe when he called a meeting of all Nigerian writers at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, where he was then based. The civil war had ended about ten years before yet writers and their business was still fragmentarily organized, each person writing his own thing and sometimes writers met informally according to the dictates of geography or simply ethnicity. So, Prof decided to do something about this situation and that Nsukka meeting, attending by two Kenyan writers, became the first Convention of the Association of Nigerian Authors.

Regarding structure, it is not a guild in the sense of the AGN—that would be quite impossible really, actors can be censured with pressure being put by the AGN on directors and producers but that is quite impossible with writing. Besides, expression is a fundamental human rights issue. So ANA is more like PEN International except that we are not elitist at all in the way PEN is; it is simply an organization to protect the interests of Nigerian authors and aggrandize their welfare and boost the prestige of our writing generally within and outside the country. In the last three decades, the manner in which these broad objectives have been interpreted has varied from time to time in line with the socioeconomic context of Nigeria and Africa. The present executive, of which I am a part, sees ANA’s objectives as being a sort of craft union for Nigerian writers. Who says it is easier to push papers in a government department all day than to write a short story or a critical essay? More difficult even, I think. So, writers are an interest group whose interests need to be clarified and presented—to State and non-State actors, including the corporate world. This mindset is, of course, a leap from the merely celebrative [and combative, when we were in the throes of the Abacha dictatorship] mindset of the ’90s or the ideological balancing act of the ’80s.

Anyone can be a member of the association. There are four levels of membership. The Associate Members are literature enthusiasts who are not necessarily writers, mostly students and writers who do not yet have a book published. Full Members are writers who have a book published in print who are registered with one of the twenty eight chapters of the Association. There are Institutional Members, such as Colleges and Departments of Literature, English etc while Honorary memberships are reserved to eminent writers like Soyinka and JP Clark, Ngugi wa Thiongo—writers who have and continue to affect the theory and practice of Africana studies as it relates to literature.

So let’s say I’m a writer. Why should I join ANA? What’s in it for me?  

Very fine question, Ainehi. As I said a minute ago, the mindset of the present executive coming up for reelection in two weeks time is more businesslike. Writers will only join and participate actively in ANA’s activities if there are benefits to be derived from it beyond mere attendance of end-of-year conventions.

So we set out to execute a raft of programs to ensure this. Perhaps the most practical is the Nigerian Writer’s Series www.nws-africa.com which is a traditional style publishing imprint that will publish ten works of prose fiction in its first year. Submissions are still open to ANA members who have paid their dues for the year 2013. Submissions have been impressive. This intervention, funded by a grant from Niger State, is practical in that one of the sectors hit by the thirty years of dictatorship was publishing. We hope to discover new voices by means of the NWS.

For the last two years, we have run the ANA/Yusuf Alli Reading Campaign with funds generously provided by Ilorin-based lawyer, Barrister Yusuf Alli, a Senior Advocate of Nigeria [SAN]. He gave us #3,000,000 in 2012 and again in 2013. #150,000 was disbursed to 16 chapters in 2012 and #150,000 was disbursed to 15 chapters in 2013. Interactive sessions have been held with books donated to nearly fifty secondary schools across the country in a bid to interest the young ones in writing and make them aware of the possibilities of literature. So successful has this program been that an anthology of writing from these schools is now being prepared. It has been edited already and will go to press in the coming months.

A teen authorship scheme, funded by Hajiya Jummai Aliyu, was executed from September to December 2012 under which five chapters, the Abia, Osun, Taraba, Katsina and Kogi State chapters, received #50,000 each to execute mini workshops. This went very well and a collection of short stories and poems by teen authors will also be published and publicly presented by my national executive committee, all fresh new voices. In fact, the editors sent us the manuscript just last week and the stories are quite good. 70% of the funds required for publication have been disbursed already to the Committee about three weeks ago.

These are just three practical programs the Remi Raji-Exco has executed in the last two years, all with donations assiduously sought from private and corporate donors.

You would remember a few years ago when officials of the Kano State government set out to censor writing and film. ANA was at the forefront of that struggle as well, during the Presidency of Dr. Wale Okediran. Our enduring popularity in Kano is tied to the pivotal partnership forged with filmmakers and actors during that trying period.

Who are the key players in the organization?

Professor Remi Raji-Oyelade, known to all as the award winning poet Remi Raji, is the President of the 2011/13 EXCO—he is my big boss. He is a professor of the University of Ibadan and is presently Dean of Arts at that institution. The General Secretary is Mallam BMDzukogi from Niger State; he set up the hugely successful ASCAFS Festival a decade ago and is a writer of note. He is presently the Permanent Secretary of the Niger State Research and Book Development Agency. Mallam Denja Abdullahi is the Vice President, a poet and culture administrator at the National Council for Arts and Culture. My designation is Publicity Secretary [North]—my responsibilities extend beyond geography though, being in charge of the ANA website www.ana-nigeria.com and our print and social media efforts. There are others like Greg Mbajiorgu, Joy Esuku, Dr. Ngozi Chuma-Udeh and Chinyere Obi-Obasi, our Financial Secretary.

Remi Raji-Oyelade

What sort of relationship does it have with the publishing industry?

One that can be improved upon. The industry itself is still recovering, still now blossoming. There are only a handful of proper publishing companies in the country, all of them small. But, with our Nigerian Writers Series, we’ve created a small consortium of four publishers—Parrésia Publishers, Jemie Books, Book Kraft and The Book Company—who are our publishing consultants. This is the start of what we hope to be a new engagement. Our interests overlap, so we should talk more.

An instance of ANA working with the publishing industry was recently when the Federal Government attempted an ill-advised import duty policy on printed books and raw paper—in a country without a single paper mill. ANA, together with the Publishers association, exerted political pressure and in a fortnight the policy was reconsidered.

Our relationship needs to be more intimate, more integrated. But then, the larger space is still defining itself.

How well was the ANA represented at Achebe’s funeral? What was the experience like? What role did the ANA play both at the funeral and during the period of his passing?

From the planning level. ANA was a part of the Burial Planning Committee where the Vice President and I were active on the Abuja end. We were at the airport to receive his body in Abuja and that very day went down to Enugu for the reception at the University of Nigeria. We arrived Awka late the same day. The President, Remi Raji, gave a speech at the Awka Stadium where the Anambra State Government held a ceremony for the departed Professor. ANA held a Festival of Life at the Achebe Family House at Ogidi the next day and our members stayed a wake for him all through the night. I returned to Awka though.

A journalist from the Guardian called me with the news; I remember stopping cold in the centre of Wuse Market in Abuja. It was shocking news. It took the rest of the day to confirm the sad news was indeed true.

Chinua Achebe was an old man by the time my generation of writers grew up, we grew to meet him an old man already. One never imagines such men die. You know, they are fixed in how one imagines the literary landscape to be. Like a village square baobab, then to wake up one day and find it felled. It was a period of shock for me personally. All i could think of was the character Obierika from his greatest book, Arrow of God, that final masquerade dance. Such was the shock.

Would you say overall that the way the country handled Achebe’s passing was praiseworthy? Could more have been done to give Achebe the due he deserves?

Something evil has seeped into this country’s very fabric, Ainehi, something virulent, something also that Achebe was aware of. He identified it as a problem of leadership; that was in the 70’s. It’s a problem of followership as well now. Education has been degraded over the last thirty years such that we have an intellectual culture that is defective, a society that is corrupt and dystopian. All this came to play in the way the death was handled. The government and the elite threw cash at it, which is good even if self serving. I can swear that 80% of the politicians who attended the public events had not read a single Achebe book cover to cover. Maybe 90% did not know why he left Nigeria for America after a road accident because this biggest country in Africa and land of a thousand ill-fitting clichés, land of folie de grandeur from the modest to the truly grand, had no hospitals to manage his condition. Did they know this, that Achebe would have died, probably in the 90’s, were it left to Nigeria alone? This is the irony of it.

Lots of controversies around African literary prizes in the past few months. What would it take for ANA to have a prize as prestigious as the Booker?  

Money. Money. And Quality . I have to be blunt about it and bring up the example of the NLNG Prize for Literature, which is one of the very best things that has happened to this country in the last decade. The NLNG has put the consideration of quality into even vanity publishing in this country, because with its $100,000 prize, one has to give ones best effort. The pull of mediocrity now has a check. To see the effect of this Prize, only take a look at the long list for the 2013 Prize. Every single poetry collection there is of galactic great quality; if we had a competition of poets from across the Milky Way, most of these would still make it into such a long list.

But the NLNG Prize administrators only half understand what money means. Creating a prize with a payoff of $100,000, one of the richest in the world, is one understanding of money. The idea being that a prize with such a huge payoff, one with my dear country’s name in the title, would be a good thing—a thing of prestige. But it has not worked that way. The NLNG is known mostly in Nigeria for obvious reasons, outside Nigeria it is sniffed at as another scheme of a money-miss-road country and the few instances of good mention occur only when a writer with a distinguished profile already, such as Chika Unigwe, wins. So, it was Chika who lent her prestige to the Prize and not the other way round, and for such a huge prize, this state of affairs makes us exclaim “Haba mana!”

A prize of some prestige requires a committed team of paid administrators, whose job is marketing the brand of the prize and its products. For example, in the Nigerian situation where books are hard to access, it would be important for NLNG to step in specifically in the case of the long list which is a dozen or so of books touted as the very best books in their genres written in the preceding three years. Vary the time between long list and shortlist, make 5,000 copies of these books available using the universities for example, get in reviews from the readers. Find creative ways to keep the prize and previous winners in the public eye. These require a permanent staff.

The quality of the works must also be of sterling quality. This is easier to do because Nigeria is a country of immense talent. All that is needed, as difficult yet easy as that is, is to put together an independent and representative panel of judges. With due respect to my elders and betters in Academe, when it comes to the judging of Prizes, the publisher and the literary journalist have as crucial inputs as the professor of English. Have a diverse panel; a writer, a journalist, one or two specialists from the Universities, an average book lover even. And have them read each book.

These are the things that make the whole world trust the judgements of the Booker; in turn the world grants prestige to the Booker. It’s that simple really.

Can you talk a bit about the ANA Review? How long has it being running?

I am not sure how long the ANA Review has been published, but I believe editions exist from the early 90’s, possibly even from earlier. It used to be a reference point, a journal of reference, for Nigerian writing in its earlier years but at some point in time the quality started declining. By the time my Exco, the Remi Raji National Executive Committee, arrived in 2011, it was clear that something drastic needed to be done. An academic, Amanze Akpuda, was appointed to edit the Journal in 2012 and he did a good job viz the variety and quality of the pieces in the 2012 ANA Review. There were shortcomings as regards the aesthetics of the journal though, but then, Amanze Akpuda’s efforts are a start, the process of revitalizing the ANA Review has started.

The issue of the ANA Review is very important to the President, Remi Raji, who is a University Professor of English at the University of Ibadan. I know he has great plans for the Review and that our Executive, should the Congress renew our mandate at the 2013 Convention, would follow this through.

A personal thing I would like to see done is a combined volume of ANA Reviews from the early 90’s till date. Not everything, of course, but the very best pieces. ANA is the guardian of the Nigerian literary pulse and what better way would there be to feel this pulse than by running a finger over the graph of the ANA Review the last two decades?

Does the ANA conduct studies on the Nigerian book culture and market? Any interesting tidbit you’d like to share in this regard?

This is a very interesting question, Ainehi. At present, we do not carry out such studies but your question has opened up the possibilities of this to me and be rest assured I will bring this up at the Committee when we meet at Akure. ANA is uniquely positioned, and with a branch network of twenty eight chapters across the country, we can definitely deliver this receivable crucial to the development of policies that relate to education and literature specifically.

Members of the Association have carried out studies on the book culture, the book market and the reading culture in the past but we have not done this as an Association. It is a matter of interest to me and I believe the Committee will buy into this programme; perhaps we could do this in coordination with publishers and relevant departments at Nigerian universities?

There are definitely possibilities to be explored there.

Nigerian writers are doing us proud—Igoni Barrett, Teju Cole, Chimamanda Adichie, Chika Unigwe, just to name a few. If one of them approached you and said: “How do I give back to my community as a writer?” what would you say?

Two things. Writing workshops and a mobile library scheme. Writing workshops, but not to teach anyone how to write which is a silly notion younger writers at a certain level of their craft have. Writing workshops to interact with the more talented younger writers, because writing is for me a craft and in matters of craft there are gradations and graduations determined by experience alone. These workshops would lead to even better craftsmen. Chimamanda has her Nigeria Breweries Ltd sponsored workshop, I attended it last year and was able to interact with some of the most talented writers presently writing—Yewande Omotosho, Kechi Nomu, Chika Oduah, Mazi Fred Nwonwu. These are my peers and Farafina Trust brought us together for a week. And of course, there was Chimamanda, Binyavanga and their friends. Same thing with Helon Habila, he came along with Amy Tan and Aminatta Forna a couple of years back—Fidelity Bank foots the bill for Helon’s workshop. I remember talking with Julius Bokoru who had attended Helon’s workshop and he was very appreciative of the experience and I have no doubt he writes better for it.

Chika Unigwe. Author of Night Dancer

A mobile library scheme is proactive, considering the realities of Nigeria. Dissemination systems for books are about collapsed. As a publisher, I know this. Let me give you an example, a friend of mine, Peter Akinlabi, wanted three books of poetry. They had been published in the UK earlier in the year. I finally got three copies of the book in Abuja and sent it to him and it cost me more to send the books by post from Abuja to Ilorin than it had cost me to buy the books. Can you imagine that? By the way, they were Obemata, Uche Nduka and Afam Akeh’s latest collections. I’ve had kids in a corner of Adamawa request for say Abubakar Adam Ibrahim’s The Whispering Trees but the logistics makes it absolutely prohibitive to get it to them.

The British Council ran a mobile library scheme many years back. Basically a library-on-wheels that moved from place to place. Something like this would benefit readers in the same manner the workshops would benefit writers. Imagine a mobile library that goes around all the schools in Abuja Municipal Area Council say once a month? Surely children will read. And if they read, if they indulge their minds as kids, you’ve got them hooked. I’m a businessman; if kids read today, I can sell them books tomorrow. It’s that simple.

The West pulps books by the hundreds of thousands each year, libraries close down almost weekly; there’s a need for some of these books here. And sending book aid to Africa is far better than their second-hand clothes, refrigerators and cars. It’s not just about the world going “digital”, books are cultural stimuli and their effect needs to be felt by Nigerian culture or else transitioning to eBooks and a hundred thousand iPads will not make a difference other than the aesthetic, the Eko-for-show reality, nothing beneath it. We need our kids reading real books at all, then they will read eBooks soon enough because a cultural hunger for the written word would have been created.

There’s the Home-Diaspora tension, it’s a real thing, but then if a good deed is intended to be done, Teju Cole and the rest still can do it. They are Nigerians, are still considered Nigerian so long as they haven’t publicly disowned the country, and they should be able to factor in the Nigerian nature. Ours is a country with a low tolerance of anything that can even begin to tend towards sophistry and bollocks down the line. Don’t come here and tell me in some dramatic flop, “Nothing works!” and then go back to Chattabaloonga fucking Ohio and moan forever. Fuck it, we know, and we are doing the best we can. That’s the Nigerian nature.

Tell us a bit about the Writer’s Village. What is the organization’s vision for the venue? How is work on it coming along? 

Mamman Jiya Vatsa

The Mamman Jiya Vatsa Writers Village is one of the most important achievements of my Exco, the Remi Raji Exco. General Vatsa, while he was Minister of the Federal Capital and just months before he was killed, gave the Association a large parcel of land in Mpape, opposite the Maitama District in Abuja. As a result of financial weakness, inadvertence, a lack of administrative foresight and instances of creative mischief, this land was lost and lost even further to Abuja land speculators. The dogged efforts of the present Legal Adviser, Barrister Ahmed Maiwada [I practice law at his Chambers] and Vice President, Denja Abdullahi, with the full support of the Exco and all the legal muscle we could muster saw the return of the land to ANA at the end of complex, multiple front litigation. A judgement debt of #10,000,000 was awarded against the Association. #10,000,000 is no joke for an Association that even in the best of years has not raised more than #1,000,000 from membership dues.

A Build, Operate and Transfer agreement has been entered into with the Developer. We got approval for this from our Board of Trustees in June 2012, as the law governing nongovernmental organizations stipulates. The land will be divided into three parts; one third would be sold to the general public to raise some funds to fence the property and carry out some development together with the Developer. One third would be developed, with a full-options international conference hotel and office blocks and so on. The conference hotel would be opened to the public and will be a source of revenue for the Association, perhaps research activities would be comfortably funded from this source in the years to come? There will also be cottages suitable for a writer’s residency. Our property has a small waterway in it that when landscaped would be very picturesque and provide a good haven for those who need solitude. The last third would remain undeveloped but securely fenced, for future expansion and other needs as they may arise after our Exco would have left office. We will take all the necessary actions to ensure that the Mamman Jiya Vatsa Writers Village remains a preeminent legacy of the late General and of this Association.And how did we get here?

As I said, when the case ended, the court gave a judgement debt of #10,000,000 against the Association. We had to raise that amount within a month, or else our victory in court would be in grave peril. My Exco reached out to senior members of ANA, to past Executives and so many people in a bid to raise the judgement debt, requesting for loans. We were met with responses ranging from “no money” to sheer indifference. Time was running out. The saviour of this near tragedy was Colonel Shaw of KMVL Properties, he personally gave us the money we needed to save our patrimony and break through the brick wall of shocking indifference.

Our Developer, KMVL Properties, has shown great interest in our activities and demonstrated commitment to seeing the Mamman Jiya Vatsa Writers Village a success. They have since moved to site, doing preliminary activities such as clearing the land and so on. And this is the point of the Remi Raji Exco—because of our own internal synergy, we have caused a synergy of success for ANA. The Mamman Jiya Vatsa Writers Village will be our crowning achievement.

I like that your budget is public. Your value for transparency is refreshing. It looks like the organization is thriving mainly because of the generosity of northern donors.  5.2 million of your 8.6 million naira is from northern donors. That’s impressive. What do you think accounts for the fact that you’re not getting a lot of financial love from the southern parts of the country?

Well, money is money regardless of whether it comes from the southern part of the country or from the northern part of the country. The point is to do good with the money. Besides, people do not stay in one place, they move around, have friendships, have business associates from far and wide. A bequest in Kano can come from a chance meeting at Idumota five years ago between an Igbo woman and a Jukun nun. ANA is a unique type of nongovernmental organization and as is common with nongovernmental organizations, funding comes largely by way of grants. And as anyone in the industry would tell you, the business of grants is to a large extent an interpersonal one. You know someone who knows someone and you cut a lot of paperwork and bureaucratic inertia and hemming and hawing. That’s the reality, it is what it is.

Let me dwell on this idea of “southern” vis-à-vis “northern” in Nigerian understandings. These terms, essentially geographical and possibly academic, must be used in senses that complement and not senses that exclude. Let me give you two examples; Barrister Yusuf Ali, our Reading Campaign benefactor, is a “southerner” from Osun State, yet he made his money in Ilorin in northern Nigeria. Prof Yahaya Kuta, our great friend, is from Mokwa in the north but the height of his career was attained in Oyo, in the south, at the University of Ibadan, where he became a Professor. He speaks excellent Yoruba. The Young Shall Grow Group, which was our media partner for the 2012 Convention and has now endowed a prize to run from 2014, is at basic a transport and haulage company—makes its money from every nook and cranny of Nigeria, so it would be unfair to see it as an exclusively southern company. We must complement each other, even while being aware of our unique properties, qualities and so on.

The very first funds we got when our Exco was elected came from Niger State—funds given to the local Minna chapter to attend the 2011 Abuja Convention at which we were elected. My president is from Oyo, I am from Kogi, Fin Sec is Igbo, Treasurer is a Rivers lady, Joy Esuku—yet a virement of these funds from a local northern chapter was made for our success. These funds were what we used to hold our first meeting, print stationery and get our act in order.

The Association had been through two years of inactivity and we more or less started from the scratch, the Remi Raji EXCO was a clean sweep.

Some of our funding has come from the personal generosity of the Niger State governor, Dr. Babangida Aliyu, and our rapport with him and his former Chief of Staff [Dr. Yahaya Kuta, who is a professor of the University of Ibadan], has seen the Association benefit from collaborations with his government. You know how it is, even in America it’s like that—“Ah, His Excellency likes writers o. Don’t play with these people.” “ANA? It’s His Excellency’s friends o.”—and the bureaucrats will get a move on.  An example of this is the Nigerian Writers Series funds which came out of a courtesy visit we undertook to Minna in early 2012 which we accessed in just about eight months.

Our ANA is open to working with anyone at all, private, corporate or state actor, who will partner with us in achieving our objectives. An international conference, one that will be The Conference as regards contemporary African writing, is in the works and a Governor of a south-western State has shown interest in sponsoring it.  We will work with anyone who is willing to fund our programmes in a manner we find acceptable, one that would not compromise or jeopardise our programmes and our corporate image.

My boss, Remi Raji’s, policy is to be transparent to the highest degree. Receipts for everything, from airline tickets to fast food meals are kept. Ours is a redemptive administration of this Association and we desire that even after we have left, a bulwark, of the expectations of our Congress members, would have been created—so that no subsequent executive can bring the Association to its previous lows again, it can only go higher from here.

As a way of concluding, how do you envision ANA’s place in the fast growing online community of African writers, bloggers, and publishing companies? How can ANA establish itself as a relevant institution and a key player in the global community of African writers and literary scholars? 

 The key lies in the ANA Website, we need to transit it from the information board it is now to a fully functional web portal. I already have ideas on this and in the coming year, assuming the congress renews the mandate of this Exco at Akure, I will present a proposal for this to the Exco and I’m sure we will be able to fund this transition.

The current website of the Nigerian Writers Series www.nws-africa.com.ng will be scaled into the new ANA website, thus merging our publishing with our nongovernmental advocacy and social programmes for writers.

We have already started interacting with other African writers bodies and they have shown reciprocal interest in what we are doing. All these efforts, and other ideas that will come on stream, will create a synergy that would make ANA as much a  key player in Africa regarding Literature as the AU and ECOWAS are in their politico-economic spheres. That is the dream.

Many thanks to Richard Ali for his engaging and in-depth responses. 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

Isn’t the scam email a bonafide literary form at this point? I find myself reading them with fascination these days. Yes, they are predictable, but there is also something strange and captivating about them as literary documents.

Is email scam an African phenomenon? Scam letters have been around ever since the mailing system was invented. But the modern incarnation with email as the primary technology has largely been connected to Africa. In terms of rhetoric, style, and imagery, scam emails seem to me essentially writings about Africa designed specifically for a western audience.

Email scam would simply not be possible in a world without the “white savior industrial complex” tacked on to the image of the abject African always in need of being saved.

At the heart of the phenomenon is the heroic complex that has always defined the way the “first-world” thinks itself in relation to everyone else, coupled with the fantasy of primitive, “third-world” spaces where fortune is always just lying around, left for the wise and cunning westerner to grab. Familiar? Well, it’s the same presumptions that propped up imperialism: “They have all these really cool stuff and don’t know what to do with it, partly because they are not so smart. So why don’t I do them the favor of taking their stuff since I’ll be saving them in the process.”

Email scammers understand this ideology.  They play western stereotypes of what Africa is against the western illusion of heroism and plunder. Everything from the choice of name, the (deliberate) misspellings and bad grammar, the single story they perpetuate about Africa as a space of violence, war, hunger, but that is simultaneously abounding in abandoned wealth, lying in Swiss bank accounts, gratis, waiting for the adventurous (and goodhearted) westerner. In a sense, the scammer simply recycles first-world prejudices and hands it back for a fee.

Scam emails are also interesting at the level of form. There is the obvious linguistic character—the quirky syntax, broken English, awkward diction, the exotic cadence of the language and so on. But I also wonder about the fictional African portrayed in these mails—that of the displaced African, often with a traumatic past that also accounts for his or her access to eye-popping fortune. Isn’t this the same image we see being circulated in the global media and even in certain African novels, the image of the suffering but enterprising African and of Africa as being simultaneously doomed and rising?

The scam email is also a form that relies on establishing a sense of intimacy between the reader and the fictional African character. It’s written in the first person, but the idea is to address the reader as someone familiar, to give the reader, however so subtly, the sense that he or she has been chosen or elected to partake in the enterprise.  Of course, managing expectations and suspense, leaving bread crumbs that readers track—making them feel in control—all the while making the reader imagine a naive African willing to be taken advantage of—all these are familiar literary moves that account for why some people fall for it. Looking on from the outside, what I see is a scammer essentially inviting the reader to take part in a spectacularly elaborate dramatic irony.

I’m also interested in email scams as a peculiar kind of narrative labor. If the first email gets a reader’s attention, many more follow, phone calls, instant messaging. Documents exchange hands, sometimes meetings are arranged. A complex web of lies and half-truths are spurned while the scammer plays on the target’s fantasies, vulnerabilities, fears, greed, and prejudices. Imagine the feat! A narrative machine too elaborate for words. It certainly would make for a very interesting literary case study.

Anyway, have a good laugh reading the spoof scam emails below. It was published in the New Yorker earlier this year.

Feel free to write your own spoof 419 email and send it to brittlepaper@gmail.com. I’ll be happy to post the best ones.

HELLO

First and foremost, I want to introduce myself to you. My name is Benson Whaddif, son to late Dr. Emi Whaddif. I am 19 yrs old Boy and my Sister is 12 yrs. Our Father was killed during rebel crisis and we are now in a refugee camp here in this part of Africa. I am writing to you at this time because my sister and I are made of solid gold. Where most peoples have flesh and muscles and such, we have gold, pure shiny gold, that we can pull from our bodies and give to you. Also, when we laugh, diamonds pour from our mouths.

If you would like us to share our body gold and mouth diamonds with you, please send us your name and address. As we both weigh 3,205 kilos, we may require assistance to make it to your house. But when we get there, oh boy: gold and diamonds. Gold and diamonds all over the lands.

Taban Lo Liyong

 Is [Tutuola] ungrammatical? Yes. But James Joyce is more ungrammatical than Tutuola. Ezekiel Mphahlele has often said and written that African writers are doing violence to English. Violence? Has Joyce not done more violence to the English Language? Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn is written in seven dialects, he tells us. It is acknowledged a classic. We accept it, forget that it has no “grammar”, and go ahead to learn his “grammar” and what he has to tell us. Let Tutuola write “no grammar” and the hyenas and jackals whine and growl. Let Gabriel Okara write a “no grammar” Okolo. They are mum. Why? Education drives out of the mind superstition, daydreaming, building of castles in the air, cultivation of yarns, and replaces them with a rational practical mind, almost devoid of imagination. Some of these minds having failed to write imaginative stories, turn to that aristocratic type of criticism which magnifies trivialities beyond their real size. They fail to touch other virtues in a work because they do not have the imagination to perceive these mysteries. Art is arbitrary. Anybody can begin his own style. Having begun it arbitrarily, if he persists to produce in that particular mode, he can enlarge and elevate it to something permanent, to something other artists will come to learn and copy, to something the critics will catch up with and appreciate. — Taban Lo Liyong

Beautifully put! Liyong who is currently the Acting Vice Chancellor of Juba University in South Sudan wrote this piece way back in the day. It comes from an essay titled “Tutuola, Son of Zinjanthropus.”

I got a chance to read it last week. Liyong’s essay on Tutuola is probably as fun as African literary criticism could ever be. It’s effortlessly brilliant and funny. I couldn’t stop laughing at his witty quips and one-liners.

If you’re interested in the many controversies surrounding the works of Nigerian fantasy writer Amos Tutuola, this text is a must read. You can find it in Critical Perspectives on Amos Tutuola, a collection of essays edited by Bernth Lindfors.

The winner of the Goodreads Choice Awards is decided by readers like us. No judges or industry heavyweights legislating on who goes home with the prize. Adichie has been nominated to go on to the second rounds of voting which begins today and ends on the 16th. Click HERE to vote.

A hearty congratulations to our impressive collection of nominees! We have some interesting match-ups to keep an eye on this year. A “who’s who” of literature—including Khaled Hosseini, Jhumpa Lahiri, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and Wally Lamb—is duking it out in Best Fiction. Dan Brown’s professorial sleuth Robert Langdon has some real competition in Best Mystery from J.K. Rowling’s gruff P.I. Cormoran Strike. Can grande dame Maya Angelou hold her own against 16-year-old Nobel Peace Prize nominee Malala Yousafzai in Best Memoir? And place your bets for the father vs. son face-off happening in Best Horror, where the mighty Stephen King must stand up against his talented offspring, Joe Hill. Your favorite authors need your votes before the polls close November 25. — learn more

Granted this award is no Booker. Still it’s got to feel nice and endearing to be endorsed by readers. Adichie’s Americanah has had us all talking and thinking passionately about everything from hair to love to race. Would be nice to see her win such a fabulously trendy award.

(c) georgtown.edu

Dancing is one of my favorite things, and it’s really not unusual for me to do it when I’m writing as it helps with my expression, thinking, fluidity. Vulindlela is one of the most danced to songs in my studio.

It all started with the fancy little affair called “5 Under 35.” Every year, the National Book Foundation recognizes five authors under the age of 35 for having written an outstanding piece of work. The event is actually quite hip. This year it features a celebrity host (Portlandia co-star) and Dj Colson Whitehead.

Home girl has been appearing on several high-profile shortlists. She’s officially the most sought-after African novelist of 2013. Not surprised that our own NoViolet Bulawayo is one of the honored five.

Anyway, each of the five authors were asked to make a spotify playlist of songs that may or may not have had something to do with their writing.

I had goose bumps listening to the Brenda Fassie and Lucky Dube selections. Moved by the fact that we all grew up listening to the same songs–I in Nigeria, she in Zimbabwe.

Okay, start listening and let’s dance!

1. Zim Ngqawana, “Quala Kwedini”
“Zim Ngqawana is for summoning the ancestors and muse, always; his music gets me in the zone.”

2. Lovemore Majaivana, “Kuleliyani ‘zwe”
“Majaivana is singing about his better days in Zimbabwe, and of course as someone who is stuck in Zim’s past (I left the country at 18) I connect to the song; it’s my nostalgia anthem.”

Lucky Dube, “House of Exile”
“This lament of a displaced freedom fighter is still relevant to anyone who knows something about leaving one’s homeland. It definitely suits the second half of the book that’s set in the US. I remember listening to the song a lot around 2008-9, the height of the Zim crisis.”

Brenda Fassie, “Vulindlela”
“Dancing is one of my favorite things, and it’s really not unusual for me to do it when I’m writing as it helps with my expression, thinking, fluidity. Vulindlela is one of the most danced to songs in my studio.”

Black Motion feat. Jah Rich, “Banane Mavoko”
“If Darling, Bastard, Stina, Godknows, Chipo and Sbho (the young characters in We Need New Names) had ipods, this is what they’d be listening to.”

If you have a spotify account, you can listen to all five songs HERE.

I am in love with this piece written by a writer called GayKindaLove. It’s part of a literary project spearheaded by HOLAAfrica!– A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective and hosted by interruptmag.com, the utterly fabulous literary collective that fosters participatory media.

Artwork by T.S. Abe courtesy of blkwomenart.com

“I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words. I’d scribble my affection all over your body just like those tattoos you elegantly wear and adorn you with piercing attention so you never feel the solitude of your world. I’d assure your immortality so we can bask in never ending pillow talks after our sexual debates as we mend the broken limbs from the wilderness. After every intimate communion, the scars on your body would make known the tales of how I worshipped the tone of your voice wrapped in moans translating pleasure, those intimate narrations of your soul. Your speech would be cluttered with words of how your spirit travelled every corner of paradise owing to my caress, how you tapped out of Devil’s Cradle sprinting to my rescue so you can tan in the pleasures of my embrace and you would debut to the world the pages as you jotted them out  from my womanhood.”

— Read More