Monday, 23 November 2009

A dark african safari - the primordial bygone of the tribal zulu shadow

I like Kenyan author, Binyavanga Wainaina's, feature so much I want to share it here and here:

How to Write about Africa

Always use the word 'Africa' or 'Darkness' or 'Safari' in your title. Subtitles may include the words 'Zanzibar', 'Masai', 'Zulu', 'Zambezi', 'Congo', 'Nile', 'Big', 'Sky', 'Shadow', 'Drum', 'Sun' or 'Bygone'. Also useful are words such as 'Guerrillas', 'Timeless', 'Primordial' and 'Tribal'. Note that 'People' means Africans who are not black, while 'The People' means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can't live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa's situation. But do not be too specific.

Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the 'real Africa', and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people's property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa's most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or 'conservation area', and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa's rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don't mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You'll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

At night they haunt me

Just the slightest inclination that a stranger was present and I was fully awake. My knee had been gently caressed.
With no hesitation I jumped out of the comfort of my Habitat Ottori bed and tip toed to the guestroom where my intuition nudged me.
The room was newly painted, a feature, which in the darkness, could be smelt rather than seen. However, the tiny amount of light that shone through the crack of the open window revealed that the paint buckets were in the right corner of the room, next to the vintage piano. I recalled, that as I'd went out to get us dinner earlier in the evening I had told D to put them in the left corner so that the wind wouldn't dry the paint.
I swallowed a cold breeze, which made the skin on my chest goosed and stiff. I shut the window and returned to bed. Perhaps it was merely the crisp autumn wind that had awakened me in the first place.

The next night the pressure was on my thighs. The pinch momentarily became a part of my dream. Yet, in the abrupt way in which one realises the difference in dream and reality, I soon awoke to the fact that someone was in actuality squeezing my thigh. When I opened my eyes there was no one there, nor was there any proof that someone had just been in my room. That is, apart from the red finger marks on my skin.
I walked to the guestroom again and pulled the light bulb string. There were two pairs of men's shoes by the piano stool. One pair was new looking Caterpillar boots. The other; a pair of worn grey leather shoes, looked familiar.

D arrived about an hour later, his eyes small and moist from sleep interruption. I explained the previous and the current nights' situations to him in frenzy. I showed him the marks on my thighs which no longer were as red, but that now were replaced by more defined bruises. The shoes, which I'd described to D in detail, were however no longer in the guestroom. He tucked me into bed. As I kissed him goodnight, I sensed a slight reluctance in him. He was worried and suspicious at the same time.

The nights that succeeded were the same. No sooner would I manage to fall asleep than I would feel the presence of the ghosts. Although D now spent most nights in my flat, the intrusions became more unsettling and intimate in nature. One night I woke up from the sensation of a tongue poking my belly button. Furthermore, the guest room would always be home to neatly arranged clothes and footwear, proof that I was not going mad.

Nonetheless, I went to see a spiritual healer/psychoanalyst/life coach (yes, she was an all-in-one mental guru), in the dubiety that maybe my predicament was psychological after all. She told me that all women have dreams about male intruders at some point in their lives. It's one of the unspoken facts of life, she said. These dreams represent a fear that women innately feel towards the male collective and their ability to contravene on our rebelliousness. She told me that the psychosomatic term for them is 'dark man dreams'.
Sometimes, she further explained, the symptoms the dark man has on our actual lives can be so potent that the dreams leave physical traces in our real lives. The cure, she said, was to find out what the 'unfinished business' was, so to speak, and more often than not - it would be business with the 'self' rather than with men.

A few nights later, I discovered that she was right. I pretended to be asleep, my eyes tightly shut but wide-awake. I awaited the visit of the ‘dark man’. At about three in the morning I sensed my bed become remarkably cooler. There was an unmistakeable presence in the room. From nowhere I felt someone suddenly touch my ankle, as though with nails. The nail traced up my leg all the way to my groin and then stopped abruptly. I peeked through my heavy lashes but saw nothing. As I opened my eyes, I also felt nothing.
Still I followed the cool air, which led me into the guest room. Two exes of mine, Laurenz and Mauritz were in my guest room. Sat discussing the way in which way I had performed sexually, taking notes from each other, wondering with whom my wilderness had ran more free.

As I stood there watching and listening them talk about me as a 'fuck', D walked in to the room.
'Come,' he said ignoring Laurenz and Mauritz, 'It's time to sleep.'

Friday, 31 July 2009

last word

as always it starts with you
your soft voice and your big throat as you proclaim
your misplaced love to me
your mundane love to me
your strong hands that grab my small head like a marble
and gently roll me
until i hit the wall
your arrogance feels home to me
its fleshy presence splashes out buckets that bathe
copious amounts of you back to me

as always it ends with me

Wednesday, 1 July 2009

breakfast without you

i'm not going to publish any of these thoughts, they are secrets. things ill never tell you. not even when you are lying next to me on a saturday morning and we are sharing thoughts. when our legs are intertwined like ivy and we are talking about our favourite ice cream or just listening to the city buzzing next to us. and when i'm thinking that you leaving to fetch us breakfast is too unbearably long to be apart, and wondering which you think is sadder; remembering or forgetting. it's just i really do like when your fingertips bounce on my skin like grapes and it's just although i've been lifted before my body never feels as light as when you lift me and i can breathe you, a sweet musky scent like autumn. it's just i'm not sure i've ever felt as happy as I do in those moments when you give me back to myself when I remember what I was like before it all clenched and when you say without me asking, that you love my soul

Wednesday, 10 June 2009

The Undesirable

Glistening, toasted-almond coloured layers of taut skin wrap her flesh from her ankles all the way up to the smooth crevices of her neck. Even the small bulge that surfaces her otherwise slender abdomen is firm, like an unripe plum. On her chest her nipples give the appearance that someone has painted two dried sultanas on a blank canvas of sandhills.
Unlike the firm skin of her body, the skin on her face bears a different quality. A softness, which makes me feel whenever I look at her, like I am watching a movie filmed in soft focus. Balmy velvety skin.
The only thing unappealing about Ayanna's appearance is the frown of discountenance that places itself right across her forehead when she looks at me. My kindness towards her can never eliminate the silent wrath she harbours for my being, and hence, I often find myself trying to capture her in moments when she is unaware of my presence. For only then can I be the lucky witness of such incomparable resplendence.

However, on this bright afternoon worthy of worship, in a street café where she and I sip on juice under the shade, her disapproving frown is covered by long plats which reach from the centre of her head down across her serious eyes.
'Peter', she says, looking in my opposite direction. 'I had this dream last night. That I was no longer around, that I was y'know, gone, and that it was just you and Amina left.' She sucks the last sips of juice through her straw like a child. 'And when I woke up,' she continues as she catches her breath, 'I thought I have to ask you.'
Ayanna never tells me anything if she isn't convinced she has my full attention. Like now. She needs me to ask her 'what?' before she'll proceed. So I do.'What do you have to ask me, love?' Knowing she dislikes my amorous displays, satisfies me in a perverted way. Perverted, because it hurts and pleases me simultaneously. I want her to love me even though our union from the start was based on ownership not love.
'See, I woke up and I wanted to ask you to be the best father you can be. If anything ever happened to me, like in the dream.'

It came as no big surprise the following morning that Ayanna's side of the bed was empty. Or that there was no note, no indication that she had ever cohabited the bed with me. From that day on my wife's existence became intangible, like a moment of deja vu, like a fragment in my memory. The only memento left of her was the scent of the deer musk which she rubbed her glossy skin with every evening, that scent of raw earth which now split my nostrils like papercuts.
I was unaware that I had shouted her name until my daughter's small soft fingers stroked my balding head.
'Baba,' she said, concerned but calm, 'has Ayanna already left us?'
As always, Amina knew more about her mother than I did. I nodded my head.
‘She will be happier.’ That was all Amina said, and patted my cheek before she ran out the room, a block of lego in her hand.

It was many years later, by the corner of Mbagathi Way, that I received the consolance I’d been searching for, for so long. There, I met a woman with black kohl around her eyes – even more than Ayanna used to wear.
‘Peter?’ her soiled fingernails dug into my skin.
‘Yes!’ I replied, startled. I did not know her.
‘Amina?’ Her eyes lit up as she looked at the young girl before her.
Amina lowered her eyelids.
'I am Ayanna's sister,' she said concurrently proud and embarrassed. 'I've been waiting for this day,' she continued. 'To explain to you why Ayanna left.'
'I expected her to leave me, sister-in-law. I don't think there is much more you can tell me than what I already have gathered. You see my love for her, although prodigious, was not honorable.' I looked in her eyes to make sure she understood that I understood.
'She went back to our hometown,' Ayanna's sister said, 'to marry the man our family initially wanted for her, before you bought her.' Her voice was not condemning. She understood that I had bought her sister out of love.
'Why did she leave me behind?' Amina asked unexpectedly.
'Because she knew that even though your father paid for her, his love for you, was unconditional.'
'She was always correct,' Amina said.

Wednesday, 27 May 2009

Daydream Magazine





My story 'Nathalie with an H' has been published in Daydream.

Pick up a copy of this sleek and sexy issue here

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Nothing

Some say that there is beauty in the absoluteness of nothing
This morning I believed them
In a moment of omnipresence I became still
So tranquil even my hands trembled in statuesque motion
Flapping my silent wings in readiness for my journey
I felt so happy my legs lifted and I flew into the roof
Only two.
This morning I laughed
Crisp pure laughter like a chill
Objective periphery of the unexpected seemed to linger
Without warning I landed but I maintained equilibrium
At night i brushed my hair ten times, tied a bun and pulled out one long curl like a string of pearls
See, sometimes the sound of life makes me weep, the hush of traffic and the sirens of emergency are the hum of my soul
Being nothing is my remedy