Dillibe Onyeama Reveals the truth In Letters.

In BBC’s series of Letters from Africa, journalist Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani speaks to one of the first African students who graduated from one of UK’s prestigious colleges, Eton college.

She spoke about his experience of racism in the 1960s and 70s, and about his views on the current debate about apologizing for slavery and colonial-era statues.

It was during this interview that the former student by name Dillibe Onyeama, revealed the height of racism he had experienced as a black student during his time.

The only other black student at Eton College during that time, was an Ethopian Prince.

He arrived during Onyeama’s final year and Tokunbo Akintola, who left after two years, leaving Onyeama alone. Tokunbo Akintola was the first black person to be enrolled at Eton College.

Eton College.

Eton has a reputation for educating well known members of British society. These members include Prime Minister Boris Johnson, Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby and both the Duke of Cambridge and the Duke of Sussex.

Who is Dillibe Onyeama

Dillibe Onyeama is a Nigerian author and publisher. In 1969, he became the first Black person to graduate from the prestigious Eton College.

He wrote a book about his experiences of racism at Eton, Nigger at Eton. This resulted in the school under the then headmaster banning him from visiting the school.

The ban was lifted ten years later, when he was invited for a reunion. He had been too busy to attend.

He has written 28 books, including The Story of an African God. It is a biography of his late grandfather, Onyeama the Okuru Oha of Agbaja.

He was powerful and influential slave trader who became an ally of the British colonialists.

Revelations of a “Nigger at Eton”.

Onyeama began writing about his experiences at Eton while he was still a student. Onyeama stated that the inspiration to put down his own experiences at the age of 17, had come from a movie.

“I watched a movie in those days called Tom Brown’s School Days, where the hero was ragged very badly and roasted over a fire,” he said.

Onyeama’s book is still in print in Nigeria. He would retain the original title, Nigger at Eton, if it were republished in the UK, he insists.

“It is symbolic. I am a black author. I am using it,” he said.

When Onyeama performed poorly in academics or excelled in sports, the students attributed it to his race.

When he obtained seven O-level passes, the entire school was astounded. Because he was black.

They had asked time and time again how he did it. They went as far as accusing him of cheating.

The Apology to Dillibe Onyeama.

Onyeama recently received an apology from the school’s headmaster, Mr. Henderson. This apology came after BBC had asked for a comment on the news delivered.

In a statement, the headmaster said:

“We have made significant strides since Mr Onyeama was at Eton but – as millions of people around the world rightly raise their voices in protest against racial discrimination and inequality – we have to have the institutional and personal humility to acknowledge that we still have more to do.

The headmaster said that he would invite Onyeama to meet him in order to apologize in person and “to make it clear that he will always be welcome at Eton”.

“We must all speak out and commit to doing better – permanently – and I am determined that we seize this moment as a catalyst for real and sustained change for the better,” he added.

Mr Onyeama said he “felt appreciative, but it wasn’t necessary” for the school to an offer an apology.

He added, however, that the apology:

“compels the recognition that prejudice on the grounds of colour or race dehumanizes its victims in a way that ordinary forms of prejudice do not”.

About the Author

Chiziterem Chijioke is a creative writer, editor and a student of mass communication at Ajayi Crowther University. She has worked as a volunteer in Fresh Writers Community, a consultant for Pabpub and currently works as an editor for Creative Writing News. Chiziterem has authored four works and hopes publish them. She is purpose driven and passionate about writing.

The post Dillibe Onyeama: Racist Memoirs From Eton College. appeared first on Creative Writing News.

Recently, I reached out to six of the most amazing poets on the Nigerian literary scene at the moment and asked then how they deal with editing, rejections, and books they’ll recommend.

These poets are: Sillerman Book finalist Nome Emeka Patrick; Brittle Paper Award winner for poetry and author of Sky Raining Fists JK Anowe; the editor and curator of Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry and author of The Arrival of Rain Adedayo Agarau; winner of the 2019—2020 Hellebore Poetry Scholarship Award Michael Akuchie; author of Gospels of Depression Pamilerin Jacob; and CAAPP finalist Wale Ayinla.

Considering that editing poetry is not an easy task, here are their responses on editing, rejections, and books they’ll recommend.

What’s the process of editing a poem like for you? Is there a process?

Pamilerin Jacob: For me, the editing process entails a lot of free writing, rephrasing, experimentation with form, letting the poem lie fallow for a while, and reading aloud (to an inanimate object: chair, mirror, or moon).

In my poems, half the work is in finding new mental pathways for language to wobble through. And this comes with its own frustrations, which is why I relish the fallow period and free writing sessions.

Often, amidst all these, I step away from the computer to go gaze at the banana trees in the backyard, even tracing the leaves with my hands. It helps center myself.

There’s no precise order to the process though, but these are the major components.

Wale Ayinla: Writing is an art, and editing is the disruption of the art. It is the most important, and most tedious, process of making a poem look like the poem it is.

Editing involves all senses to be at work. The nose to smell which part should be replaced, the ears to hear a word that does not fit, the eyes to see through the lines, the brain to serve as the blade that opens the poem and puts it back after the writer (editor) chooses to take a break.

Editing never ends. It is a continuous process. You edit till the draft reads like a poem. Just like writing is an atmosphere, editing is an atmosphere of chaos. You show no mercy, but pure artistry.

Michael Akuchie: Well, this question happens to be timely. At the moment, I am editing a packet of poems written between January and March this year. The packet contains twenty nine drafts. It’s not safe to address them as poems especially when their direction is highly uncertain.

That, my friend, is the purpose of editing. Whenever I have my heart set on editing, I usually have music playing softly in the room. I eat a lot so snacks have to be available. I question the structure of the draft. I visualize what I must have felt, the kind of feeling(s) I harbored as I drafted, and I begin work.

Last year, Wale Ayinla, a loving writer friend, showed me how to make the middle line the opening line and vice-versa. He showed me how to make my poem anything I wanted as long as it appeared a perfect fit. Now, while editing, the primary goal is not to check punctuation or spelling mistakes but to make clearer an idea, a line, an expression.

I like to think of editing as an activity that pimps the draft and draws out a clean, fluid piece of writing. I am by nature a loner so I don’t have to worry about anyone walking in and disrupting my thought process. The music is my recognized company. Nothing else.

Adedayo Agarau: My editing process is to edit as I write. Not every writer has mastered the concept of patience, to give a work the time it needs.

I actually go back to works when they have been rejected. Sometimes, I do not touch them. The miracle of poetry is that it bears witness with our spirit upon perfection.

JK Anowe: Is there? I’m not sure there is, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. I’m not a very deliberate poet.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m deliberate in my reading, whether of books or of the world around me, & there’s a certain level of control I imbibe when I write, or rewrite (I do agree with the person, whoever they’re, that said much of writing is rewriting) but this isn’t at all encompassing, this deliberateness.

I call to mind the child-genius in the movie “The Kindergarten Teacher” & how one minute he could be building LEGOs & the next he’s pacing about reciting remarkable poetry that suddened upon him from within himself. I relate to that character because that is how poetry, which is for me something akin to a calling, happens to me.

I do not write with a linear stream of consciousness, something I’ve come to refer to as “Schizo-Poetry”, i.e. moving rapidly from one thought process or train of thought to another without finishing or expanding on the one prior.

And because my work is obsessed with the existential as it relates to the psyche, to the self & everything else outside & between, not to mention my own struggles with mental illness, it seems rather appropriate, doesn’t it, this unlineal rendition of my thought process? Which is to say, most times, the editing is in the writing, the editing is just as continuous as the writing itself.

I spend months making notes & waiting to stumble on that junction where language meets experience. And since I’m primarily an autobiographical poet, much of my writing, & rewriting, is accomplished in waiting; long, sometimes tiresome bouts of waiting.

Nome Emeka Patrick: I believe editing has a process. Normally, editing can be a conscious examination of the syntax, semantics, and aesthetic flaws of a poem.

I think one of the steps towards editing, for me, is leaving a draft for a while before going back to it. It helps me identify the loopholes in the form, the style, the tense, the application of metaphor, imagery e.t.c.

Editing, like many say, is hardwork. But for me, it all just depends on what I am working on. Some poems come out just great without changing anything; while some others take a day, a week e.t.c. And, I must add this, some get deleted.

How many times is a piece rejected before you give up on it, or do you keep polishing and sending it out still?

Adedayo Agarau: I don’t know but I think I stop sending a set of poems out once I have new sets. But if I believe in a certain work so much, I will keep sending it out. And yes, rejection sometimes reminds me to polish the work.

Nome Emeka Patrick: Honestly, if I don’t trust a work, I’m never sending it out. One thing I do is send works that have gone through rigorous editorial process. Though, not at all times—especially during contests. I also make simultaneous submissions; it is rare for five different magazines to reject a pack of poems, but when this happens, I know there is something that needs to be done.

I hardly polish rejected poems. Did I send them as drafts? NO. Which means they are already polished works. For instance, my work on POETRY magazine got rejected six times elsewhere. I should have withdrawn it right? But I just felt, a polished work is a polished work. No need polishing what is already polished. The magazine doesn’t like it, that’s why they rejected it.

If a magazine wants your poem, they would accept it. Then they’d point out errors they notice(d) before they go ahead to publish it.

If I believe in a work, I’d keep sending it out.

Michael Akuchie: Well, say four to five times. You must note that different magazines have varying aesthetic tastes and some poems will not find a place, not because they are bad poems but because where they are submitted to isn’t the right place. Editors’ tastes are subjective.

Though I tend to revisit a poem if it is rejected four to five times. I tend to look for loopholes, a loose end, something I didn’t quite do justice to. I like to look for what appears to be hidden. It takes patience and wit to deal with some rejections. Especially the ones you were certain to receive an opposite response for.

Pamilerin Jacob: Not going to lie, it depends. Wary of over-polishing, I only ever adjust titles or the poem’s form after a rejection. Rejections are super exhausting, but they also instill endurance. So I don’t really fall out of love with a piece even if it gets rejected multiple times. By the tenth time though, I leave it in the unpublished stash, for the time being.

Wale Ayinla: Writing is subjective, and you cannot determine which journal or editor will love your piece before sending. If only we know, there will be less rejection emails. But it is not so. I believe that most times, rejection of a particular piece doesn’t devalue you or your work.

Some journals would even drop several notes and suggestions to make the piece work. For me, the first thing I do after getting a rejection is look back into the batch of poems. I’ll read and read again with an open mind. If it needs a little more polishing, I do that. Art is timeless. Writing is an art.

JK Anowe: I think the day I give up on a poem just because it was rejected by a publisher or literary journal is the day my hands should be severed, albeit figuratively, from writing altogether. And this I can say because I am greatly aware of & have determined the kind of poet I am.

I believe to be able to write a poem, one must first become the kind of poet that can write & be worthy of said poem. I mean, most of these journals do not even offer concrete feedback, mostly due to the number of submissions they deal with on a daily basis.

They tell you it’s not a good fit & that is that. Now, that’s an awfully sorry reason to give up on a piece, don’t you think?

Recommend some poetry books (you could also include some on writing poetry).

Nome Emeka Patrick: I would always recommend old poets. And these: Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry, edited by Adedayo Agarau; 20.35 Africa: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, edited by Ebenezer Agu; The January Children by Safia Ehillo; Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar; Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky; Night Sky With Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong; Stag’s Leap by Sharon Olds; Unfortunately, it was Paradise by Mahmoud Darwish; There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé by Morgan Parker.

On writing/understanding poetry: In the Palm of Your Hand by Steve Kowit; The Poet’s Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux; The Art of Daring by Carl Philips; The Sacred Wood by T.S Eliot (I haven’t been able to finish this since I started because of its complexity).

Michael Akuchie: On writing poetry:  In the Palm of Your Hand by Steve Kovit; The Art of Daring by Carl Philips; The Poet’s Guide to Life by Rainer Maria Rilke; Long Life by Mary Oliver. Poetry collections: Ilya Kaminsky’s Deaf Republic; Chris Abani’s Sanctifictum; Kaveh Akbar’s Calling a Wolf a Wolf; Logan February’s Garlands.

Pamilerin Jacob: Ok, I think these are lovely lovely books: Red Bird by Mary Oliver; Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry, edited by Adedayo Agarau; The Heresiad by Ikeogu Oke; The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing, edited by Kevin Young; Here is Water by ‘Gbenga Adeoba; The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets by Ted Kooser; The Arrival of Rain by Adedayo Agarau; Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Wale Ayinla: Letters to a Young Poet by Reina Maria Rilke and A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver. When it comes to books that I like and return to often: Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong; Kingdom Animalia by Aracelis Girmay; Bestiary by Donika Kelly; Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky; Pastoral by Carl Phillips—among others.

Adedayo Agarau: My current read is Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s Oceanic, which is an amazing read. Gripping, urgent, yet subtle in the way it drives you through.

JK Anowe: Contemporarily, I return to Kaveh Akbar’s Calling a Wolf a Wolf and Ocean Vuong’s Night Sky with Exit Wounds. These books, especially the latter, literally saved my poet life. I’ve been reading the works of Franz Wright (and also the works of his father, James Wright), currently on his Pulitzer-winning collection, Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, & it is nothing short of glorious.

I love Hala Alyan’s The Twenty Ninth Year, she’s such a wise poet, & everything by Ilya Kaminsky. I think every poet should be a disciple of Mary Oliver. Any poet who can capture language at the barest minimum as she did is a genius. She was a genius.

Less contemporarily, I’m obsessed with Rilke, The Complete Works of Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath’s Ariel & Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) which I was introduced to in my undergraduate years studying French. As for books on writing, there were aspects of Francine Prose’s Reading Like A Writer that I found helpful, even though it limited its scope to prose writing.

Carl Phillips, whose style of poetry I greatly admire, has a wonderful book, The Art of Daring: Risk, Restlessness, Imagination, on the craft of writing poetry. Ben Lerner’s The Hatred of Poetry was and is still a wonderful read. Finally, Ondaatje’s The English Patient and Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous are prose works that I return to for their elevation of language.

Read: On How Best To Handle Rejections

Author Bios:

JK Anowe, Igbo-born poet, is author of the poetry chapbooks Sky Raining Fists (Madhouse Press, 2019) and The Ikemefuna Tributaries: a parable for paranoia (Praxis Magazine Online, 2016). He’s a finalist of the 2019 Gerard Kraak Award. He lives and writes from somewhere in Nigeria.

Wale Ayinla is a Nigerian poet, essayist, and editor. He is a Best of the Net and Best New Poets Award nominee, and his works appear or are forthcoming on Guernica, Ruminate Magazine, McNeese Review, Waccamaw, Poet Lore, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere. In 2019, he was a finalist for the Brittle Paper Award for Poetry, and his manuscript, Sea Blues on Water Meridian was a finalist for the inaugural CAAPP Book Prize. He is @Wale_Ayinla on Twitter.

Michael Akuchie is an emerging interviewer/poet of Igbo-Esan descent who lives and studies in Lagos and Benin-City, Nigeria, respectively.  He is a final year undergrad of English and Literature in the University of Benin, Nigeria. Michael is a recipient of the 2020 Roadrunner Review Poetry Prize and The 2019-2020 Hellebore Poetry Scholarship Award for his chapbook manuscript, “Wreck”, forthcoming Fall/Winter 2020.

Adedayo Agarau’s chapbook, Origin of Names, was selected by Chris Abani and Kwame Dawes for New Generation African Poet (African Poetry Book Fund), 2020.  He is a human nutritionist, documentary photographer, and author of two chapbooks, For Boys Who Went & The Arrival of Rain. Adedayo was shortlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Prize in 2018, Runner up of the Sehvage Poetry Prize, 2019. Adedayo is an Assistant Editor at Animal Heart Press, a Contributing Editor for Poetry at Barren Magazine and a Poetry reader at Feral. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Glass Poetry, Mineral Lit, Ice Floe, Ghost City, Temz, Linden Avenue, Headway Lit, The Shore Poetry, Giallo and elsewhere. Adedayo was said to have curated and edited the biggest poetry anthology by Nigerian poets, Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry. You can find him on Twitter @adedayo_agarau or agarauadedayo.com.

Pamilerin Jacob is a Nigerian poet whose poems have appeared in _Barren Magazine, Agbowó, Poetry Potion, Ghost City Press, Elsieisy, Feed Lit Mag, Rattle_ & elsewhere. He was the second runner-up for _Sevhage Poetry Prize 2019_, co-winner _PIN Food Poetry Contest 2018_. His poems also appear in _Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poets, 2020_. Author of the chapbook, _Gospels of Depression_; he is a staunch believer in the powers of critical thinking, Khalil Gibran’s poetry & chocolate ice-cream. Reach him on Twitter @pamilerinjacob.

Nome Emeka Patrick is a blxck bxy; he graduated from University of Benin, Nigeria, where he studied English Language and Literature. His works have been published or forthcoming in POETRY, Poet Lore, Black Warrior Review, Strange Horizons, The Malahat Review, Beloit poetry journal, The FIDDLEHEAD, Notre Dame Review, Puerto Del Sol, McNeese Review, FLAPPER HOUSE, Gargouille, Crannóg magazine, Mud Season Review, The Oakland Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly and elsewhere. A Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and Pushcart prize nominee. His manuscript ‘We Need New Moses. Or New Luther King’ was a finalist for the 2018 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.

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The best short story writers do something to you just after you read that last paragraph: they leave a kind of quiet inside you. Or is it peace? It is different things for different people, but I know that after reading a good story, something happens to you on the inside that you just can’t brush off, something that will return to you at odd times when something reminds you of one of the characters from the story or of the story itself.

All three of these stories do just that. All the stories are about children trying to make sense of their normal world that’s beginning to go wrong, or, as in Anena’s story, a world that has always been wrong that the main character is trying to make right. Two of the stories are narrated by children—and their voice is so beautiful and innocent!—the third is narrated in second person, which still gives the story the required feel.

One of the stories was published in The New Yorker in 2006, was shortlisted for the Caine Prize the following year, and appeared in Uwem Akpan’s acclaimed collection of stories, Say You’re One of Them (in fact, the book’s title is pulled from this story). The other story appeared in a collection of selected short stories and poems published by the African Writers Trust in 2013, Suubi. The stories in the anthology were born out of a mentorship program organized by the AWT, where emerging Ugandan writers were paired with established UK based writers. The third story comes from a writer whose poem was also included in Suubi, and this story was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize in 2018, and appeared on adda.

The best short story writers do something to you just after you read that last paragraph: they leave a kind of quiet inside you.

 

Oyet Sisto Ocen “In the Plantation”, published in Suubi.

None of the stories in Suubi have ever once lost their grip on my mind, but then this story about a small happy girl, Nakato, and her twin brother, Kato, and their family and friends and an Uncle Tom who lives in the city and has become very rich is one story that would not live my head. The voice of the narrator is so moving and so innocent that we cannot help but fall in love with it.

When, one day, she returned from school to meet many-many people in their house and her aunt carried her and told her that Kato’s head, her brother’s head, was gone, she said: “If Kato’s head had gone, it would come back. It would find Kato and fix itself, we would still run in that long trail of the banana plantations, we would meet Joe and Katumba, probably we would still plan to go and steal the pawpaw from Mr. Mukasa’s plantation and eat in our backyard.”

This juxtaposition of beauty next to blood, innocence next to the evil of men who are supposed to be matured, and peace and grief is the thing that makes this story what it is.

The beautiful thing about this story is how it immerses us in place, in the environment. The story opens with the children searching for nsenene, later they are running to Mr. Mukasa’s plantation to steal pawpaw. All of those things are things that anybody who had real fun in the real world—I mean, I used to sling sparrows and suck the juice from flowers and catch grasshoppers—when they were young would know of. And, quite brilliantly, it is amidst all of these innocence—which also includes the sweet they always got from Uncle Tom, which they ran to share with Katumba, the child who liked to play with his private part, the running after Uncle Tom’s car on their way back from school—that we are suddenly thrown into the bitter world. And I think it is Sisto trying to show us how disaster doesn’t know young or old or maturity or innocence—or rather, that evil men do not care.

This juxtaposition of beauty next to blood, innocence next to the evil of men who are supposed to be matured, and peace and grief is the thing that makes this story what it is.

The other beautiful thing is the use of very short sentences, which is just the best because the narrator is a child. Here: “I still recall its sweetness when he gave it to us. Uncle Tom found us playing in the banana plantations. We were searching for nsenene, the grasshopper which appeared seasonally when it rained in our village. We searched for them on the ground and in the folds of the banana leaves.” These short sentences will keep carrying you, magically (because the magical doesn’t have to be loud and glaring; in fact, the best writers are those who do wonders with the sentence such that it doesn’t distract you from the story itself), such that when you get to its end, you’ll be unable to uproot the feeling that this story would have grown in your chest.

Harriet Anena “Dancing with Ma”, published in adda.

Her mother died just after she was born, so they, the people who found her, named her Kec-kom (misfortune)—“Kec-kom, because you were Aba’s misfortune…Kec-kom, because you were Ma’s misfortune, too”—instead of Gum-kom (fortune). However, after a series of unfair treatments to the young motherless girl (from Auntie and Grandma, the both of them from Aba—the man who is supposed to be her father—’s family, and sometimes even from Aba, too), which made her so angry that she torched the house with fire one day—Kec-kom parked the few things that could be called hers and left the house. She walked 24 kilometers, walking slowly but without stopping, until she arrived a house where she met a woman—Calina Aber—to whom she introduced herself as “Gum-kom”. But even this Jabez-y act wouldn’t change her story. Even here, with Calina, a woman who couldn’t bear a child, and her husband, Simeo Latim, a teacher—even here, with this seemingly nice people, her story becomes another story of kec-kom.

“Dancing with Ma” is a fast-paced short story that shows us the life of a young motherless girl, who, in spite of all the shit that the world was throwing her way, took life so gently it is surprising. Or, maybe all the shit that life hauled at her is what makes her so matured (which is the thing for motherless children anyways, we grow up while children our age are playing with their mother’s breasts; while they’re suckling at their fingers we are testing the potency of fire with ours). How being motherless makes one, as Safia Elhillo puts it in a poem: “everything’s child”—that should sound good, but for the fact that when you belong to everything, you are not really anything’s; you are just passing through life, serving here and there, moving from here to there, collecting dust and soil, sometimes joy. All of this is what Kec-kom’s life is: 13, but she already ran away from home, already lost a mother, is not in school, had a man between her legs, ran away from another place, lost a child.

“Dancing with Ma” is a fast-paced short story that shows us the life of a young motherless girl, who, in spite of all the shit that the world was throwing her way, took life so gently it is surprising.

This story would not be as moving as it is if not for how Harriet Anena writes prose, so simple and beautiful that I just want to cuddle her words. (“They found Ma in a banana plantation, knees to chest, arms stretched forward, as if she was trying to scoop something towards her bosom.”; “An hour later, you felt a prick, a tear, a pull and twist in your stomach, as if a knife was in there.”; “Ma had laughed softly, hesitantly, like a young woman being tickled by a suitor she liked but didn’t want to show that she did; because she was told only a slut laughed all her laughter at once.”) No, the prose is not sexy, it is teddy bear-y.

Anena just tells the story, only and only with empathy.

Her voice is moving, just the way Labrinth’s “Jealous” is, but she does it so well that it doesn’t feel quirky in the way a poor movie scene feels—and, considering that she’s writing about pain, a little girl, poverty, abortion, rape, and more?! Any other writer might just have gone preachy, or finger-pointing, or raging, but Anena just tells the story, only and only with empathy.

Uwem Akpan’s “My Parents’ Bedroom”, published in The New Yorker.

When war knocks on the door of a happy home and a child is the one who goes to open the door to welcome it in, and when it enters in, what does it look like to the child, how does that child tell the story?

This is what Uwem Akpan’s “My Parents’ Bedroom” is about. After Habyarimana’s plane was shot down on April 6, 1994, on his way back from a negotiation in Dar es Salaam, people began to talk in hushed tones on the streets, riots began, houses (Tutsis’ houses) were razed, men (Hutus) clutched machetes, entered houses (Tutsis’ houses) and ran the blade into people’s (Tutsis) bodies till their sputtering blood-oozing bodies went quiet and death stole the last breath from their lungs. It was so brutal, it is not even imaginable (there is nothing imaginable about war), especially considering that the Tutsis did not suspect that something that brutal would come in the next hour and, when it all dusked on them, there was no aid from anywhere.

However, the thing was that not only did Tutsis suffer, but even Hutus who saw humanity in Tutsis were considered evil. There was the Hutu Ten Commandments published by Kangura in 1990, which stated how Hutus should interact with Tutsis. The first law: “Every Hutu should know that a Tutsi woman, wherever she is, works for the interest of her ethnic Tutsi group. Consequently, we should consider a traitor every Hutu who: a. marries a Tutsi woman; b. befriends a Tutsi woman; c. employs a Tutsi woman as a secretary or concubine.”

As in “Hotel Rwanda”, Uwem Akpan’s characters are a mix—the husband and father of the child narrating the story, Papa, is Hutu, but his wife, Maman, is Tutsi. However, unlike in “Hotel Rwanda”, this story doesn’t end with the reader getting a gentle smile on their face—in fact, you most likely will have tears in your eyes when you get to the end of this one. And, while it is not a movie or novel, this story is so visual—and the fact that the narrator is a child and doesn’t understand what is happening makes this story so moving.

At the beginning of the story, her mother went out at night, which is something that doesn’t happen because her mother always said “only bad women go out at night.” Unknown to the little girl, the woman had gone to hide—her husband had told her to run but she could not, so she came back. As she asks her mom, Maman, questions, the woman, with tears shining in her beautiful eyes, tells her daughter: “Swallow all your questions now, bright daughter.”

“When they ask you… say you’re one of them, OK?”

As the story unfolds, flipping between their past peaceful life and the present bloody dusk—narrated by Monique, the girl, who is “nine years and seven months old”, and who is in real trouble because she looks like her mother who is Tutsi (her mother tells her at the start of the story: “When they ask you… say you’re one of them, OK?”)—the brutality of war, what it does to the peace and beauty of the life of ordinary, good people, comes into full view, and their hopelessness; and the reality that love (the Hutu Papa marrying a Tutsi woman) and what some call “enlightenment” (“Papa…went to university and works in a government ministry”) doesn’t do shit in such times.

“My Parents’ Bedroom” is a painful story, it’ll almost rip your heart out of your chest and shred it the way a child shreds paper with scissors.

You can check out other recommended stories here.

The post Recommended Short Stories You Can Read Online, by: Oyet Sisto Ocen, Harriet Anena, and Uwem Akpan. appeared first on Creative Writing News.

Have you been wanting to get some fairy new, high quality books? And at a very low price?

Here is your chance to. Osemhen is donating books, but at a very low price, to raise money to support a center. She writes: “I volunteer with this awesome center and we’re raising money to support the good works being done. We thought it would be a good idea to have a book fair where we sell books in really good condition for way less than they actually cost.”

Come buy your classics (old and new, Nigerian and Foreign), business books, Christian fiction, pop fiction, children books, history books, cooking books and more for less than N1000. Yes, less than N1000!

If you want to get these books at less than a N1000, you should attend the book fair.

The Venue: Afara Leadership Center, 25 Thorburn Avenue, Yaba.

The Date: November 2nd, 2019.

Time: 12 noon—4pm.

Make sure to go with a friend, and be kind enough to spread the word.

The post Afara Leadership Center Book Fair For Book Lovers On A Low Budget / How To Attend The Event appeared first on Creative Writing News.

Book title: Fabiola

Author: Musih Tedji Xaviere

Publisher: Maryland Printers, Bamenda

Year published: 2017

Number of pages: 221

Where I got it: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073WY8XCH

             https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/xaviere

Why I read it: I was intrigued by the idea of reading an African YA novel

When I read it: 2017

Review written by:  Eric Ngea Ntam (PhD)

The first few lines of Musih Tedji Xavière’s Fabiola immediately draws a reader’s attention towards the pattern of child development at school. The novel can be aptly described as a bildungsroman in progress because it presents the nine-month development of Fabiola, the protagonist. Xavière’s setting, characterisation, themes, style and point of view come along with the physical and psychological growth of Fabiola, all of which culminate in a verisimilitude of the lived circumstances that those familiar with boarding life would fit their own experiences into.

The term bildungsroman (coined in 1819 by German philologist, Karl Morgenstern and later legitimated by Wihelm Dilthey in 1870 and made popular in 1905) is a German word succinctly defined as a “novel of formation” or described as “the coming-of-age novel”. A bildungsroman generally revolves around a sensitive protagonist poised for the achievement of a goal. Its plot is thus tailored to depict the hurdles, the aide and the near or complete achievement of the hero or heroine. The less than twelve years old Fabiola goes through this trajectory for an academic year and emerges a largely reformed [my emphasis], at least at her age, bildungsroman protagonist.

A careful reading of Xavière’s Fabiola reveals a plot knitted to portray the psychological and moral growth of Fabiola from child to youth or semi adult. This is evident in the setting or choice of the school, St Francis Girls’ Vocational High School (GVHS) Bafut. As an all-girl institution, Fabiola has to intermingle with her kind for a psychosocial awareness of both her sex and gender. The young Fabiola is modestly accompanied to school by her mother and are both given a hand by the taxi driver to offload her belongings (Ch. One, p. 2).

The ancient appearance of the campus is proof of its having churned out a myriad of the great ladies of all walks of life in the society. The senior who is on hand to check and usher Fabiola to the St Clare dormitory, as her counterparts do to the other foxes, is just one of the budding ladies GVHS is preparing for the global society. Fabiola is immediately put in a psychological battle the moment she sees a difference between the seniors and the foxes. The seniors’ appearance does not in any way correspond to the dictates of the school prospectus. In fact: “What fascinated Fabiola most about these girls was the grace with which they carried themselves. She envied them, their refinement, and somewhere in the back of her mind she wanted to be just as beautiful and just as curvy one day” (Ch. One, p. 3). In this yearning lies the trigger that sets our protagonist in motion.

The protagonist grows from child to semi-adult

The protagonist in a bildungsroman is often a sensitive person who is looking for answers and experience. Fabiola’s quest to understand her environment is facilitated by her meeting Yvonne, a onetime primary school mate: “What were the chances that she would end up in a place like this, thousands of miles away from home with someone she had spent almost every day of her childhood with? Though Yvonne’s company, just like Helen’s to Jane Eyre at the Lowood School in Charlottë Brontë’s Jane Eyre, lightens the burden of loneliness, it nevertheless stops the introspective Fabiola to watch with stifled emotion the departure of her mother through the oxblood coated bars of the school after having promised to come and see her again on Visiting Day.

Henceforth Fabiola is supposed to be strong in order to gradually achieve her youthfulness or near adulthood. Her entire first term is full of intimidating, if not shocking, surprises. This begins on day one of her arrival at GVHS. and include the chaos perpetrated by the foxes in the St Clare dormitory, the abrupt and harsh instructions and nightmarish tails from Ngala Geraldine (Dorm-cap), harassment from Atabong Atem and crew, Senior Nahbila Laura’s compelling lessons on using cutlery adequately in the manner of established women or ladies, insults (Grandmami-face) from three unknown girls, among others lead to the conclusion: “… boarding school was a direct contrast to the reverend sisters’ campaign promises at her old school” (Ch. Five, p. 26).

The struggle, which continues with routine activities such as getting up at 5am and bathing under strict supervision with cold water in order to get ready for morning mass, tidying up individual bunks and spaces, sweating, stumbling and falling on the hill leading to church, adhering to Senior Limnyuy and Bessem’s assigned portions for regular maintenance, learning new vocabulary such as ‘clad’ and ‘mop’, holding one’s own cup, tea spoon and cutlery when going to the refectory, eating stale bread, unpleasant combination of cooked garri and okro soup, weevil infested corn-chaff and beans, and compulsory siesta all combine to form part of the heavy cross Fabiola must shoulder on her way to experience.

Fabiola observes that some students have complementary snacks (chocolate, tins of sardine, Ovaltine), which they either supplement with or take as alternative for what the ‘refecto’ provides.  She further learns that GVHS is a religiously inclined school because it engages in the endless battle between God and the devil, consequently the girls are urged to inculcate constant prayer as a modus vivendi. It amazes Fabiola that most tribes are stigmatised for either their abnormal behaviour or phonological renditions. She finds it absurd and a taboo when girls like Agatha talk back to the captain.

A tip of the iceberg of what awaits her in the months ahead comes when the foxes are made to pay a visit to the Up-campus. Fabiola comes to understand that GVHS has two campuses and that there are many students and levels in the school than she earlier thought. The St Francis Children and Adult Home (SAFRACAH) Street unravels another hidden connection between school and the outer world. Her keen observation makes her figure out that she could easily fight starvation by sneaking out early enough to buy accra and other snacks.

The arrival of the rest of the school on 9 September begins the real ordeal and set the pace for the rising action of the novel. All the ten dormitories are inhabited and typical boarding experiences become manifest. For example, Fabiola records that there is a desperate search for ‘Smalls’ by the supposed ‘Bigs’, there is outright confrontation that almost result in flexing of muscles between Yvonne and Atem, but for her timely intervention which is followed by a ‘Mami cry-cry’ insult at her from the dreaded Atem. Fabiola’s courageous interference which evokes “I cannot believe this” from Atem portrays the survival of the fittest attribute Fabiola has quickly imbibed as the way out. She even goes further to warn Atem: “We are not afraid of you. Touch any of us and we will report you.” This offensive temperament not only brings out the hidden rebel in Fabiola, but also speaks of the courage and mature personality that is already being built in the hither to docile girl. As a matter of fact, the scary Atem is left with no option than to shake her head and turn away.

Stresses of self-identity continue to develop. Unlike other girls who are being cajoled and won over by Bigs, Fabiola waits until when she desires one. Though Joan, her acquired Big, is recommended to her by Yvonne, this is only after Fabiola’s wish to have one. She timidly but courageously moves up to Joan and requests her to be her Big – a demand Joan willingly grants.

The ritual of cutting of the foxes’ tails ushers Fabiola into the stark reality of the intimidation junior students must endure in the hands of seniors. The foxes are slapped and obliged to dance without music, as real foxes do. Coming on the hills of the cutting of foxes’ tails is the introduction night. This event gives Fabiola and her mates the opportunity to discover the extracurricular potentials of their school in domains such as choir, drama and dance. The courageous and imaginative skills of Hiris, a fox, who sings a sarcastic song to ridicule the senior students astonish everyone and provokes Sister Jude to laugh out her lungs, to the amazement and delight of Fabiola and the other foxes. This night draws the curtains on the empirical learning for a week and sets the green light for real academic business in GVHS:

“When she was certain that Fabiola was ready to go, she gave her a pat on the back, wished her good luck, and left” (Ch. Sixteen, p. 92) – these are the narrator’s description of the setting the ball to roll in Fabiola’s academic life by Joan, her Big. Ngam Fabiola from now on is left alone to climb the academic ladder. With Joan’s pat on her back, Fabiola hurries to be first Up-campus and scrambles for a well located seat in their classroom. Once safely seated the fight between the tallest girl in their class and a smaller girl animates Fabiola and her mate until Senior Laura’s timely arrival. The rush to be first Up-campus and the racing for seats in the classroom consciously or unconsciously drives home the fact that the attainment of education is also another battle that must be fought with all energy. In this battle, the inexperienced, like Fabiola, soil themselves and tend to wonder how the old-students maintain their immaculate look.

The typical first day experience of learning in a secondary school thrills Fabiola. The entrance of Mr Mokum Clement, the mathematics teacher, the confusion of which book to get out when instructed to take out mathematics books, the biting morning hunger that the baskets of bread presented for breakfast are unable to assuage, the mocking laughter of the foxes’ overflowing pleated black skirts and oversized pullovers that barely fit, the repeated introduction of each other as teacher after teacher enters the class with punctuated thirty minutes pauses, mark Fabiola. Nevertheless, Fabiola’s overall impression of being over-taught and the grip of hunger draw the difference between her former school and the secondary. This is the route to transformation. The routine of waking at 5.30am, taking a bath, going for morning mass, climbing the to the Up-campus, learning Mathematics, breakfast, more classes, trekking back Down-campus, lunch, siesta, another bath, evening prayer, night preparations (prep), and back to bed, characterize Fabiola’s stay in GVHS for the next two months, with expectations of seeing mama again on Visiting Day.

With classes now in full gear, Fabiola is obliged to come to terms with other activities and behaviours during and after school as well as on weekends. Tiredness and drowsiness during morning masses and night preps, the lurking of Mr Cane (the discipline master) around, ready to lash defaulters, cold nights, especially in the refectory, regrets of not having brought other items not mentioned in the school prospectus, coercing from Antoinette (Yvonne’s Big) to move her snacks to her trunk, little enmities between space-mates and bunkmates (ndang’a and mbong’o), indiscriminate punishment in order to fish out a culprit who commits an indecent act such as defecating in another girl’s bathing buckets (Hiris as a victim) (Ch. Seventeen, pp. 99-104), involvement in one activity after another on Saturdays, receiving special help and favours from a responsible Big such as Joan gives Fabiola, classroom mockery, nicknaming and stigmatisation of tribes, among many others are routine experiences and occurrences in GVHS.

The Fabiola becomes disillusioned (disappointed) as the new world does not match her shining hopes and dreams, but finally accepts, after painful soul-searching, the sort of world she lives in

The climax of the novel begins with the ‘warmsun’ or the period of extreme hunger in boarding schools. At this moment Fabiola realises that no girl, including herself, rejects or brags about not eating certain school meals such as cooked garri or crank-crank, meals they rejected when pockets were still full and supplementary snacks aplenty. Some of the foxes exchange toiletries such as toothpastes for bread, others begin to produce candy out of melted sugar by means of their spoons and candle light, Fabiola and Yvonne even go as far as deceiving Bapete, who brags of her riches because the prime minister is her uncle, and eat up her cookies in return for friendship that they later fail to give. Fabiola learns a lot about lies telling in the dormitory when Fusi, whom they constantly mock for wetting the bed, lies in their favour though truly she is aware that they duped Bapete: “‘Thank you,’ Fabiola said to Fusi once they were out of earshot, too relieved to ask why Fusi lied for them. Fusi acknowledges Fabiola’s gratitude with a nod and walked away.” (Ch. Nineteen, pp. 114-18).

Fabiola also observes that stealing is a common practice in their school. Personal belongings such as socks, pullovers, headscarves, white gowns, Bibles and hymnals, sandals, cutlery and even underwear are pilfered. Many cases of theft are reported to the dorm-cap who only threatens in vain. The effect of snatching away the pullovers is rampant influenza and related diseases, which Fabiola also has to cope with. Some of the robbers are caught and dismissed while others are never identified.

Warmsun also leads to the breakup of cordial relationship between Fabiola and Yvonne. Yvonne is no longer ready to share her trunk with Fabiola because their snacks have been completely done away with. Yvonne’s decision is taken by Fabiola with equanimity.

Despite Senior Laura’s reprimand and punishment of Asongwe Camela, Mbaku Veronica, Atabong Atem, Vegah Madeleine, Suh Antonia, Wiysahnyuy Hilda, Achu Tina and five others for visiting shops and secretly buying items from vendors at SAFRACAH Street, Fabiola still indulges in the same illicit dealing. She seems to have accepted that it is a context where survival depends on one’s smartness and not on the strict obedience of rules and regulations.

Fabiola resolves to use up the 2000 CFA franc note her mother gave her on the day they arrived GVHS. She leaves the dormitory alone early Tuesday morning and buys balls of accra for herself. This becomes an obsession until her money is completely used up (see a vivid description of her manoeuvre: Ch. Twenty-One, pp. 126 -7). It is interesting to note that her skilfulness in sneaking and buying whatever she wanted along the SAFRACAH Street is monitored and admired by Fusi, who opts to bring her own money so that they can be partners in crime.

Preparations to welcome parents on Visiting Day intensify. The generosity of the girls know no bounds a few days to Visiting Day. Those who still have some reserves empty their trunks in preparation for the new and fresh snacks their parents, especially mothers, would bring. Fabiola spends all she had jealously hoarded in the hope that her mother would replenish her purse and trunk upon her arrival.

It is Visiting Day. This marks the climax of Fabiola’s disillusionment and at the same the acceptance of her circumstance and the world secondary school introduces her to. The school mobilises in every aspect as the parents are awaited. Everywhere is kept clean and the students too look clean. Those who had scored good marks in the tests look forward to sharing the news with their parents. Parents come with goodies, sit with their daughters in small groups chattering and showing love and concern.  Fabiola is highly disappointed when at 5.30pm every parent who came visiting has left and the road ahead stares at her. Fabiola’s hysteria is only calmed by Sister Jude, who takes her to the office and a plastic bag containing a medium sized baked cake with frosting and a bag of candy – these become the girl’s own Visiting Day package (See Ch. Twenty-two, pp. 132-7). Mama’s failure to pay Fabiola a visit on a day when all other children enjoy the warmth of their mothers kills the child in her. The child is mother of the woman is a suitable responsibility she assumes. Though Fabiola overcomes this disheartening circumstance, resilience teaching her the trick, and returns to school even more determined to compete with Tang Asahmbom for the first position in class, she however “… she retreated into herself … and no amount of coaxing got her out of her shell.” (Ch. Twenty-three, p.138).

The rest of the term becomes child’s play. The young heroine ignores Ngum’s complaint that her own mother did not also come, she shows pride towards Dorm-cap’s plea that those whose parents came should donate food to the needy, she stands tall to see that she is not in the group of those who mess up the latrines because of overfeeding from their visitors, she continues to go to the refectory without any complex, the trekking for miles in search of water at Nkiwah stream owing to adverse drought does not bother her, with Ngum’s help she treats herself to a handful of palm kernels from a nearby bush, she even questions why an Anglophone Cameroonian as herself should study French, and above all she now boldly accompanies Ngum to sneak out of the way to school to get whatever they desired. With these resilient and questioning spirit, Fabiola writes her second and third tests and is ready to go home for the Christmas break.

The starvation that sets in before Rascal week is trifle to Fabiola. All she is interested in is to experience the unruly atmosphere that now characterises GVHS. During this week the girls get involved either in plotting, fighting, gossiping, quarrelling or loitering the school campus, looking for possibilities of getting palm nuts, avocado, guavas from nearby bushes in Bafut and even mocking at the gateman who dare to consider himself part of the staff of the school by constantly using the expression “We the staff.” Fabiola also observes that the threat of withholding one’s report card deterred many of the girls from certain exaggerated acts. Fabiola becomes involved in the activities marking preparations for Christmas, which entail drama, carol, reconciliation and general socials. She wonders if the reconciliations are actually genuine for, it seems to mean little to Atabong Atem.

The sledge harmer of dismissal, a dreaded punishment, befalls those who resort to excesses during the rascal week. For instance the exorcism manifested by Jesus-freak or Chukwunenye Nnednma earns her outright dismissal from Sister Jude. Khaki-night or the night of result declaration marks the end of Fabiola’s first three months in the secondary school. The entire school assembles in the refectory and results are read out. The last three and first three in each class come up to the stage for everyone to see them. Sihngum Monica 16/20, Ngam Fabiola 17.4/20 and Tang Ansahmbom 18.2/20 are the first three in ascending order in her class. The Bigs, whose Smalls make it in flying colours, are proud and shout out to let everyone identify them with their brilliant Small. Fabiola receives congratulations from Joan. It is with these results that Fabiola goes to bed ready to collect her report card the next day and depart for the village.

Closing day breaks with all students ready to depart from campus to various destinations. Fabiola receives her report card and as a big girl, whom she has become, does not bother about her mother’s coming to pick her up. With the help of Ngum, she boards a taxi to her uncle’s house at Foncha Street where she passes the night and leaves for Njinikom the next day to meet her parents.

Fabiola returns to school for the second term on January 4 a completely courageous heroine. She is indifferent happenings around her and only excited to begin classes. Total metamorphosis has had an effect on her:

It took a lot of self-loathing to admit it, but home wasn’t home anymore now that she knew she had somewhere else to be. The disconnection with her childhood friends had only grown, inasmuch as she tried reconnecting with her former self. Her friends did not understand why she felt the need to constantly conduct herself like a lady. They saw her conduct as pride, and frankly, she did not care that much about their opinion of her. (Ch. Twenty-seven, p.165)

Since ‘education’ is always crucial to the protagonist of a bildungsroman, in that it is part of the child’s maturation and preparation for impending adulthood, or in other words considering that the inner development and maturity of the protagonist takes place after his/her “education” in the new place, it is this newfound self-knowledge that signals the ultimate maturity of Fabiola. Fabiola’s drastic transformation has everything to do with both education and suffering. Her ability to withstand traumatic experiences catapults her into a class and psyche of her own. Little wonder therefore that the noise she hears on the reopening day of the second term means nothing to her, she simply waves “her way expertly through the horde”; her determination to uphold her parents’ pride suppressing any weak thought of escaping back home and the firm resolve to topple Ansah, urging her forward. Fabiola is no longer little Fa.

Major heroine feats displayed by the heroine include her journey all the way from Njinikom to GVHS Bafut unaccompanied, her not minding the extra work they carry out in preparation for Youth Day and school feasts, the ignoring of Yvonne’s fuss about her friendship with Ngum Winfrey, her courageous accompanying of Winfrey to frighten old-students chattering beside a fire behind the dormitory in the night and later reprimand of Winfrey for causing her to inflict pain on the students, her fierce refusal of Winfrey’s proposal that they should go into a video club on Youth Day, her not bothering much about her mother’s absence at the PTA meeting, her polite decline to leave her money with the school bursar, her ability to understand most terms like ‘curtsy’, changes brought in by the newly elected prefects do not affect her in any way, her contemplation on Women’s Day and what possibly happens on Men’s Day, her confiding in Yvonne that she has contracted sugar-sugar and being taught how to ‘pee like a boy’ by Yvonne and Winfrey, her interest in Sister Carine’s teachings about the ‘Self-esteem concept’, her unregretful spitting in Dorm-cap’s drinking water for calling her ‘red-face’, her being chased by a man with a gun when she accompanies Winfrey and other girls into a dark wild bush, her and Hannah’s peeping at “Mr Moses (the French teacher) and his—and Senior Jennifer, the labour prefect” and being warned by the teacher never to mention it anywhere, peeing in Antoinette’s buckets to punish her for highhandedness and insulting habit, and trying to mislead Ansahmbom on purpose in order to take the first position in class.

From this avalanche of courageous acts, it becomes clear that for only nine months, Fabiola experiences the good, the bad and the ugly. Not only is she aware of sneaking habits of young girls, she comes to understand the reasons why a woman must stand up for her rights, experiences the commonest female infection, observes a man caressing a young girl, devises strategies to revenge/avenge wrong deeds to her and struggles to manipulate her classmate in order to take the first position in class.

Separation from family and Home (usually from a small, provincial place, venturing into a much more complex place) because of desire to gain Self-identity

Fabiola can be said to have made a name for herself by the time we sing the Cameroon National Anthem on page 226 of this novel. She attains this partly because she courageously severs from her parents in search of education and also partly because she becomes engrossed within a complex setting. Though GVHS is a confined environment, it is however much more sophisticated than her primary school and quarter in Njinikom. This is so because it is a forum for budding intellectuals and the occupants come from different homes with varied childhood experiences. Fabiola needs just this kind of context in order to experience a dramatic transformation.

The protagonist returns home, reaches out and helps others after having achieved maturity

Armed with moral, academic and social experiences from GVHS, Fabiola arrives home again, but this time a transformed girl. Not only is she bold enough to ask her mother why she failed her on Visiting Day, she now helps the mother at home as well. Her anger against her mother is abated by the simple reason that she understands her mother had gone back to school. In fact Fabiola is now conscious of the demands of school. 6am the next morning meets Fabiola assisting her mother to bathe her siblings, assigning her siblings to different portions to clean and taking part in the tidying up of the house, ensuring table mannered eating and then imposing a compulsory forty-minute siesta for all. How quick the heroine puts theory into practice. Fabiola’s mother’s satisfaction is revealed in the pride with which she introduces her secondary school child to her colleagues. The rest of the holiday follows this routine and Christmas celebration is void of any exaggeration. But for the unfounded fear that nobody was to see New Year’s Day 2000, Fabiola shows no anxiety and so does the New Year’s Day pass and Christmas break comes to an end.

Fabiola’s reaching out and helping others is seen in her subsequent relationship with Winfrey. When Antoinette hurts Winfrey by spreading false rumour about her being dirty, her being infected with ‘cam-no-go’ and mumps, Fabiola gets very disturbed to see her friend in misery:

The last of Fabiola’s reserve crumbled when she saw Winfrey crying behind the classroom one afternoon. “Why are you crying?” Fabiola asked sitting beside Winfrey on the grass. Winfrey’s bravery was something Fabiola had come to rely on and seeing her reduced to tears by cruelty angered Fabiola.…

Fabiola chuckled. “Shut up! You don’t have mumps or cam-no-go” …

Winfrey regarded Fabiola carefully before abandoning the scepticism. She wiped at the remainder of the tears in her eyes and turned to gaze into space. (Ch. Thirty-four, p. 217).

As a true bildungsroman heroine, Fabiola must necessary reach out to help Ngum Winfrey to be or remain strong.

Is Fabiola an autobiography?

As to whether this novel is an autobiography, the answer is negative. An autobiography is the life story/history of an individual told by him/herself. Even if aspects of Xavière’s own life are embedded in the story, this comes indirectly. That Xavière adopts the third person omniscient point of view distances her novel from being autobiographical. The author’s preference is “an all-knowing narrator who is able not only to recount the action thoroughly and reliably but also to enter the mind of any character at any time in order to reveal [and even conceal too] his or her thoughts, feeling, and beliefs directly to the reader” (Murfin and Ray, 2003). The choice of this vantage point is also convincing because Xavière’s protagonist, fresh from a primary school in Njinikom might have only spoken Kom but would not have rendered the Banso accent, pronounce words in Bafut or relate the dormitory jargon and clichés adequately.

Xavière’s style is simple but very erudite. Instances of suspense, allusion, vivid description, flashbacks, irony, contrast, humour, to cite these, are numerous in the novel. Her delving into boarding school lifestyle and mannerisms helps the reader better understand the psyche of ex-boarders, especially the female sex within the global society.

Conclusion

The choice of the title of this review: “Bildungsroman in Progress” is justifiable. A bildungsroman ends with the hero attaining maturity by accomplishing what he or she set out to acquire – thus coming full circle. However, despite the fact that he/she has come full circle, the memories of the boy/girl that was at the beginning are perfectly suited to emphasize the man or woman that he/she has become. There is no doubt that Fabiola has changed drastically from the little girl who was led into the gates of GVHS by her mother to an independent traveller and introspective girl. For a period of just nine months remarkable transformation is noticeable as earlier indicate. However, that Fabiola is yet to rich full maturity by becoming one of the seniors or prefect in GVHS, perhaps also actually get involved in some of the other deeds she only hears or observes, and also the fact she is yet to return home as a full blown woman to bring total dynamism in her family in particular and Njinikom at large, qualifies the novel as an advancing bildungsroman. Xavière is therefore challenged to come up with a sequel to Fabiola in order to portray a full circle transformed Fabiola.

References

Abrams, M. H. and Geoffrey Galt Harpham, eds., A Glossary of Literary Terms, Ninth Edition, Boston, Wardsworth Cengage Learning, 2009.

Cuddon, J. A., The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory, London, Penguin Group, 1998.

Murfin, Ross and Supryia M. Ray, The Bedford Glossary of Critical and Literary Terms, 2nd ed., Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2003.

Xaviere, Musih Tedji Fabiola. Maryland Printers: Bamenda, 2017.

About the Author

Eric Ngea Ntam holds a PhD in British Literature from the University of Yaoundé I. He undertook training as a secondary and high School teacher in the then Higher Teacher Training College (ENS) Annex Bambili (1998-2001) and the Higher Teacher Training College (ENS) Yaoundé (2007-2009) from where he obtained the Secondary and High School Teacher Diploma Grade I and Grade II, respectively. He is thus a teacher of English Language and Literature in English for sixteen years now. Eric Ngea Ntam is a former German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) Scholarship holder. He is also the co-author of two books:  Learn English: Understand Climate Change and Majors in English. Dr Ngea Ntam is currently the Head of Service of Relations with the Business World at The University of Bamenda, where he also lectures literature in English as part time lecturer.

The post Musih Tedji Xavière’s Fabiola as a Bildungsroman in Progress: A Review By Eric Ngea Ntam (PhD) appeared first on Creative Writing News.

This week’s stories are beautiful and painful and funny; all three stories from Brittle Paper. Two from the anthologies they published this year—Go the Way Your Blood Beats, edited by Ananthi Jongilanga, and The Vanguard Book of Love Stories, edited by Nonso Anyanwu—and one from their blog.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

“You Bury Me”, Klara Kalu (published in The Vanguard Book of Love Stories, edited by Nonso Anyanwu)

“Ife mi,

Do you remember the first time you saved me? I was ten years old and my mom had sent me to buy Maggi when that troublesome group of teenage boys in our neighborhood stopped me.”—from “You Bury Me”.

In this beautifully told story, childhood love grows as the characters, a boy and a girl, grow older. And it doesn’t end even when death did its thing.

Klara Kalu, whose works I’ll have to begin searching for now, and follow, is an amazing talent. She wrote this short story with much carefulness and a kind of freedom, too. I bet it could be a novel; she does well at building her characters and not leaving characters out. While the story is about the two lovers, we also meet other characters like Mr. Chikwem, the man who drove their primary school bus; the narrator’s mother; the lady the boy dated when he got to the Uni.

This is a short story that spans almost the lifetime of two people, yet there is a way in which we aren’t bored with the unnecessary; what we’re given is what the story needs. Things move smoothly and happen so fast, yet we don’t feel like something’s been skipped. This is what made me feel like, yes, I agree, when I got to the part where the narrator’s mother said, “I always knew it was him.”, after the narrator told her that they , the main characters, were getting married.

I can’t say exactly what the story will do for you, but I can promise this:  this story will shut out the world you’re in and drag you into itself; it will make you want to fall madly in love—and maybe, only maybe, it will rend your heart.

“The Hour of Judgement”, Edith Knight Magak (published on Brittle Paper)

“THE HOUR OF judgement has come upon me, and my hope for redemption is pegged on a needle, sorcery, and a razor blade. If all fail—no, I will not think of that possibility.”—from “The Hour of Judgement”.

It is true that when we talk of wanting others, it is simply because we want them to help us somehow; we want a kind of salvation from them. But most times, the ‘other’ doesn’t really possess what it takes to help, though they may appear to.

In this short story by Edith Knight Magak, a young lady is married off to a chief, Chief Utawala. Chief Utawala marries her because he believes she’s a virgin—he needs a virgin. You need to read the piece to find out why he wants a virgin; he has three wives already, four in fact, one left. However, the new bride is not a virgin, she had given it to “the puny pimpled-face idiot of a boy called Ware”, who promised to marry her, one afternoon “under the byeyo tree.”

To save herself the shame that will come with the chief not meeting her a virgin, she visits the medicine man. The medicine man gave her a needle, sorcery, and a razor blade as charm. The thing is, Chief Utawala already visited the medicine man, too, and he gave the Chief charms as well. And there was a warning, “it [the charm the medicine man gave Chief] is not to mix with any other charm or sorcery or the consequences will be worse.”

Told from the POV of the girl, the new bride, first, and later, from the Chief’s, we do not know what happened at last. Edith leaves us to piece things together, to give it our own ending.

Read it; you’ll smile.

“Songbird”, Innocent Acan Immaculate (published in Go the Way Your Blood Beats: New Short Fiction from Africa, edited by Ananthi Jongilanga)

“IN THE OLD days, you knew when you gave birth to a musambwa. Before it released its first bewitching cry, before the liquor was cold on its skin, your mothers wrenched it from your child’s body and buried it in a clay pot deep in the ground, where its entrapping song would never be heard.”—from “Songbird”.

This one comes from the winner of the Writivism Short Story Prize 2016.

The story follows the life of Zouk, a girl who is a musambwa, who has a Demon, whose mother is Salima. The girl, Zouk, doesn’t talk until she is seven years old, and when she did, it was singing; she sang “an old Paulo Kafeero song Salima knows only because her grandfather forced her to listen to it…” Zouk’s song felt like a spell on every one who heard it, and soon, everyone wanted to hear her sing.

Then there was Adam, her very protective elder brother, who was madly in love with her. And there was the day Salima finds him, Adam, moving over his sister. Later, when Zouk is in America, in New York, when she was with Kam, the lady she loves, the Demon would mention that he took Adam, who had hanged himself after his sister was sent to America, because he wasn’t allowed to follow her.

A lot of things happen in this piece; it reminds me of Eloghosa Osunde’s “Night Wind” (which you should read if you haven’t).

However, despite the story being a little difficult (for me, maybe it won’t be for you), Innocent Acan’s voice and wisdom and ability to glide from place to place and moment to moment without any ruffles, her ability to write the difficult neatly, is amazing—and it’s one of the reasons why this short story is worth the read.

Enjoy.

The post Recommended Short Stories You Can Read Online. This Edition Features Stories by Klara Kalu, Innocent Acan Immaculate, and Edith Knight. appeared first on Creative Writing News.

Word came out recently that Oscar-winning actress Lupita Nyong’O would act the lead role in the adaptation of Chimamanda’s bestselling novel, “Americanah” a miniseries; pilot-written by Danai Gurira. Lupita had met and fallen in love with the book some time in 2013 when she preordered it. In an interview, she said that she “could not put [the book] down.” That, “[t]o see an African woman whose identity was in flux in the way that Ifemelu’s is in the book just spoke to me so deeply.” And because she couldn’t stop thinking about the book, she contacted Chimamanda.

She said, “I had no stars or stripes to my name except, ‘I’m an actress from Kenya and I read your book and I love it and I’m going to be in this movie called 12 Years a Slave.’ I had no idea what that meant anyway, but I knew I wanted to make this.”

Today she has a lot of stars, and no stripes, to her name, having starred in such movies as “12 Years a Slave” (Patsey), “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” (Maz Kanata), “Queen of Katwe” (Nakku Harriet), “Us” (Adelaide Wilson/ Red), among others.

The issue, however, is how Nigerians have come to hold different opinions about the issue of her acting the role of an Igbo woman in a novel by an Igbo woman. While no Nigerian disputes the fact that Lupita is a very talented actress, some are concerned about the accent. But the thing is, that’s why she’s an actress; the level of her talent is what we should look at. And, more than that, her connection to the story. And, yes, Lupita connects so well to that story—the story, not really of an Igbo woman, but, as Elizabeth Day notes in her review of the book in The Guardian, “… a love story – the tale of childhood sweethearts at school in Nigeria whose lives take different paths when they seek their fortunes in America and England – … a brilliant dissection of modern attitudes to race, spanning three continents and touching on issues of identity, loss and loneliness.”

A good actress like Lupita would do justice to that story.

However, the controversy is not really from the Nigerian side, but from the Kenyan’s, who have been throwing insults from their side of the fence. It seems as if it’s now they get the chance to pour out all the anger and bitterness they’ve held for a while.

MCA_KELLY_LEWIS_254 writes, “Kenya produced Lupita Nyong’O, the first African and Mexican actress, and Barack Obama Among others. Shame on you Nigerians.”

SnoodBoy senior writes, “Nigerians should wait for a Juju or films showcasing witchcraft, that’s what they do best, ooh wait, and online fraud movies, remember you are the only ones with yahoo boys in the whole world…”

easy-ke writes, “#Nigerians please relax let #Kenya shine in peace. Do you remember when your artists were featured in Lion King despite the movie drawing inspiration from East Africa.Did we complain your artists can’t sing in Swahilli?”

Sagamite writes, “They would not do shit because it is not about juju or forbidden love.

The storyline is above the intellectual level of the buffoons that are Nollywood people.”

Sagamite wrote elsewhere, “Some yeye people are talking about “Good Nigerian actresses”.

That is as dumb as saying good Nigerian neighbourhoods/roads.

Might be seen as “good” locally. Internationally, all are poor or pure shit.”

Let us just sit back and wait for Lupita, the woman who read the story and loved it, who went on to believe she could bring it to the screen when she wasn’t even a known name yet—let us sit back and believe she’d not disappoint.

The post The “Americanah” Controversy: On Lupita Nyong’O Being Cast To Play The Role Of Ifemelu appeared first on Creative Writing News.

One of the three recommended short stories this week is by a writer we know well; the two others are from writers whose name we’ll hear more and more very soon. One of the stories was published in an African mag, Agbowo’s ‘Limits’ Issue, while the two others were published in non-African mags—Barren and Zoetrope.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

“24, Alhaji Williams Street” by Pemi Aguda (published in Zoetrope: All Story)

“Alhaji Williams is a very long street. The plots are small, and many hold clusters of flats. So we had enough time to see what was happening before it was our turn. My turn. By the afternoon the fever reached the fourth house, the rest of the street had braced for its arrival.”—from “24, Alhaji Williams Street.”

From the winner of the 2015 Writivism Prize for the short story “Caterer, Caterer” comes this story about children dying of a fever that has no name, house by house. Narrated by a boy of seventeen who loves Brymo, it is a moving piece. What seems to be a light story at the beginning becomes darker and darker as the story moves on and we wonder if the fever would take the narrator, too, if it would take all the children on Alhaji Williams Street.

At last, it becomes a tale about survival and what we do to make it out alive, about how we die sometimes to live.

Pemi also does well in building suspense in this story, the way I was drawn into the story from the start (at this point because of the voice), and the way I couldn’t stop reading because I wanted to know what would befall the narrator, a boy that’s in my age category. And maybe that’s why I can relate well with the story, with the voice, because the person in trouble is a boy like me. Could have been me. Also because the world Pemi creates is very familiar—a street in Lagos, boys who smoke, boys who listen to Brymo (I’m a big fan of Brymo’s music!), boys attending tutorials in preparation for JAMB, going to Ibadan to write the exam. And it’s not surprising that she knows all these things about the life of a young boy living in Lagos, in Niaja—Pemi does that all the time.

The way Pemi creates gloom in the story is amazing.

“We went to a pharmacy and pooled money to buy a thermometer. “What’s the normal body temperature?” Junior asked.

I asked Google. “Thirty-seven degrees Celsius.”

He raised his T-shirt and stuck the thermometer in his armpit. As we waited, we watched the passing cars. He pulled it out, and we crowded over it, squinting.

“Thirty-seven point two?” he asked.

I leaned in. “Thirty-seven point one.” Then it was my turn.

He shook the thermometer, and when I told him to wipe the end on his shirt, we laughed.

I placed the device under my arm, hugging my elbow tightly. I sent a message: Be cool, be cool. And when I pulled it out, a whiff of sweat dissipating in the air between us, Junior read, “Thirty-six point nine.” I looked away from the envy he tried to hide.

We shared a joint at the back of Iya Risi’s buka, staring at the goats and cooped chickens that would soon be lunch. We argued over which of Brymo’s albums was the best, if Klitôris showed a dip in his arc, if he was maybe the Fela of our generation.

“If all your friends were in hell, would you still go to heaven?” Junior asked me.

I blew out smoke. “I don’t know, man.””

 “I had dreams of hellfire. I think it was hellfire. It burned the University of Ibadan, the one legacy I’d hoped to continue on for my father. It burned my fantasies of ever seeing Brymo in concert, or of watching my sister finally marry her boyfriend. And sometimes, from the inferno, Junior would call out to me.

I’d wake up from these dreams, stick the thermometer in my armpit, and stare at the numbers—36.9, 37.2, 37.3, 36.9, 37.1—until they blurred into black smudges and I drifted back to unconsciousness.

For the JAMB exam, we were required to bring photocopies of our forms and receipts. I piled all my documents in the backyard and set them aflame.”

Pemi also writes about how we treat people when we know we might lose them soon:

“I woke the next morning to discover my sister at the foot of my bed, peering over me as if trying to memorize me, scaring me fully alert. She told me to get dressed, that she was taking us to the new amusement park on the expressway. We were having a family day.”

And when we come to the end, we still keep wondering—but this time, it’s a gentle kind of wonder.

“Hurt” by Chimeka Garricks (published in Barren Magazine Issue No. 2)

“Your mother starts crying when Dami turns up for his funeral.” – from Hurt

…That start got me big time, and Chimeka did not disappoint.

Dami, after he was diagnosed with brain tumor at a time that it had become too late to treat, insists on organizing and attending his own funeral (“a living funeral”) a few weeks before his death. Narrated in the second person, from the point of view of his brother, Priye, the story is painful but also a little bit funny. And it has the Nollywood kind of feel to it, only that Chimeka ties things well here.

Here is what I mean: Dami was the last child of a very wealthy family, and was spoilt. He got everything he wanted, because his mother would not let him not have anything he wanted. Third year in Unilag, he decided he was going to the UK to school—and the company of their late father, which at the time was struggling to pay salaries, was required to pay for that choice. Ten years later, he would be deported from UK, with nothing but the achievement of dropping out of two universities and gaining a drug habit. Back in Nigeria, his mother insisted that his elder brother, who was handling the company his father left behind, appointed him as a director in the company—and Dami surprised everyone by working hard, getting married and cutting parties. But then there was another surprise—almost a year later, he cleaned out over a hundred and ninety-six million naira from the company’s main account. Then the tumor; then he’s all changed.

The very beautiful thing about this story is how it speaks of family, how we will always forgive our loved ones who do the shittiest of things—not because they deserve it, but because we have to, because family is family. It’s about where we fall back to when our time is dripping its last, when we can see the end already and there’s no running. And, this: It’s about what brothers do, about how your ‘lil’ bro will always be your ‘lil’ bro no matter how tall he grows.

The little twists in the story are nice, too. For example, this conversation between Joy, Dami’s ex-wife, and Priye, Dami’s brother:

“You took advantage of another lengthy silence to finish your drink. You caught her eyes, held them and said as honestly as you could. “I hope you forgive yourself and you heal fully soon.”

Her smile was sad. “I’m glad you didn’t say I should forgive him.”

You shrugged, “I suspect that comes as part of the full healing package.”

“I’ll heal when I see Dami’s grave. I plan to spit on it.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Her eyes flashed. “Is that a dare?”

“You don’t understand.” You exhaled. “He wants to be cremated.””

Chimeka also does well with the use of Nigerian English in this piece, the only thing being that the characters’ voices sometimes slip into the narrative voice. But it still remains a wonderful short story.

“Made of Water” by Erhu Kome Yellow (published in Agbowó’s Limits Issue)

“His name is Akpo and he could not be more than 17. He had told me what was going on. Why he and the other boys had to sit there every day, watching and waiting. He spoke some form of broken English but I understood every word. 

“The matter start small. Oil company people discover oil for here. Them help us build primary school, build water tower even give us generator and our chiefs give them free pass to work. When time reach to con work, those Oteri people, our neighbor town say make the oil company people no drill for the land.””—from “Made of Water”.

A YA story about what we do for love, for family, about the sacrifices we make. It is narrated by a teenage girl named Rossetti and is about her mom and her best friend, Jazz, and the two boys, Akpo and Ben, who mean something to her. A number of things happen in the story which are generally things a young person would notice: She meets Akpo, the seventeen-year old boy who carries a gun to defend ‘our’ land, and she’s somewhat fascinated by him; she’s angry because she wasn’t invited to a party; her mother, who lost her job not long after her father died, buys her a tulle dress that must be very costly, and she wonders where her mother got the money; she hangs out with her best friend Jazz, and the boy, Ben, she has a crush on, who seems to like her, walks by—later in the story he invites her for a date. But all these things blend to make a wonderful story, and there’s a nice twist at the end, and I like the note on which the story ends.

The use of a mix of pidgin English, which Erhu calls ‘broken English’, is nice—the only thing being that the boy, Akpo, who is supposed to speak broken English, sometimes speaks fluent English.

Here for example:

“”I no know for am. Evil mind? But e stop so I join my mama for farm you know. Man’s got to eat. This work,” he holds out his rifle, “it will give me and my mama money so we can find house of our own. The oil company people will give chiefs money, the chiefs will give us our share. Na so e be.” He pauses. Then he begins to speak again with emotion in his voice. “And the oil land is our land! I must protect wetin belong to us by fire by force. No small pikin mind here.””

—Akpo speaks good English.

However, I like the voice in the story; it’s gentle, and it was really what kept me in the story.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories. I’ll be reviewing and recommending more interesting short stories in the coming weeks.

Did you enjoy these stories as much as I did? Please leave your comments below.

ERNEST O. ÒGÚNYEMÍ is an eighteen-year old writer and spoken word artist from Nigeria. His works have appeared/ forthcoming in: Kalahari Review, Litro ‘Comedy’ Issue, Lucent Dreaming, Low Light Magazine, Canvas Lit Journal, Agbowó ‘Limits’ Issue, and elsewhere. He is a 2019 Adroit Summer Mentee, and currently serves as an editorial intern at COUNTERCLOCK Journal. In 2018, he won the Association of Nigerian Authors NECO/ Teen Prize for his manuscript of short stories, “Tomorrow Brings Beautiful Things: STORIES”. He is currently working on his first novel.

The post Recommended Short Stories You Can Read Online. This Edition Features Story By Pemi Aguda, Chimeka Garricks, and Erhu Kome Yellow. appeared first on Creative Writing News.

A Review of Some of the Best Short Stories by Africans available online.

The one thing that makes a short story good is what it makes you feel after you have read that last sentence. But there are other things—the freshness of the story (nobody wants the same old stories), the finesse of the prose (who doesn’t love beautiful sentences?!), and how the story leaves you after each read.

When I read I search for something new, something fresh, and that means, I also read to learn—to see what these writers are doing right, and how they’re doing them. But often I encounter stories that force me to read and enjoy them. On such occasions, I forget about learning. I’m drawn into their world as if by a massive hand, but then—the journey is tender. The following stories fall into the category of amazing short stories that sucked me into their world of wonder.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

“After the Birds” by Ope Adedeji. (Published in McSweeney’s 56, available on the site)

“The smell of air and taste of water make my skin crawl this morning. I know what’s happened: I swallowed my key last night.” –from “After the Birds”.

If you haven’t read this, you’re missing out on one of the most beautiful pieces of writing to come out of Africa this year; it’s literally what you’re looking for. A story packed with imageries of birds and lizards and flowers, threaded with poetry and myths/ superstition. It is a story I finished reading in one sitting. This story literally made me scream at the end.

The story follows three main characters: Arin, the narrator and protagonist (yes, protagonist); Hakeem, the man she gets married to and the man I want to punch in the face; and Isaac, the man her heart and body wants but who the birds say she won’t have as husband.

There’s a beautiful and an interesting storyline, and the story itself is well-sewn. Ope does well at making no room for doubts; everything is where it should be. An interesting thing she also does is how she makes us see what is coming (by foreshadowing) and how she makes us, just as she makes the narrator, believe that our expectations may be wrong.

How she drops little info here and there, and how all of these little info adds up in the big parts of the story is interesting, too. For example, we are not too surprised when Hakeem takes the news of what Arin did to him when it comes later in the story with gentle hands, because we know him to be the coolheaded guy from the start of things. She does this well, too, when Isaac, who is a ghost, visits Arin and is in a position that would have drowned his senses. Surprisingly, that position made Arin lost, but it didn’t make Isaac who knew to change position immediately he heard Mama come in with the kids. This sensitivity in the Isaac-of-a-long-time-after-the-naming-ceremony prepares us, though without us knowing it as such, for the news of his death. And did he not say he was attending a funeral?

The way she writes her backstory is something I admire as well, something only a few writers can do well—especially short story writers. See:

“I’d known Gloria for a few years before I met him. I’d first seen her face in a sultry Twitter display picture under the “Who to follow” list: lips black and slightly parted, face ashen, red ’fro, and eyes in a squint. Next, we swapped orange boots at National Youth Service Corps camp and took chilly 4 a.m. baths out in the open. We eventually became best friends over African and European fiction classics discussed in quiet conference rooms before staff meetings.”

What more do we need to know about the relationship that exists between those two?

However, it’s the characters in “After the Birds” that make it what it is, a piece that shuts our world in minutes and gifts us a different one—that, even after we’ve closed the tab, we still can’t bring ourselves to leave that world; we carry it in our hearts and heads. We carry them, the characters. We try to believe their story can’t be ours; that it’s not possible to desire a thing and still be unable to have it, even when it’s there in our hand; that it’s a sick man that is betrayed and still trusts.

But, somewhere, in the dark, we wish we could be like Hakeem, that we don’t end like Isaac, that we (don’t) get a lady like Arin, that we have a mother-in-law as kind as hers.

“Solutions” by Howard B. Maximus. (In The Vanguard Book of Love Stories, published by Brittle Paper)

“He liked to romanticize Mathematics. He once asked his students if they’d ever seen anything as elegant as the integration sign. Its svelte gracefulness, its elongated torso and regal uprightness, like a special species in the family of S’s that had been groomed to always stand up straight. To always walk tall.” –from “Solutions”.

…I want to ask, Who describes an integration sign as if it were a princess? The same guy who writes about something he never had as if he did.

The thing that tears my mouth open every time I read this story is that I was there when he wrote it, in one night—not two—and it’s good.

A piece about romanticizing Mathematics, it follows a teacher, Papa V., who loses his wife and decides not to remarry, who then falls in love with one of the students he taught in evening school (also adults school). But then there is a problem: Grief has deadened Papa V.’s doing power.

The piece succeeds in not just its storyline, but in the way the story is told in Mathematical language, and in the way Howard sees the world, through the eyes of Papa V. After reading “Solutions”, it would surprise you how mathematical everything—from adding salt to a pot of soup, to describing a woman, to the thing we call love and our significance on earth—is.

And, have you read Howard? Does he write beautiful sentences? Come and see.

“Math had come to them suddenly years ago, implementing himself in the equation of their marriage: Method of Elimination, and poof, his wife was gone like a pun snatched from a chessboard.”

 “If you asked him, Papa V. would tell you this about his marriage: it had been an interesting equation cut short, before all the parameters could align—a beautiful equation, even in its incompleteness.”

Moreover, Howard does know how to be funny—even when writing about some of the most painful things in the world, humor never eludes him. He brings humor to this story, sprinkles it everywhere in the story.

Here, Love + maths language + humor + a beautiful voice – boring sentences – boring characters = Solutions.

“Some Days” by Tochukwu Emmanuel. (Published in No Tokens Issue 5, but published on the journal’s site this year)

“THERE ARE FIVE OF us in the car: Chima, Musa, Boye, Mary, and me. Boye is our driver. His stubby fingers circle the steering wheel, and he goes, “Vrooom. Vrooom.” His eyes tear through the windshield, into the meat-coloured yard with an avocado tree standing in the middle, like they are about to jump out of their sockets anytime soon. Like he truly believes he is driving. “Vrooom. Vrooom,” he goes again like a mad dog—his teeth clenched, his back straightened.” –from “Some Days”.

I bet no one picks a story from where Tochukwu picks his. He takes the ordinary and makes it fresh, in a way that we begin to desire the ordinary. And the way he takes these stories that we know so well, these stories that are ours, that are so familiar we believe we don’t need anyone telling them to us—is what makes him that one short story writer I’d read anything he publishes.

This story begins in a spoilt bus, where some children are playing driver and passenger, and it moves on till we get to a boy’s house and learn that “some days… are… like this.”

The piece’s narrator is a small boy of twelve, but his maturity and keen eyes is something—which is not surprising. Why? We know the boy lives, and probably grew up, somewhere close to Bariga, since there’s a reference to Abule market and an abattoir in that market. Or, it could be anywhere else in mainland Lagos.

His voice, the narrator’s, is so moving, it’d keep you in the piece, and when you reach the end of the story, you’d see that, just like the small agbero boys in Lagos who we feel do not have hearts or are way too hard and smart for their age, a child would always be a child, would always be soft somewhere on the inside—and that a child would always need to be safe.

More than that, “Some Days” is a story about what it means to be a child in the other side of Lagos that does not have the tall buildings and fine houses, about the class structure in the ghetto, about shame, about the things a woman does to make not just ends, but also beginnings, meet. And of the places we run to to be safe when home is “kram kram breaking of bottles on the wall” and “the dull thump of heavy objects falling.”

I hope you enjoy reading these stories. I’ll be reviewing and recommending more interesting short stories in the coming weeks.

Did you enjoy these stories as much as I did? Please leave your comments below.

Ernest O. Ogunyemi enjoys playing with words to express what he feels within, or wants to feel. His stories have appeared in magazines and blogs such as Tuck Magazine, Naija Stories, Poetry Soup and his poetry is forthcoming in Acumen91 (out in May) and African Writing. Currently, he is working on a short story collection: Weaving Fine Rhythms from Broken Tunes.

The post Recommended Short Stories You Can Read Online. This Edition Features Stories by Howard B. Maximus, Ope Adedeji and Tochukwu Okafor. appeared first on Creative Writing News.

The short story form is in high demand. Many writers want to learn how to write a short story. Also, many writers wonder how long is a short story?

In this article, Tega explains everything he learned from prolific writer TJ Benson. Wrapped in short story examples are nuggets on short story outlines, elements writing hacks, and more.

Ready to learn how to write a short story? Ready to learn how long a short story should be.? Read on. This article starts with a vivid short story about a writing festival.

How To Write A Short Story: Lessons Learned From TJ Benson’s Short Short Story Day Africa Workshop. 

It’s the Jos Museum Festival. It means the celebration of ancient cultures and histories to keep the future breathing. 

I want to roll with the massive crowd gathering at British-America Junction. I want to soak the raw banging of the local drums and the seismic blast of horns scattered everywhere.

Another thing, the popular Terminus Market is falling flat today. I want to see Chinese engineers setting demolition charges to the quiet sprawl of mossy buildings that were once the economic pride of Jos.

I have also been invited to a Cast and Crew Party at the Jos Repertory Theatre. The party means Jollof rice and baked chicken and groundnut oil. It means moi-moi, and chilled juices and evergreen high-life music.

But guess where I am headed with Lardo, YoungLan and our copies of We Won’t Fade into Darkness?

To a short story workshop taught by fiction writing maestro, TJ Benson. There I intend to learn more about how to write a short story.

For the uninitiated, here’s a definition of a short story.

A short story is a work of prose fiction (sometimes prose poetry) that can be read in one sitting. It can also be defined as a piece of fiction that focuses on a specific moment in a character’s or group of characters’ lives.

On my way to this workshop, someone begged me to ask how long is a short story. But I said, I already knew about the word counts of short stories.

A short story is usually as long as it wants to be. Or as short as it wants to. Thankfully, the short story market is flexible. It can accommodate stories that are as short as six words and as long as 10,000 or even 20,000 words.

Ernest Hemmingway famously wrote a beautiful flash fiction or micro fiction story that was six words long. It read:

TJ Benson had interesting things to say about how long a short story should be. More on that later.

A Short Story About Meeting The Other Workshop Participants.

nHUB is all vintage lamps, impossible warmth, and brilliant graffiti. Poets move up and down, asking for the central Wi-Fi password.

I feel strangely related to all of them even with their mad varieties of accents. I broach one.

“What’s your name?”

“De General.”

“Bro, I mean your real name?”

He observes a long pause as though trying to remember his birth name. “Nuel,” he says, almost with a grudge. He is a performance poet, he says.

Performance poets prefer their stage names. He mourns his lack of earphones. Poets need their earphones, especially spoken word poets. Please, do I have any spare earphones to lend?

In the spacious lobby, Younglan and other poets find belonging in navigating the memories of a Pulitzer photographer who killed himself. Someone makes light of the tragic issue.

“Have you ever been in a deep depression?” Miriam asks the person, her voice bellicose.

“Depression is depression.” The person says, in a quiet shout. “Nothing like deep depression.”

An argument on depression follows. It flows sadly, loudly.

I move away from them to a flower girl filling herself with music by a concrete balustrade. Her name is Sonia.

Her lips are soft passion fruits. Like passion fruits, maybe they will produce some sweetness. Maybe they will be comforting.

Hello, Sonia! What genre do you mostly write? Poetry too? Okay. So, Sonia what was your last poem about? Depression too? Mo gbe! No, pleeeease don’t show me. Thank you! I leap into the hall.

Arriving At The Short Short Story Day Workshop Hall.

The hall is the milk veneer tables, which strangely turn purple when the white lights trip on.

The hall is also a rainbow of neatly arranged chairs and weird wall paintings. I jog my hands across the cold expanse of tinted glass windows that mute the daylight.

But I do nothing to mute the raucous sound downstairs. I roll back one of the windows.

I lower my gaze and take in the reckless movement of cars, and people in ridiculous tribal clothes. They’re dancing their way to British-America Junction for the festival. Someone, an old man with a brilliant toothy smile, waves at me. I wave back.

Write Your Story Immediately The Idea Comes To You.

We sit facing a whiteboard that reads, ‘WRITE IT NOW. SOMETIMES, LATER BECOMES NEVER.’ I feel attacked.

I know I shouldn’t. But I can help myself. Learning how to write a short story isn’t for wimps.

Rudolph, an ingenious spoken word poet and one of the organizers of the workshop, performs a poem while walking around our tables.

I find it hard to catch up with his experimental style. He talks about theme, coherence, plot, rhythm and diction. All the elements of a short story.

He talks as if these elements are things from outer space. I don’t understand much of them, maybe because I am not a poet.

I look at my wristwatch and scribble on my right palm: Where. Is. TJ Benson?

Crafting A Character Profile Of The Workshop Facilitator

TJ Benson breezes into the hall in the cool height of a Toyota Hummer bus, in swaying ash trousers and a white T-shirt that is MALAWI.

His eyes are focused on everyone. He owes Jos some years of his writing life, he says.

TJ’s movement is a lot like Salsa. The way his hands swim, and the way his shoulders swing back and forth when he says he has nothing against people who beer out their bellies. His movements are all endlessly fascinating.

He has the soul of an intricate Tiv song, this TJ. He imagines himself as the character he is writing. And by that way, he is able to find specific things about that character. He stalks himself. Applaudissez! We clap for him.

Straight to the matter. What are your names? He asks. Tell the house something about you.

The first writer is trying to love again. Wow. Bold of him to say that, TJ says. Isn’t writing about churning bold expressions when other art forms are reticent? Be bold. Know and say what you want. Write it. Don’t worry about the short story length. Just write it. Next!

The second is a psychologist who doesn’t socialize.

Her character is unique, TJ points out. She is wearing a shouty blue lipstick to draw our attention. And she doesn’t like socializing, huh?

An accurate irony, something writeable! “It’s green,” she says to TJ, smiling, “my lips are green.” It’s all a story, TJ says. That’s the long and short of it. 

Depictions don’t have to be factual. Just make them interesting and believable. Okay? Next!

Someone wants to situate deep humour inside a short story strictly on pain. More like distilling perfume from garlic. Why not! It’s possible. Everything is. There is something called Speculative Fiction, and there is Fantasy, TJ says.

Someone wants to write a book about life.

‘WHAT PART OF LIFE?’ TJ writes on the whiteboard. Life is too broad, he says facing us, his voice a decibel higher.

Avoid blanket statements. Don’t think of life when writing. Think about specific experiences in life. Good writing thrives on specificity.

But avoid the obvious, he adds. Like poverty, disease, hunger, and other clichéd subject matters that are copious in most African Literature.

Write something new. Write from a fresh and unique angle, he admonishes. Writing is not a tidy experience, he adds. We must avoid the urge to put the process into a small or bland space.

What about urban markets? Bank Vault? About BRT buses? About the surface of the moon? About Maximum prisons? About afterlife? Research. Tell outgoing stories.

Someone says he is a writer who is mostly too lazy to lift a pen. But when he does, OMG happens. For example, he helped a secondary school student write an essay and the essay is taking the student to the USA.

TJ tells him to trust his lazy process as long as it gives him OMG results. He proceeds to ask a moral question: Do we think it was wrong of him to have helped the student write the essay?

An argument breaks out between two participants.

“Oh! It’s cheating.”

“EVERYONE cheats one way or the other.”

“I don’t cheat!”

“He was just helping an underprivileged kid get to the USA!”

“It was a competition for school kids.”

“And so what? What of ghostwriting?”

“What about ghostwriting!?”

“Are you not a ghostwriter?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Why?”

“Zed.”

Someone says he photographs for a local newspaper.

TJ Benson asks him to give a picture of the newspaper office. The person says it’s conducive, beautiful –

Keep your opinion to yourself, TJ cuts it. Just paint a picture. Show what the place looks like then let the reader say whether it’s conducive and beautiful. Show. Don’t tell.

Next! Next!…

Determining How Long Your Short Story Should Be.

The short story is a compact wonderful literary form. Yes, there’s a lot of contention about the aptest short story length. This explains why budding writers are often asking, how long is a short story?

According to TJ, short story lengths are dynamic. In some cases, they overlap.

Many short story journals and contests often publish short stories with word counts between 2000 – 5000 words. Some flash fiction magazines and contests prefer stories that are less than 1000 words. Some prefer sudden or microfiction stories that are under 500 words.

There is no easy answer to the FAQ, how long is a short story. But below is a yardstick you can use to determine the correct short story length.

Microfiction or sudden fiction: 500 words or less.

Flash fiction (also called short, short stories): 1,000 words or less.

Short story: 1000 to 20,000 words (the style is often cyclical. There are often echoes strewn throughout the story)

Short novel or a novelette: 7,500 to 25,000 words

Novella: 10,000 to 49,000 words

Novel: 50,000 words or more.

More Of TJ Benson’s Tips On How To Write A Good Short Story.

If you’re learning how to write a short story, you must take the following tips seriously.

Your Story Should Haunt The Reader.

Your short story supposed to make the reader feel a strange sense of wonder. There are a bunch of amazing short stories out there. But there will also be a space for yours. Simply make your reader truly feel that strange sense of wonder.

Create Seminal Moments Of Change.

For a short story to be successful, there has to be a profound change. Our lives are stories of changes.

We are born. We die. We change senses. We change our minds. We change our clothes. We change levels.

Something has to change in the story you are writing. The more major and unpredictable the change is, the better the sense of wonder.

Ask Yourself The Following Questions After the First/Second Draft of Your Short Story:

• What makes this piece different from every other piece?
• How does it capture a specific moment or consciousness?
• Why should people give up their precious time for it?
• How can I cut it down? This question is important is you’re wondering how long your story should be.

Practice The Art Of Word Count Economy. Say A Lot In Few Words.

A good short story isn’t unnecessarily wordy. The best short story writers often employ a rare technique called word economy.

Your short story should be able to convey as much meaning as possible in few words. And this must be neatly done –else, it becomes a burden to the reader.

Don’t forget that word count and length matter in short stories. But rather than ask, how long is a short story, pause. Compress your sentences. Delete unnecessary and repetitive words.

Aim For A Rythmic, Voice Driven Tale.

A good short story should flow and show. Don’t spend too much time describing to your readers. Or you will leave them with roadblocks and no story.

Show your reader a picture of the unfolding events. When you show, your readers experience and absorb your story.

Pay Attention To Your Mode Of Representation

There is a certain form of erasure of groups that do not belong to the mainstream in every part of the world.

There is no one-way to being human. Humanity is complex. Showing complexity and difference in your work matters.

Write the marginal in with dignity. But don’t be preachy about it.

Good Short Stories Don’t Waste Words On Stereotypes.

As a writer, assume no default identity. Rise above preconceived notions and unbridled traditional beliefs.

There are no fixed restrictions as to what should be or not be. Always be on the verge of saying something new. Work against stereotypes.

Resist The Temptation To Italicize Non-English Words.

Don’t italicize or explain indigenous words for the West. Your job isn’t to beg people to like your culture.

Your indigenous words aren’t exotic. Exhaust materials peculiar to your culture. Use folktales, songs, riddles, proverbs and so on. Enrich your works with these things.

Your experience is worthy of representation.

Give Your Story Context

Context is the ecosystem of your story. Context matters. It adds believability to your piece. Always check with context.

Pay Attention To Intent and Language

Your intent is the ocean wave that carries your words. It is the guiding spirit of the story.

It is the energy behind each word, the feeling. If your intent is to create a love story let it be clearly felt by the reader. Be intentional.

Favor language simplicity. Don’t rely on heavy or complicated language to tell your story.

Rely on yourself as an artist. Build a confident voice (and you do this by continuous writing practices and of course, reading)

 Watch a video of the workshop. Learn how to write a short story.

Create Moving Dialogue

Characters are different people. The way they talk should mirror their differences. Your characters shouldn’t speak like you. Study the cadence of people.

For example, assertive people talk with curt and short sentences or long rants.

Less self-assured or nervous people beat around the bush or ramble.

Never enter into a writing project without absorbing the sounds of various kinds of people.

 Choose Your Characters Names Wisely.

Humanize your story with names, profound names. Let diversity and color richly show in your characters’ names.

Often, writers assume that readers won’t remember indigenous names. The irony is that such names make them more memorable.

Remember Ralia, the sugar girl? Ali and Simbi? Who can ever forget Ifemelu or Okonkwo or Jagua Nana?

Your Title Should Tell The Reader Something About Your Short Story. 

Your title may cast an informing light on the story but should not give it away. You could get a title from when a major change occurs in the story.

If the essence of your story cannot be contained in its first and second paragraphs then let it be contained in the title.

Read Materials That Make You A Better Short Story Writer. 

To read is to think and to think clearly is to write wonderfully. It opens and renews the mind. 

Reading is the surest way to learn how to write a short story. It gives you more words, more ideas, and consciousnesses.

When you read, you add heft to your voice. You know what is true to you. You know what is not. You know the right length for the short story you’re working on.

Read widely. Don’t look down on any genre. Have an acute consciousness. Read and absorb your environment. Be aware.

Bonus Tips: How To Care For Your Creative Health

• Be kind to your mind.
• Don’t let rejection letters get to you.
• Remove market pressure from your worktable.
• Don’t do it for prizes or for validation. Do it for you. Write at your pace.
• Control your work. Be in charge of the process. Be in charge of how much of yourself you put into your work.
• Network with friends. Have a support system that will insulate you from dark moods.
• Be deliberate about the environments you expose your mind to. Some environments will never be good for you as an artist.
• Don’t disappear into the world you are trying to create on paper.
• Create time to stretch and do some physical exercises. Remove yourself from your manuscript once in a while, and seek out psychical spaces that are new to you.
• Traveling is very essential to the craft. Travel out of your experience and embody other consciousnesses.
• Don’t conform. Find your own formula. Don’t let how any writer writes to be your absolute way.
• You may experience the imposter syndrome sometimes. You may feel you are not worthy of the attention you receive. You do, and you deserve even more.

Because TJ Benson says we deserve more, and because we do, Lardo and Rudolph skip forward bearing a pack of meat pie and frosty coke for each one of us.

Wrap Up On How Long Is A Short Story?: Understanding The Basics Of How To Write A Short Story.

The short story is a unique art form. It is almost as technical as drama and screenplay writing. But it is interesting still.

The easiest way to figure out how to write a short story is to read many, many stories. There are a lot of great short stories you can read for free online.

Rather than worry about the length of your story, simply write. Focus on getting the voice right, on plugging plot holes. Focus on making the most of the elements of the short story.

The tips above will help you write the perfect short story. And hopefully, you now know the answer to the FAQ, how long is a short story.

Have you written a short story lately? What was your experience? Did you have to worry about the short story length? And does reading and analyzing poetry make you a better writer?

Please leave a comment below. Click, if you’d like to learn how to write a novel.

 The workshop was co-organized by Just Create, Tales Afrik and Custodians of African Literature. It held on the 18^th of May, 2019, in Jos, Nigeria.

Bio: Tega Oghenechovwen has attended Short Story Day Africa workshop, Aké Festival writing Workshop, among others. He has published work with the Rumpus, Black Sun Lit, Litro Magazine, Arts and Africa, and elsewhere. He tweets @tega_chovwen

The post How Long Is A Short Story?: A Guide On How To Write A Short Story. appeared first on Creative Writing News.