Thursday, November 20, 2008
More Press-Yikes!!
This week the press angel seems to be looking down on me- or could it be I have friends who are journalists??? Hmmm... Either way Gasebalwe Seretse wrote such a nice article about me in Wednesday's Mmegi. Here it is.
Kate Gomolemo Makes the Papers!
What a surprise I got last night when reading a book review in The Botswana Gazette newspaper to find a bit about my detective, Kate Gomolemo, right in there with Mma Ramotswe. What a lovely surprise! Read it here.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Born a Winner
In her life story, her mother had only a brief walk on part. She squatted in the darkness of the bush, hoping the border guards wouldn’t see her, and gave birth without uttering a single sound. When the baby fell onto the still warm Botswana sand, her mother was thankful she didn’t cry. She needed to get moving and a baby would slow her down, so she dashed out into the moonless night and without another thought, dropped the baby into the pit latrine, convincing herself that death was a better path for this small one than the life she herself had been condemned to live. An act of kindness. Then she made her exit forever.
The old man heard the wailing for some time and was becoming increasingly annoyed thinking the neighbour’s dog was, once again, harassing his goats. Finally, though he hated going outside at night since he had a pathological fear of snakes, he went out to take a look. He didn’t find a dog or even a victimised goat; instead when he shined the light of his torch down the toilet from where the sound came, there at the bottom laid a baby. As soon as the light hit her she became silent, sticking her tiny thumb in her mouth, and waited to be saved.
People grabbed up spades and big earth moving machines arrived and they dug the baby out. The police officer whose name has gone missing, some say it was Mompati others Mogami, wiped the shit out from between the infant’s wrinkled fingers as he sat with her at the back of the police car racing to the nearby hospital, and thought, this baby would grow to be something special, she was saved from a certain death for a reason. He thought, this baby was born a winner.
At the SOS Home where the baby was taken, a gnarled woman who was employed as a mother, proving in every one of her actions why paying someone to do such a job was not wise, looked at the old eyes in the baby’s small face and warned, “Those eyes hold some old secrets.” And so the baby from the pit latrine was given the name Diphiri, secrets.
As Diphiri grew, she was told the story of her birth. She had no opinion about it. It only gave her evidence that humans were a difficult species and she stepped forward with caution. She often used the pit latrine story to help establish observational distance between herself and others. Telling the story upon meeting a new person helped her. Their pity for the small baby was often superficial, while their eyes scanned her looking for the invisible traces of shit, metaphorical or otherwise. Diphiri watched and stepped away. There was no need to let them closer, neither she nor they wanted it, and that kept her safe.
On the day Diphiri’s life took the important turn towards the prophecy of the policeman’s words, she met a young man who came into the takeaway where she worked since leaving the SOS Home. She watched him walk up to the counter throwing his arms forward one at a time, each leg following with a slight hesitation as if they wanted to refuse the bossiness of the arms. Diphiri smiled at the argument of his walk. As the man got closer, she spotted a familiarity about him. His eyes, almost hidden under heavy lids, were coloured ancient with sights from an older time, a time from where her own secrets emanated. She was immediately captured and so stayed very silent and still, waiting.
He got his Fanta orange and magwinya then said, “I think one day I’d like to be married to the president.”
“Is that so?” Diphiri laughed at such silly words.
The man sat down on the front stoop and Diphiri, as there were no customers, sat down next to him. She noticed the smooth brown of his skin and how he smelt of coconut. “So what is your story then?” he asked chewing a piece of a fat cake.
Diphiri was surprised to hear herself tell him about her birth, and more surprised to realise that she wasn’t telling him to push him away, she was hoping that the telling would pull him in to her.
He listened, not looking away from her secret eyes, or searching her body for evidence of the shit from which she’d come. Diphiri noticed, too, that he didn’t pity the baby, instead his hooded eyes sparkled. “People are not saved for nothing. You must be very excited about the life you’re going to live.”
She’d never thought of it like that, and with a click-click her mind set out on a new course, a course set towards greatness. The young man finished his drink and fat cakes and left, but only temporarily. He came back because even his dream was now set in place to come true.
The old man heard the wailing for some time and was becoming increasingly annoyed thinking the neighbour’s dog was, once again, harassing his goats. Finally, though he hated going outside at night since he had a pathological fear of snakes, he went out to take a look. He didn’t find a dog or even a victimised goat; instead when he shined the light of his torch down the toilet from where the sound came, there at the bottom laid a baby. As soon as the light hit her she became silent, sticking her tiny thumb in her mouth, and waited to be saved.
People grabbed up spades and big earth moving machines arrived and they dug the baby out. The police officer whose name has gone missing, some say it was Mompati others Mogami, wiped the shit out from between the infant’s wrinkled fingers as he sat with her at the back of the police car racing to the nearby hospital, and thought, this baby would grow to be something special, she was saved from a certain death for a reason. He thought, this baby was born a winner.
At the SOS Home where the baby was taken, a gnarled woman who was employed as a mother, proving in every one of her actions why paying someone to do such a job was not wise, looked at the old eyes in the baby’s small face and warned, “Those eyes hold some old secrets.” And so the baby from the pit latrine was given the name Diphiri, secrets.
As Diphiri grew, she was told the story of her birth. She had no opinion about it. It only gave her evidence that humans were a difficult species and she stepped forward with caution. She often used the pit latrine story to help establish observational distance between herself and others. Telling the story upon meeting a new person helped her. Their pity for the small baby was often superficial, while their eyes scanned her looking for the invisible traces of shit, metaphorical or otherwise. Diphiri watched and stepped away. There was no need to let them closer, neither she nor they wanted it, and that kept her safe.
On the day Diphiri’s life took the important turn towards the prophecy of the policeman’s words, she met a young man who came into the takeaway where she worked since leaving the SOS Home. She watched him walk up to the counter throwing his arms forward one at a time, each leg following with a slight hesitation as if they wanted to refuse the bossiness of the arms. Diphiri smiled at the argument of his walk. As the man got closer, she spotted a familiarity about him. His eyes, almost hidden under heavy lids, were coloured ancient with sights from an older time, a time from where her own secrets emanated. She was immediately captured and so stayed very silent and still, waiting.
He got his Fanta orange and magwinya then said, “I think one day I’d like to be married to the president.”
“Is that so?” Diphiri laughed at such silly words.
The man sat down on the front stoop and Diphiri, as there were no customers, sat down next to him. She noticed the smooth brown of his skin and how he smelt of coconut. “So what is your story then?” he asked chewing a piece of a fat cake.
Diphiri was surprised to hear herself tell him about her birth, and more surprised to realise that she wasn’t telling him to push him away, she was hoping that the telling would pull him in to her.
He listened, not looking away from her secret eyes, or searching her body for evidence of the shit from which she’d come. Diphiri noticed, too, that he didn’t pity the baby, instead his hooded eyes sparkled. “People are not saved for nothing. You must be very excited about the life you’re going to live.”
She’d never thought of it like that, and with a click-click her mind set out on a new course, a course set towards greatness. The young man finished his drink and fat cakes and left, but only temporarily. He came back because even his dream was now set in place to come true.
Writing For Radio
I have my third post up at Blood Red Pencil. It is about how writing for the page and writing for radio are the same, but also different. Check it out here.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The Dandelion Wishers
Rejection doesn’t always mean your story is bad. I always tell writers this. A story is rejected for many reasons. I have a story I wrote the second year I started writing seriously, The Dandelion Wishers. I’ve always liked that story. It won a highly commended in a contest and it gave me hope that it had some merit others might recognise. Then I sent it off to a few markets and it piled up the rejections. I set it aside for a while and then sent it off to African Writing earlier this year, a fantastic showcase for some of Africa’s best writers. They accepted it and I was very happy.
But then African Writing disappeared. I thought it had gone under like so many good intentioned literary projects and The Dandelion Wishers had sunk with it. Well today they are back with full force (thankfully)! Read the Dandelion Wishers here as well as a lot of other great African writing.
But then African Writing disappeared. I thought it had gone under like so many good intentioned literary projects and The Dandelion Wishers had sunk with it. Well today they are back with full force (thankfully)! Read the Dandelion Wishers here as well as a lot of other great African writing.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Saturday Saturday
Last night I stayed up late to read Half of a Yellow Sun (Olanna- how could you? How could you sleep with him? My heart is broken. I fear I have more heartache ahead though.) so when I finally fell asleep I was not too happy to be woken up by the African Sausage Dog barking like a mad man. People who follow this blog know that waking up in the night to see what the dog is barking at in MY garden is NOT a good idea (refer to
The Baby Snake Massacre ) but after a full hour of non stop yapping, I had no choice.
And what did I find? my dear reader asks. I found out that my dog is an ignoramus. Sad but true. For a full hour he was barking at my husband’s punching bag which had fallen off the tree; a punching bag that had hung from said tree for four years. Was it really such an incredible thing for a punching bag to fall two feet to the ground that he had to bark at it for an hour? And what was worse, as soon as I went out and saw the punching bag on the ground, the African Sausage Dog retired for the night in his cosy blankets, his job obviously complete, while I sat up another hour to fume. Grrrrrr!!!
So today is Saturday which usually means a bit of work and a bit of fun, but today, I am going to give myself the whole day off. Yesterday my publisher called to tell me that Mmele and the Magic Bones was selected by the Ministry of Education as a set book for standard five. That was fantastic news indeed, but he was not finished. Two of the short story anthologies I wrote with
For writers in
Friday, November 14, 2008
Commonwealth FINALLY Announces!
The results are out for 2008/2009 Commonwealth Broadcasting Association Short Story Contest (CBA). Congratulations to all of the winners!
A special shout out to Tania Hershman who scooped UK Regional Winner for her story 'Straight Up'. (Thoughts from Botswana is a stop on her book blog book tour for her short story collection The White Road . It's in December so keep your eyes open for it)
It's time to get your computers tapping and pens writing for the next year's CBA contest, deadline in May.
This contest holds a special place in my heart having been highly commended twice; the first time just when I started writing in 2004/2005 for my story 'A Pot Full of Tears'. Such wins really give you confidence that you're on the right track. It's also great to hear your story read by professional actors and to listen to the other stories on the CDs from all over the Commonwealth. I find myself listening to the CDs over and over again.
Kudos to the organisers!
A special shout out to Tania Hershman who scooped UK Regional Winner for her story 'Straight Up'. (Thoughts from Botswana is a stop on her book blog book tour for her short story collection The White Road . It's in December so keep your eyes open for it)
It's time to get your computers tapping and pens writing for the next year's CBA contest, deadline in May.
This contest holds a special place in my heart having been highly commended twice; the first time just when I started writing in 2004/2005 for my story 'A Pot Full of Tears'. Such wins really give you confidence that you're on the right track. It's also great to hear your story read by professional actors and to listen to the other stories on the CDs from all over the Commonwealth. I find myself listening to the CDs over and over again.
Kudos to the organisers!
A Fragile Light Falls on the Congo
(My short story for this week's Search Engine Fiction prompt)
She could hear the pound of boots on the hard, wet ground and the clang of metal, guns hitting against strings of bullets, buckles knocking against grenades strapped to belts. She held her hand over Adolphe’s tiny mouth and locked her own breath in her lungs. In the thin fragile light of morning, she couldn’t make out if they were the government troops or the CNDP; it didn’t matter anyway, they were all dangerous. She just wanted to be left alone. Once they passed, she tied the baby tightly to her back and she slipped across the road. The lines of refugees threaded westward, but she was making her way to the border to the east. She’d seen too much. It was time to leave the DRC.
“What the hell do you think? Get in there and get in there fast. It’s going to be a fucking free for all. You get as much coltan as you can!” Jack Miller slammed down the phone just as he heard the knock at the door. “Come in.”
He smiled as the Rwandan entered; a cat’s smile revealing little of the thoughts behind, or so he believed. He offered the tall black man a seat and poured whiskey into two glasses, handing one to the General. “So General Bienvenu, how is the situation in Goma?”
“By month end we should have the whole area evacuated. We’ve kept some of the men for labourers.” The General took a drink from the glass offered. It stung his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth. The cheap stuff. This American had no respect. He was a fool anyway. He supplied the guns for the army to get the ‘new black gold’, the dull black metal used to power the technological world. The money built their mansions and powered their cars, but only a small fraction reached their pockets; they mistakenly thought otherwise. The American, so condescending, so sure of himself and his position. The General smiled too.
“A lot of media frenzy lately, that could be dangerous,” Miller said with a scowl to emphasise his annoyance. He knew subtlety was lost on an African.
“Not much we can do. Nkunda has the people riled up. Our soldiers are just trying to get control. You can imagine their frustration. It’s understood. Besides the journalists are making it political as usual. All about tribalism, Hutu militias. Let them continue making their stories. It keeps the light off of us.” The General brushed his hand through the air to indicate the nonsense of Miller’s concerns. “It will all settle down and we’ll be back to normal. There are too many people with too much money tied up in the Eastern DRC. They won’t let the nonsense last much longer. Kabila must save face. He’ll just sweep it under the mat and turn his head as usual.”
“I hope so, General.”
The General set the empty glass on the desk and stood to his 6’3” height. Miller felt a moment of fear. He was, in the end, sitting at a desk in an office in a country at war. A dead foreigner would be understood and not investigated. He was not stupid enough to think the Africans were not aware of the amount of money involved. The General moved suddenly and Miller stepped back holding his breath. He looked down and saw the outstretched hand and exhaled. “Yes… of course..” He hesitated. “So do you think next week the coltan will be coming through again?”
“No later than Friday,” the General assured him.
He watched the big man leave, and then he pulled a small bottle of bleach from his desk and went to the sink in the corner carrying the glass the General had used. He rinsed it and wiped it clean with the bleach. Then he placed it back with the cheap whiskey in his desk drawer.
She watched for an opening. For two days, she sat in the mountains waiting for the chance to slip through the border. She knew the trucks they used to take the black stone out of the country. She knew, too, that no border guard took a second look at the trucks. They got the money to make sure they wouldn’t. She needed to get in one of those trucks. On the third day she got her chance.
The drivers also knew the value of their cargo and often stopped a few kilometres before the DRC/Rwandan border to sell coltan to people who came out from the forest. She waited there without food, licking dew from the leaves for water. On the third day, a careless driver left the back door unlatched when he went to urinate, and she slipped in closing the door behind herself and the baby. She would be free of guns and violence and death and evil. She sat on the stones, the black rocks that kept the cellphones working and the computers operating and ensured that the people she left behind would die brutal deaths until all of it could be torn from the ground.
For a moment, a thin, weak light falls on the forgotten heart of the continent. Would they see clearly? Would they bring the beacons and the floodlights so they could look beyond the cursory outlines that lied about the truth? It was doubtful since too many craved for the shadows. The dark heart of Africa was not an indigenous, intrinsic truth; it was a blanket that covered what they didn’t want others to see.
She pulled Adolphe from her back and let him suckle at her breast. She bumped along to her new life and she too hoped for a dark blackness, opaqueness so dense nothing from her past would get through, none of what she had seen, what she had experienced, and she hoped her eyes would only be able to look forward to what lie ahead
She could hear the pound of boots on the hard, wet ground and the clang of metal, guns hitting against strings of bullets, buckles knocking against grenades strapped to belts. She held her hand over Adolphe’s tiny mouth and locked her own breath in her lungs. In the thin fragile light of morning, she couldn’t make out if they were the government troops or the CNDP; it didn’t matter anyway, they were all dangerous. She just wanted to be left alone. Once they passed, she tied the baby tightly to her back and she slipped across the road. The lines of refugees threaded westward, but she was making her way to the border to the east. She’d seen too much. It was time to leave the DRC.
***
“What the hell do you think? Get in there and get in there fast. It’s going to be a fucking free for all. You get as much coltan as you can!” Jack Miller slammed down the phone just as he heard the knock at the door. “Come in.”
He smiled as the Rwandan entered; a cat’s smile revealing little of the thoughts behind, or so he believed. He offered the tall black man a seat and poured whiskey into two glasses, handing one to the General. “So General Bienvenu, how is the situation in Goma?”
“By month end we should have the whole area evacuated. We’ve kept some of the men for labourers.” The General took a drink from the glass offered. It stung his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth. The cheap stuff. This American had no respect. He was a fool anyway. He supplied the guns for the army to get the ‘new black gold’, the dull black metal used to power the technological world. The money built their mansions and powered their cars, but only a small fraction reached their pockets; they mistakenly thought otherwise. The American, so condescending, so sure of himself and his position. The General smiled too.
“A lot of media frenzy lately, that could be dangerous,” Miller said with a scowl to emphasise his annoyance. He knew subtlety was lost on an African.
“Not much we can do. Nkunda has the people riled up. Our soldiers are just trying to get control. You can imagine their frustration. It’s understood. Besides the journalists are making it political as usual. All about tribalism, Hutu militias. Let them continue making their stories. It keeps the light off of us.” The General brushed his hand through the air to indicate the nonsense of Miller’s concerns. “It will all settle down and we’ll be back to normal. There are too many people with too much money tied up in the Eastern DRC. They won’t let the nonsense last much longer. Kabila must save face. He’ll just sweep it under the mat and turn his head as usual.”
“I hope so, General.”
The General set the empty glass on the desk and stood to his 6’3” height. Miller felt a moment of fear. He was, in the end, sitting at a desk in an office in a country at war. A dead foreigner would be understood and not investigated. He was not stupid enough to think the Africans were not aware of the amount of money involved. The General moved suddenly and Miller stepped back holding his breath. He looked down and saw the outstretched hand and exhaled. “Yes… of course..” He hesitated. “So do you think next week the coltan will be coming through again?”
“No later than Friday,” the General assured him.
He watched the big man leave, and then he pulled a small bottle of bleach from his desk and went to the sink in the corner carrying the glass the General had used. He rinsed it and wiped it clean with the bleach. Then he placed it back with the cheap whiskey in his desk drawer.
***
She watched for an opening. For two days, she sat in the mountains waiting for the chance to slip through the border. She knew the trucks they used to take the black stone out of the country. She knew, too, that no border guard took a second look at the trucks. They got the money to make sure they wouldn’t. She needed to get in one of those trucks. On the third day she got her chance.
The drivers also knew the value of their cargo and often stopped a few kilometres before the DRC/Rwandan border to sell coltan to people who came out from the forest. She waited there without food, licking dew from the leaves for water. On the third day, a careless driver left the back door unlatched when he went to urinate, and she slipped in closing the door behind herself and the baby. She would be free of guns and violence and death and evil. She sat on the stones, the black rocks that kept the cellphones working and the computers operating and ensured that the people she left behind would die brutal deaths until all of it could be torn from the ground.
For a moment, a thin, weak light falls on the forgotten heart of the continent. Would they see clearly? Would they bring the beacons and the floodlights so they could look beyond the cursory outlines that lied about the truth? It was doubtful since too many craved for the shadows. The dark heart of Africa was not an indigenous, intrinsic truth; it was a blanket that covered what they didn’t want others to see.
She pulled Adolphe from her back and let him suckle at her breast. She bumped along to her new life and she too hoped for a dark blackness, opaqueness so dense nothing from her past would get through, none of what she had seen, what she had experienced, and she hoped her eyes would only be able to look forward to what lie ahead
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The Dilemma of Word Verification
I don’t understand the word verification system that operates when you want to post a comment on a blog. I suppose it’s to stop some sort of crazy cyber-criminal who wants to post all sorts of wild comments and attribute them to you, but I don’t quite get the point. If I can see those letters and re-type them, why can’t he? And also, what’s up with the crazy fonts and strange morphed letters? How does that stop these comment thieves? I spend a lot of time getting word verification wrong. Is that a B or an H? Is that an I or the side of the N? I often must try two or three times. Then I wonder- why am I not being stopped by the cyber-robocops? I’m obviously not fit to leave comments if I can’t figure out these simple letters. I must be some sort of suspect person.And yet eventually I'm allowed to leave my comment. I wonder what the cut off is. If you miss 10 times you're out? 20?
I also spend a fair amount of time trying to sound out and find meaning for the nonsense word verification words. Terackcb-hmm…sounds a bit dinosaur-y to me. How would you pronounce it? Or a great one today- Womiser. I think I might start incorporating that one into my writing. Such a wide array of meanings for that. A good insult perhaps- “You’re just a stupid womiser anyway!” Or it might be a tool, like for getting the cheese out of the holes in the cheese grater- “Hey, hand me the womiser; this cheddar is very stubborn”.
I guess, in the end, even if it doesn’t stop infiltrators of the world of comments, at least it increases my vocabulary.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Rain Loving Creatures of Botswana
Yesterday late afternoon we had a tremendous storm. The kind I love with thunder and lightening, black skies and sheets of rain. I knew this morning, out on my walk, I would find all of the morning rain lovers and I was not disappointed.
After a good rain, the red furry spiders come out. My son has informed me that they are not spiders; I can’t confirm or deny this. They look like spiders anyway. I know nothing about their ecology, but I imagine from the look of them they are either poisonous to birds and others that might want to eat them or very bad tasting. This morning while trying to get a picture of these fast furry fellows, I found one which sat very still for me. It was dead; busy being eaten by a mob of tiny ants. So at least I know now that ants eat them. My husband has informed me that when they were children they called these furry red spiders (or not) ntsanyana ya modimo- the puppy of God. I think that is delightful especially if you keep in mind how precious rain is here and how these guys only pitch up when we’ve had some.
The other rain loving creature that was out in force and in a multitude of sizes this morning was the millipede. We have incredible millipedes that love to come out after the rain. I’ve seen some as long as my forearm. This morning I saw small ones and medium size ones and quite a big one. Being a much better photographer in theory than I am in practice, I took pictures of all sizes, but upon loading the pictures into the computer I realised that I didn’t put anything in the photo for reference so they all look about the same size. Sorry about that. The Setswana word for millipede is one of the first that non-Setswana speakers learn as it is so much fun to say- sebokolodi.
Now tonight we will have the flying termites. They come after a good rain. I don’t know if it is true, but I was told once that they have wings for only one night to fly in the sky in search of mates. They fly for only a few hours and then fall to the ground and their wings fall off. They crawl around then and find ‘the one’. If you leave a light on, they will crowd around it en masse. In the morning, you will be left with piles of light brown, transparent wings under the light, but no termites. Look out in your yard. If it is nicely cleared and swept, you will see hundreds of little mounds of dirt. I got such a shock the first time I saw them. The termites have all disappeared underground. It only happens after the first few good rains then it’s over until the next year. The dikokobele will be finished for the year.
Although dung beetles (khukhwane ya boloko) are not exclusively rain lovers, I was happy to see one this morning. You’ve got to appreciate their industriousness.
After a good rain, the red furry spiders come out. My son has informed me that they are not spiders; I can’t confirm or deny this. They look like spiders anyway. I know nothing about their ecology, but I imagine from the look of them they are either poisonous to birds and others that might want to eat them or very bad tasting. This morning while trying to get a picture of these fast furry fellows, I found one which sat very still for me. It was dead; busy being eaten by a mob of tiny ants. So at least I know now that ants eat them. My husband has informed me that when they were children they called these furry red spiders (or not) ntsanyana ya modimo- the puppy of God. I think that is delightful especially if you keep in mind how precious rain is here and how these guys only pitch up when we’ve had some.
The other rain loving creature that was out in force and in a multitude of sizes this morning was the millipede. We have incredible millipedes that love to come out after the rain. I’ve seen some as long as my forearm. This morning I saw small ones and medium size ones and quite a big one. Being a much better photographer in theory than I am in practice, I took pictures of all sizes, but upon loading the pictures into the computer I realised that I didn’t put anything in the photo for reference so they all look about the same size. Sorry about that. The Setswana word for millipede is one of the first that non-Setswana speakers learn as it is so much fun to say- sebokolodi.
Now tonight we will have the flying termites. They come after a good rain. I don’t know if it is true, but I was told once that they have wings for only one night to fly in the sky in search of mates. They fly for only a few hours and then fall to the ground and their wings fall off. They crawl around then and find ‘the one’. If you leave a light on, they will crowd around it en masse. In the morning, you will be left with piles of light brown, transparent wings under the light, but no termites. Look out in your yard. If it is nicely cleared and swept, you will see hundreds of little mounds of dirt. I got such a shock the first time I saw them. The termites have all disappeared underground. It only happens after the first few good rains then it’s over until the next year. The dikokobele will be finished for the year.
Although dung beetles (khukhwane ya boloko) are not exclusively rain lovers, I was happy to see one this morning. You’ve got to appreciate their industriousness.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Writer’s Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a group of writers met. Not in blood and bones, because they were kilometres and oceans apart, but in the wires, in the air, in that odd nebulous place that can’t quite be envisioned and maybe isn’t always believed in- cyberspace. These twenty odd writers met and their leader, a stubborn man living in the land of literary giants, kept the wayward group together because he had a plan and he would not be deterred. He wanted the voices of the world, the part sitting, in the descriptions of others at third place, to step forward and speak. He wanted to hear how those people might define their own lives. He thought something special might just happen if together this group of writers could work towards this common goal.
And so the writers wrote. They wrote and shared and critiqued and discussed and laughed and sometimes even fought, all of it leading toward the goal, written in the dreams of their leader, for he wanted a book. A book of these writings.
The writers got to know each other. The coming together created a crazy domino falling magic that knocked against them pushing them out of line in a delightful way. Accolades and prizes rained down and the writers celebrated each other’s successes. A camaraderie formed that pulled all of them forward.
Then yet another child of this extraordinary country, this country that has given so much to the written world, came forward to help the leader. She took the dream in her hands and moulded it and rubbed off the sharp edges and then she threw it hard and with determination into that scary land; the land most writers fear, the place where horrifying stories are told by the wounded and walking dead- the land of the publishers. (EISH!)
But what the group didn’t know was that there was a publisher who was waiting for just such a book. The woman, the daughter of the literary giants who already walked tentatively in their footsteps, threw the ball of dreams so straight, so accurately, she scored one with one and the book of a dreamer found a publisher in waiting.
And the dream gained form. It went from dots and fuzz to concrete lines and paper and ink. From a thought to a reality, grown from a beautiful connection made among a diverse group of people in a make believe place. A fairy tale of a story not normally believed in the sceptic, jaded world of sad stories and sadder realities.
Believe it though,
for it has happened.
ONE WORLD!!!!
Out during the Northern Hemisphere Spring 2009!!!
Published by The New Internationalist.
The writers:
Elaine Chiew (Malaysia)
Molara Wood (Nigeria)
Martin A Ramos (Puerto Rico)
Henrietta Rose-Innes (South Africa)
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Nigeria)
Shabnam Nadiya (Bangladesh)
Ravi Mangla (USA)
Chika Unigwe (Nigeria)
Dipita Kwa (Cameroon)
Sequoia Nagamatsu (USA)
Jude Dibia (Nigeria)
Konstantinos Tzikas (Greece)
Petina Gappah (Zimbabwe)
Ken Kamoche (Kenya)
Lucinda Nelson Dhavan (India)
Adetokunbo Gbenga Abiola (Nigeria)
Skye Brannon (USA)
Wadzanai Mhute (Zimbabwe)
Ivan Gabriel Rehorek (Australia)
Ovo Adagha (Nigeria)- OUR LEADER!!!!
Jhumpa Lahiri (
(Yahoo for us!!)
Monday, November 10, 2008
10 Things NOT to Do When Submitting Your Short Story
I have my second post up at Blood Red Pencil. Just a bit of advice for those sending short stories out. Hope it's helpful.
Sarah the Scapegoat
The Republican Party in a bid to breathe life into their moribund campaign roped in the Alaskan governor. They wanted to divert the public’s attention away from the Obama Magic that was blinding people after the Democratic Convention. They thought they could hoodwink the American people. She would snatch up the disgruntled Hilary voters. She would snag the far right who were alienated by John McCain’s centre position. She did all of that. Now they want to hang her out in the wind to be bashed around like a piñata to try and get people to believe that the problem of their party is just this little add-on that can be excised with a slice of a sharp knife. Not quite, folks. The Republican Party’s problems lie far deeper and sorting them out will likely have tsunami like repercussions.
Now it’s all about leaking tit bits to Fox. She couldn’t name the countries in Africa, wasn’t even sure we weren’t one big country. Yeah so? I doubt George W knows eight years after being commander –in-chief and certainly didn’t know at the start of his first term.
Watching all of this is sickening. The question I keep asking myself is “Would they be doing this if she were a man?” The answer is a resounding “No!”. She was pulled out of the Arctic to trump up a campaign that was dead in the water. She did it at quite a significant personal expense to herself and her family. I am no fan of Sarah Palin and her right wing fringe perspective, but I do think she is being treated abysmally. Where is the magnanimous John McCain now? Why can’t he step in and stand up for her? Why can’t he sort out his undisciplined team, members who are too cowardly to step forward in the light of day with their ‘information’, but instead whisper it anonymously into phones in the dark of night. Shame on them!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
News from Sunday Standard
Anybody who lived in
It has apparently been bought by Flame Power Multimedia a local production company. They have roped in a South African scriptwriter, Marina Bekker, to write the script, keeping Mr. Sesinyi on as a consultant. According to Thuso Oitsile the CEO for Flame Power Multimedia, they have an estimated budget of P20 million and are busy fundraising. It appears Botswana Tourism may be one of the funders having made a precedent with the Mma Ramotswe film.
The other very exciting thing in today’s Sunday Standard is a new column on all things creative by Tiro Sebina,
Mr. Sebina says, “In these hard times of moral degeneration, our communities need plenty of technicians of the heart and engineers of compassion. As a society we need more not fewer writers.” (Yeah Tiro!!)
He promises to devote part of each column to advice for creative writers.
In what I believe is the first instalment of the column, he speaks about characterisation and how to get to know your characters. His advice? “Learn to live with them. If you let them they may guide you to shape better stories. Care about your characters, even those characters who abuse and hurt others need to be loved enough to be understood.”
I look forward to Mr. Sebina’s future column and applaud Sunday Standard for providing space for this type of literary advice.
Friday, November 7, 2008
It Only Takes One Person
(Because of him)
for Selma
Carlos walks through the metal detectors while suspicious-eyed, white police officers dismiss him with one look. A gang banger. A wet back. Another mouth to feed with hard earned tax money. The heavy cold judgement hammers him another inch into the ground, the ground threatening to hold him where he is, to keep him from the clouds where he knows he belongs. What the white eyes don’t know, what the circumstances can’t uncover, is that Carlos holds one thing they can’t touch with their pronouncements about him. His hand grips tightly around his own small bit of hope. He will not let go of it.
Benjamin, the teacher, drags himself to the front of the class, the friction from the futility of it beats at him. What’s the use? A class of brown, black, and yellow faces, single mothers, poor neighbourhoods, drugs, knives, guns, hopelessness- what chance did any of them have? But he spies a slim chance. A sliver of a space that will allow them to pass if only they can see it, if they can fit through. He has hope that in each passing from here to there, the space is widened allowing more to make their way. And so he tries again and again and again.
Black Diana has made bad choices to survive. Sharing beds for money, taking drugs to hide the reality of a life without a single door leading out. But she sees herself in the mirror, not the lined face of a middle aged woman battered into submission; it is the little girl she recognises there. The one she left behind. The one who dreamed of dancing until she was told, “Not for you”; the one who wanted her name in lights. She whispers to her, “I haven’t forgotten you.”
He was a skinny boy with a foreign father raised by a single mother. Not black enough, not white enough. Labels threatened to weigh him down and push him into the boxes they chose. He was intelligent, and that let him through, but many are intelligent, and they don’t move mountains. He was eloquent, but eloquence can be taught. He held something more valuable. He asked himself questions that only he could answer. And he didn’t shy away from the answers he found deep in his heart. He didn’t make excuses. He held his hope jealously and used it as a beacon through dark nights and darker days where the light revealed the obstacles ahead. He knew his destiny held more than those around him were able to imagine. He followed what he knew to be true.
Carlos, Ben and Diana stand in the crowd of hundreds of thousands, their hearts quivering in their chests, recognising themselves in the faces around them. They’ve all made a pilgrimage in search of validation.
He stands before them, speaks, and suddenly those handfuls of hope held in brown, black, yellow, red, and white hands all over the world make sense. They are not silly dreams of ungrounded people without their practical feet stuck in the concrete of reality. They are now the paths to a day written in the stars and across the universe. It is easy to see now; those handfuls of hope are the wings that will set each of them free.
Hope empowering hope; the chain reaction has started
and it cannot be stopped.
for Selma
Carlos walks through the metal detectors while suspicious-eyed, white police officers dismiss him with one look. A gang banger. A wet back. Another mouth to feed with hard earned tax money. The heavy cold judgement hammers him another inch into the ground, the ground threatening to hold him where he is, to keep him from the clouds where he knows he belongs. What the white eyes don’t know, what the circumstances can’t uncover, is that Carlos holds one thing they can’t touch with their pronouncements about him. His hand grips tightly around his own small bit of hope. He will not let go of it.
Benjamin, the teacher, drags himself to the front of the class, the friction from the futility of it beats at him. What’s the use? A class of brown, black, and yellow faces, single mothers, poor neighbourhoods, drugs, knives, guns, hopelessness- what chance did any of them have? But he spies a slim chance. A sliver of a space that will allow them to pass if only they can see it, if they can fit through. He has hope that in each passing from here to there, the space is widened allowing more to make their way. And so he tries again and again and again.
Black Diana has made bad choices to survive. Sharing beds for money, taking drugs to hide the reality of a life without a single door leading out. But she sees herself in the mirror, not the lined face of a middle aged woman battered into submission; it is the little girl she recognises there. The one she left behind. The one who dreamed of dancing until she was told, “Not for you”; the one who wanted her name in lights. She whispers to her, “I haven’t forgotten you.”
He was a skinny boy with a foreign father raised by a single mother. Not black enough, not white enough. Labels threatened to weigh him down and push him into the boxes they chose. He was intelligent, and that let him through, but many are intelligent, and they don’t move mountains. He was eloquent, but eloquence can be taught. He held something more valuable. He asked himself questions that only he could answer. And he didn’t shy away from the answers he found deep in his heart. He didn’t make excuses. He held his hope jealously and used it as a beacon through dark nights and darker days where the light revealed the obstacles ahead. He knew his destiny held more than those around him were able to imagine. He followed what he knew to be true.
Carlos, Ben and Diana stand in the crowd of hundreds of thousands, their hearts quivering in their chests, recognising themselves in the faces around them. They’ve all made a pilgrimage in search of validation.
He stands before them, speaks, and suddenly those handfuls of hope held in brown, black, yellow, red, and white hands all over the world make sense. They are not silly dreams of ungrounded people without their practical feet stuck in the concrete of reality. They are now the paths to a day written in the stars and across the universe. It is easy to see now; those handfuls of hope are the wings that will set each of them free.
Hope empowering hope; the chain reaction has started
and it cannot be stopped.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Writers Association of Botswana (WABO) Gets New Blog!!
The Writers Association of Botswana (WABO)has a new blog. Please visit and learn all about literary events happening in Botswana. Comment with your feelings about the state of bookish things in Botswana, in Africa in the world at large. We invite everyone to be part of it!!
(I'm the vice chair of WABO)
(I'm the vice chair of WABO)
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
An Historic Day
When we got married, we decided that we would live in Botswana. I knew I couldn't bear to see my black husband subjected to the racism that is endemic in America, nor let my brown children be told that they could only go so far.
I'm not naive enough to think that the racism will be wiped away with today's election results, but it does mean that the majority of Americans have laid down the gauntlet and said- No More. It does mean that all people of colour in America have a thin path cut out for them, a path that never existed before Obama. That is a huge thing.
A great man has entered centre stage and I for one am expecting great things.
(And I'm relieved I can finally stop telling people I was born in Armenia- that Armenian accent has been tough to maintain)
An African son is now taking up residence of the White House............Yaoza!!!
PULA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm not naive enough to think that the racism will be wiped away with today's election results, but it does mean that the majority of Americans have laid down the gauntlet and said- No More. It does mean that all people of colour in America have a thin path cut out for them, a path that never existed before Obama. That is a huge thing.
A great man has entered centre stage and I for one am expecting great things.
(And I'm relieved I can finally stop telling people I was born in Armenia- that Armenian accent has been tough to maintain)
An African son is now taking up residence of the White House............Yaoza!!!
PULA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Launch of The Seed Children
The launch of The Seed Children was everything I thought it would be. Unfortunately my camera went crazy and I have no pictures. There is a great article by Gasebalwe Seretse in this week's Mmegi Monitor with a picture of the author dressed as Mother Nature at the beginning of the performance. It starts out quite scary with a stern message to audience regarding our abuse of nature.
Bonty's books focus on different aspects of Botswana's natural and cultural heritage. This one is about children who defy the taboo of eating the seeds of wild fruits and become transformed into trees themselves.
Bonty uses very talented unemployed youth from her home Maun to put on the performance. The costumes, the music, the dances - they were all fantastic. She's made a DVD of the show. So please- anyone looking for a great Botswana-made performance for your next writers festival or book fair or even an environmental event (the book and performance have a strong environmental theme) contact Bonty at tharientsho@gmail.com. This year she had a choir in the show and the kids had shades of the stupendous Soweto Gospel Choir- and these are not trained singers. Amazing!!
Bonty's books focus on different aspects of Botswana's natural and cultural heritage. This one is about children who defy the taboo of eating the seeds of wild fruits and become transformed into trees themselves.
Bonty uses very talented unemployed youth from her home Maun to put on the performance. The costumes, the music, the dances - they were all fantastic. She's made a DVD of the show. So please- anyone looking for a great Botswana-made performance for your next writers festival or book fair or even an environmental event (the book and performance have a strong environmental theme) contact Bonty at tharientsho@gmail.com. This year she had a choir in the show and the kids had shades of the stupendous Soweto Gospel Choir- and these are not trained singers. Amazing!!
The illustrations in the book were also top notch. I met the young illustrator, Debra Stein, an untrained artist, South African, also living in Maun (Does Bonty give back to her community or what?). The paintings are truly beautiful. Here is one of my favourites:
Wonderful stuff coming out of Botswana- heh????
Monday, November 3, 2008
Mmele and the Magic Bones Out!!
My children’s book, Mmele and the Magic Bones is out. I received copies on the weekend. Yeah!!
The book was short listed for UK Macmillan’s African Writers Prize in the junior section earlier this year. It is about the quest of a boy, Mmele, and his dog, Mpopi, who must travel to The Falls of Life and bring Mmele’s grandfather back from the Place of the Ancestors.
A fun, scary, exciting, adventure!!
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