Experimental Writing: Africa vs Latin America Vol 1
Publication Year: 2017
Published by: African Books Collective
Title page, Copyright page
Contributors Bio Notes / Notas Biograficas De LosAutores
Contents / Contenidos
Introduction / Introducción
This project come out from our need to try and harness voices in Africa and the Latin America, giving these voices an opportunity to converse, argue, synthesize, agree, and share out ideas, it could be on the craft of writing, on life, on being, on thinking, so that we will all benefit. It was also an opportunity to create literary friendships or contacts between these two great regions. We also felt these regions generally still have a lot of stories to share other than any other regions in the world, and a lot of stories to offer to the world as they...
FICTION / FICCION
By Stacy Hardy
They walk in a line. They follow each other, one after, the next and the next. The line is unbroken. The one behind’s hand holds onto the shoulder of the one in front. They form a chain. Each one is a link. The one and then the next, linked together to make a line, a thing. They move slowly. Going is not easy. They stumble and start. It takes time to find the rhythm, the pace of the one in front and the one after that. They take a few steps. They shudder. Even the slightest pause, a brief halt can cause an upset, a...
The Tattoo: Love Redefined
By Ikechukwu Nwaogu
Hello, dear reader, there’s something we want you to see. We know you’re busy, reading and all, but please take some time off, and come with us. We’re going to a place, high above the earth, where we can watch the planets spinning lopsidedly on their slanted axes. There’s a distinct advantage to being able to see this view, it helps you focus on the more significant things. Please don’t think this is all there is to it. We are thoughts, you see, and such...
by Enock I. Simbaya
Up the hill, a black bird circled, probably hunting a rodent or small reptile. Zaina felt like that, not the bird but the prey, hunted, stalked. Mother was sick; Father was two years already gone. Death was hunting her life, taking away her family. First it had been Uncle Benson, then Grandmother. She had loved them both, the way they made her feel, every day a joy to spend with them. But the sickness, like the bird, came and took them away. Then it...
By Mystique-Syn O. Osuchukwu.
Murder is a difficult task. It involves a lot of planning and strategy. Maybe I should say getting away with murder is a difficult task. Do not fall for those films that portray the Police on this side of the divide in a bad light and almost all its endings are about how fickle they are and how the whole system sucks. Do not also fall for how the American Police (NYPD in particular) can piece together clues and within minutes or days, even the craftiest of criminals get...
Ghosts of Kuto
by Afopefoluwa Ojo
Tuesdays are for black. I know because I sat down on the steep stairs of the theatre and counted, and seventy and seven people wore black. Black t-shirts, black jeans, black shoes, black dresses, black sweaters... I counted a girl three times because she passed three times, and I counted the policemen that walked around as many times as I saw them. They wore black....
By Shannon Hopkins
Before he opened his eyes, David was aware of the pounding of the
sea on the shore. The seventh wave made the windows of the building beside which he slept shudder in their rusty frames, like an old man’s teeth, loose in his skull.
The boom of the waves echoed around him, accentuated by the acoustics of the building, oddly creating a sense of calm as well as disease. The soothing sound of the roll of its waves versus its enormous, reckless body - a disturbing paradox of safety and destruction....
Seeking Wild Women
By Andrea Ward
Amelia squeezed her eyes shut. Then opened them widely. No difference. Still black. She lifted her hand and swished it slowly in front of her eyes. No thing. Stretching her fingers wide apart, waking the muscles from their slumber, not even a silhouette....
The Vegetable Truth
by Ayo Oyeku
The truth is I relish my wife’s vegetable soup.A fine blend ofher culinary skills with the popular Nigerian delicacy makes it such a delight.The soup is always garnished with tasty food supplements. And a wholesome plate of nutritionand art piece is placed before me to enjoy. Dotted sweats appear on my forehead and arms whenever am eating this soup. My wife often teased that I smack my lips like a foodie when eating it.But I can’t deny I always...
The Poachers Son
By Yugo Gabriel Egboluche
Me? Kobe the son of Binga - Queensland’s legendary poacher, tied hands and feet? Utterly outrageous! Anyway, I am here now. At least you will seek me no further. You three think my father, whom you banned from the trade can’t do much? Is that right? Charlatans! Wait till he hears about this!...
by Louis E. Bourgeois
Outside the window was a procession of Mardi Gras going on: huge papier maché faces from Anne Boleyn to Nixon, screaming topless women with tattooed breasts, a boa constrictor wrapped around a hippie’s neck, adultery in a second room flat, hand-clapping, a lot of green stuff, heavy jars of whiskey, a dozen real Indians...
The Praegustator Who Spied on the World
By Samuel Kolawole
To say Bowter Bweter ate to earn a living would be inaccurate because the only other option was being fed to the crocodiles at the falls. What penalty could be greater than being thrown to those saw-toothed reptiles? Only the Conqueror of the British Empire had the answer to that question. He was the Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea....
By Ntando Nzuza
I loved Thulani the day I met him. We were thirteen back then, it was a simpler time, we spent our days; playing wheels, herding cows, and doing chores young men did on farms. I had moved from eNgcobo to Bhamshela in the early nineteen-eighties. My mother, who worked at a shop in Durban, had met and married a Zulu man from there. After my grandmother passed on – she had been raising me in eNgcobo- my mother came to fetch me. Thulani and I met at school. He was a beautiful boy. But that was a lifetime...
Alcohol sufficiency syndrome
By Erhu Amreyan
Rhema poured himself another drink from the half empty bottle of whiskey that stood on the oval glass table. For a while, he had been staring at the sky and watching the clouds come together. The light of the silvery moon shone as was allowed by the clouds. “It’s going to rain. Damn!’’
His focus returned to the party that was going on. The music blared out in fast rhythms and no one cared for anything else other than the booze and to get on the dance floor and dance the night away. Sweaty bodies grinded on each other and the stench of cigarette smoke and vomit filled the air. But no one cared....
By Natisha Parsons
Tinker took home a compendium of games for his family. He decided to have it out with them concerning the solvent that Sean had spoken of.
Sean’s words stuck in his mind like faeces to a blanket. Alcohol... excellent solvent... dissolves family relationships. They were discussing me, I just know it! They couldn’t wait for me to leave the room. The no-good rubbishes! I’ll show them....
The Man who killed my brother!
By Eliza Mabungu
It is amazing how everyone talks about forgiveness but no one touches on apologising. I have to agree that my psyche is still backwards. I am still clinging on the past with a very vivid picture of the things that were in the present. I refused to believe my eyes when news about Nelson Mandela’s release broke out. In my mind I thought that we are being played but the more I denied myself pleasure in celebrating freedom the more I felt repressed. Before I knew it, 1994 came and we had our new black President and it was now time to come back home. Exile offered a space for hibernation...
By Ludwing Varela
Al salir de la casa que visitamos aquella noche, parecía que éramos las únicas almas que en ese momento vivían en la ciudad. Esperamos entre 10 y 15 minutos para ver como una pequeña luz que se dejaba ver a lo lejos se acercaba, y que poco a poco tomaba fuerza hasta llegar a alumbrarnos por completo. El taxi se acomodó frente a nosotros y le hice la pregunta de ley:...
La Loba, La Flor Y El Pájaro
By Sóira Celestino
En el Reino de fantasía eran las hadas las que daban forma a los bebés antes de nacer. Así, cuando nació la princesa el hada de la noche le dio un cabello hermoso y negro, tan oscuro como una noche sin luna. Las hadas de invierno decidieron dar a su piel la blancura de la nieve. El hada de las flores pintó los labios con el color rojo, que transformaban su piel, suave y fragante como las flores. El hada de los pájaros le dio una voz como el canto de un ruiseñor y la fuerza y el coraje del águila. Los ojos verdes eran...
The Wolf, The Flower And The Bird
By Sóira Celestino
In the Kingdom of fantasy fairies were the ones who gave babies form before birth. That’s when the princess was born.
The Night Fairy gave her a beautiful black hair, dark as a moonless night. Winter Fairiesdecided to gave her skin the whiteness of the snow. The Flower Fairy painted her lips with red color and turned her skin soft and fragrant as flowers. The Fairy Birds gave her a voice like the song of a nightingale and the strength and courage of an eagle. Her green eyes were like two emeralds given by the fairies...
Conferencia de Hocquetot en la Universidad Desconocida
By Gustavo Campos
Al finalizar su ponencia magistral, abren el micrófono al auditorio. Una escuálida y bajita edecán, vestida de hippie setentera, lleva el micróf ono inalámbrico a la primera persona que levantó la mano. Un agudo feedback sabotea de entrada el conversatorio y hace evidente el malestar de los organizadores, cuya mirada recriminatoria recae sobre el encargado del sonido....
POETRY / POESIA
MIXED GENRES / GENEROS MIXTOS
By Tendai R Mwanaka
Knock: strike a surface noisily to attract attention, collide with, strike, strike, strike someone or something so that they would move, move, move and/or fall. We knock on the doors with bended fingers: knock, knock, knock.... Gogogoi, may we come in please; we say as we come into your heath. This is followed by a pause, a pregnant pause, the right pause, waiting for your answer. It’s a voice wanting to come out, knocking in, to come in, in, in...
“Too ordinary” or acting out Jesus in the theatre of life or visceversa chapter III
By Ricardo Felix Rodriguez
By Troydon Wainwright
‘Good afternoon, this is Shelly Summers reporting live for CBN. I stand outside Huntsville State Penitentiary in Texas, where two hours from now--at exactly six thirty p.m. standard time--former president of the United States, Jeffery Tripplehorn, is scheduled to be executed by lethal injection. As you can see, the streets have been cordoned off, as tens of thousands have gathered to protest the execution and show solidarity with the former president. There are also a few...
The Old Woman in the Threshold
By Obinna Udenwe
A high pitched female voice on BBC was saying on a transistor radio placed on a dwarfed wall, on the threshold of a two bedroom apartment. The old woman dragged her easy-chair from the sitting room to the threshold. She took her time surveying the environment – the flowers and the plants, the lizards running about and hiding under the flowerpots, the cars speeding past, and passers-by walking to their various destinations. It took some effort before she set the...
Quest for my dignity
By Connie Fick
I’ve been on a lifelong search for my dignity, but it eludes me. Every time we are in the same place, I reach out, but it jumps up like some small startled animal and runs away.
The first time it happened I was on a train with my father. We had just disembarked and were waiting for another train. Where we lived, on the outskirts of Johannesburg, we had to get two trains to reach town; one to Langlaagte and then a different one to town....
PLAYS / OBRAS DE TEATRO
NON FICTION / NO FICCION
A short personal essay on writing
By Oroni Tendera
It’s three am. The silence in my traditionally noisy neighborhood is unusually deafening. Harsh fluorescent light overhead glare at my paper, pen and I. A bone freezing breeze is blowing furiously into my crib, thanks to the lone open window. For that reason, my thin hairy legs are partially parted-back arched forward-face elongated....
Page Count: 364
Publication Year: 2017
OCLC Number: 975230621
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