“I feel it’s best to look at this story critically from two angles. The first is the merits of the writing, which should of course remain paramount. In this, Tubosun does very well. He captures the dry absurdity of a potentially terrible situation, and the ending is remarkable in its pathos. I believed both the matter-of-fact and slightly sympathetic tone of the nurse, and I believed the narrator’s feelings when he hoped he did not have the illness, but suspected that, because of his life and where he lived, he might. Tubosun alternates between writing with very plain, ordinary language, such as when a conversation occurs, and larger, quite grand sentences which seek to encompass the tumultuous shifts of emotions experienced by the narrator. He is adept at both, and perhaps most importantly, knows when to use which. When the narrator talks to the nurse, the writing becomes short and sharp because the narrator himself is tense with anticipation, he must be calm, because if he is not – collapse. When he retreats within himself, his conscious is allowed to expand, and so, too, does the writing, Tubosun’s sentences uncoiling like languorous snakes willing to take their time to reach their destination.”
Culled from Damian Kelleher’s review of my story in African Roar. Read the rest here.
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I read the 2010 Caine Prize-winning short story yesterday. “Gore” is the first word that came to my mind afterwards.
Olufemi Terry’s Stickfighting Days is a moving story that one never forgets in a hurry for its description of raw violence among (pubescent) boys in an imaginary dump site. I’ve read a few stories of raw violence that moved me. One of them was Fola by my friend Olumide Abimbola. It is a short family story with enormous prospects that I believe should be expanded to a standard short story length. It definitely comes to mind right now, but Terry’s offering takes us deep into an isolated world free of societal interference. There is no redemption at the end, just violence, and perhaps some jungle justice that must serve as the only catharsis afforded the reader.
Benson Eluma has written a review aimed at the insularity of the lives of the characters of the story. My friend’s observations in his review take the dialogue on literary craft and responsibility of the writer to a different direction and force us to ask a different kind of question. For me however, it is the stark violence without a chance for a real redemption that puts me off the story. It is not a deficiency as far as craft is concerned. The story is very well written and I don’t think I’ll be reading it again. Read the review on Nigerianstalk. You can read the story itself here.
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My short story – Behind the Door – appeared as one of the eleven short stories in the premier anthology of fictions from Africa titled African Roar. That’s no news anymore, right?
What you didn’t know is that I wrote the story in about two hours after a moving experience in a local hospital. The events in the story, though fictionalized, were derived from a real life experience.
So what’s the reason for this post? I want to share with you a few of the reviews of African Roar, especially those that focused on my short story “Behind the Door.” Enjoy.
Powerful in its simlicity: Review by blogger Solomon Sydelle
Humorous without being frivolous: Review by Elinore Morris
Controlled and well-handled characters: Review by Novuyo-Rosa
The book can now be bought on Amazon, Lion Press, Barnes and Noble, and on the Kindle. Soon enough, we would be able to have them in physical bookshops all around. Until then, what are you waiting for to get an anthology of eleven powerful stories written from all across the continent?
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A short story by Brian Chikwava in the Granta Magazine, here.
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The new anthology of short stories from Africa titled “African Roar” is now available to buy on Amazon and the Lion Press UK website (for those in the UK).
My short story “Behind the Door” is one of the eleven stories that made the cut of this maiden edition.
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Written at Cougar Village.
Looking up into the predictable night sky, he saunters home. In other climes, he might have been a little high on the freedom of the night to surprise, and to appease his seething exhilaration and bubbling fears. Here, he just paces home in little steps that completely ignore the need for caution, yet a buoyancy remains. Even the geese have gone to bed, and the road is free of any surprises. Only the warm wind blows from all directions, and his open shirt blows with it opening spaces around his armpit and exiting through his similarly open cuffs. From afar and against the background of light – except for the colour of his shirt or the size of his frame – he could have been mistaken for a waving flag, or a moving scarecrow.
Once upon a time this was home to more shuffling feet and heaps of snow. But that was then. Once upon a time, trees and their leaves that now whistle with the night shedding grains of white pollinated flowers were only high and dry, and winter shook the alien city to the barest limit of its own survival. Then there was nothing but death and dryness, and a certain music to the melancholy of heavy and seemingly wounded trees. It was seasonal. Hope had sprung up later like the flowers that now scatter on his head from on top of the tall pine trees. All in one night the change came, suddenly and without warning. Even to him a traveller, it was an unexpected miracle of a seasonal revival.
Like a visitor in a now growing market place, he looks around again with a certain brightness. The fears that returned were about how in a different place and a different time this might have been unwise, coming home at this time of the night. In his mind was something similar to a mother’s scoff of a rage: “Bloody fool, you toss your life around like a game of cards.” The delight in mischief of such confrontations has gone now, and only a nostalgic smile remains drawn on the face of the dark night sky that breathes on his upward gaze. Like looking at a mirror of one own smeared reflection, he muses, head up towards a direction that could only be east, judging by the position of the crescent moon. Home lies there, he whispers.
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In a few days time, a new book will hit the shelves all over the world. It’s African Roar! It is a collection of short stories written by authors from different countries in Africa. As the name suggests, it is an African roar! Do you hear the rumbles?
My first published story, first titled The First Test has now been published in the anthology as Behind the Door. It is a story of one man in contemplation while going through the aisle of a private hospital.
But African Roar has more than just one story. From Novuyo Rosa’s Big Pieces, Little Pieces to Ayodele Morocco Clarke’s The Nestbury Tree to Beaven Tapureta’s Cost Of Courage, Chuma Nwokolo’s QuarterBack & Co and Ivor W. Hartmann’s Lost Love, the collection takes you onto imaginative plains and hills, and all the eleven stories leave you with an exhilaration that you can only get from the little pleasures of the other person’s imagination. Other stories in the collection are Yesterday’s Dog by Masimba Musodza, Cost Of Courage by Beaven Tapureta, A Cicada In The Shimmer by Christopher Mlalazi, A Return To The Moonlight by Emmanuel Sigauke, Truth Floats by Nana A. Damoah’s and Tamale Blues by Ayesha H. Attah. Each of the stories tells something of the African experience, and more.
The stories that make up the work were all drawn from the very best stories published from 2007-2009 on the Story Time website. The anthology is published by Lion Press Ltd UK, and is edited by Ivor Hartmann and Emmanuel Sigauke. It will be available on Amazon, Barnes & Nobles and some physical book stores worldwide in a few days. It will also be available on the Kindle.
You may follow the twitter feeds of African Roar at http://www.twitter.com/africanroar and on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/African.Roar for more information. Autographed copies will also be available, I’m sure, as soon as possible.
I’m ex… ex… excited. Are you?
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Hi Blog Readers,
- Today is Thursday, and again I’m feeling pretty useless with myself. On top of that, it is cold, and I can’t think much.
- Yesterday I received a mail from a blog reader who said she’d been reading the blog for a while without leaving comments. Here’s what else she said: “You write beautifully I have to say…”. I’m assuming that she’s female because the first name sounded female. It’s a Nigerian name which is also sometimes given to males, but my instincts on this one is that she’s female though I could be wrong… But to the sender, I say a big thank you for being there.
It was World Aids Day on the 1st of December, which was memorable for me because it reminded me of the first time I had to take an HIV test. It was just a year ago, in Nigeria, while preparing for this travel experience. Somehow, even though it was not a mandatory test, I took it, and it resulted in this short story that I wrote for an upcoming anthology. Meanwhile, another blogger, Bumight, has made a post about her recent test experience. Find it here and, if you can, take the time to vote on her blog poll. Since that last time, I have not been tested again, not because of fear, but because of time. When next I find myself in the hospital, I will do it again, and let you know how it goes.
- Still talking about HIV/AIDs, I received a pack of… listen to it… extra large condoms in the university as part of the HIV/AIDS awareness campaign on campus. The real reason why this is memorable to me is that I had no idea that there were extra-large sizes here, even though I knew in my head that there definitely must be. There was a time in the history of this travelogue where I had wanted to blog about my amazement, and disappointment, at the smallness of American condoms, and what I think it could or could not mean. I’ve since found out that it could have had to do with a particular brand, and thankfully, Chris from my linguistics class found my narration of the discovery and experience very very funny. That time has passed, however and thankfully I didn’t have to blog about it, and offend anyone. So, the first question obviously had to be: why do we have “extra-large” condoms when rubber is already known to be elastic? I cannot answer it here without exceeding my PG-13 self-censoring limit
. But YOU can! My reckoning is that it has something to do with grip. Apparently, as I now know, all condoms too are not created equal!
- I have two assignments to do before Monday comes. One is a term paper that I must submit before I travel to Washington DC to see my close pal Mr. Barack (stop the snickering). The second is a class assignment with the same deadline. I know why I have not been motivated enough to start them, so the problem is only half solved. Let’s see what I can do as soon as I am done with this post.
- Meanwhile, I have now pulled out one of the old jokes from my inbox. It’s a poem that is both funny and stimulating. You may have to read it out loud to get the total idea. It’s titled “Eye Halve a Spelling Chequer.” I hope you enjoy it.
Eye Halve a Spelling Chequer
Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.
As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect in it’s weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.
– Sauce unknown
Note:
I didn’t write the poem.
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Alton, IL
