Have you heard of this writer? I hadn't.
No matter though because now you have.
And boy does he have a tale to tell. He is a Nigerian Jesuit priest who has sold a short story collection for one million dollars. Yeah, baby. One million. You can download one of his stories, 'An Ex-Mas Feast' from the Net. It was published in the New Yorker. Just type his name into google. Prepare to be shocked and stunned.
Sunday, 22 April 2007
Monday, 16 April 2007
The Palm Oil With Which Words Are Eaten
In Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe refers to proverbs as "the palm oil with which words are eaten".
I think it's true. At least for African stories.
If there is anything that is genre-like about them, it is the existence of proverbs. Even writers who shun the paranormal/metaphysical aspect of African culture still always rely on the odd proverb to make the tale authentic and credible.
That's smart. There is a real poetry to African proverbs.
I once witnessed a huge quarrel between two girls in my school. I must have been about 14 years old at the time, they were the same age. The girls were shouting in a language that I did not fully understand but I still remember being shocked to discover the cause of the bust up later on.
One girl, let's call her A, used a proverb that she herself did not fully understand.
Unfortunately, the other girl, who we'll call B, took offence. Big time. She wept as if someone had just shot her mother.
Girl A told Girl B that her 'shameful bottle had broken'.
That is the literal translation of course. The interpretation, if I am right - I am sure someone will tell me if I am wrong - is that we (humans) all hold our shame in a delicate 'bottle'-like structure. When we lose face that 'bottle' is broken. I'm not sure how Girl B even came to understand the proverb but it was curtains for that relationship, I can tell you. Quite a few of us had to pull them apart.
There was blood everywhere. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little about the blood part. Don't shoot me.
Exaggeration is the ladle from which stories are served....
Anyway, writers are supposed to make stuff up. Even proverbs. Although it's a bugger to create original authentic-sounding proverbs. Still, I plough on. Working on the details, for your reading pleasure.
So in the highly unlikely and unusual event that you don't like my novel, you can rest assured that I am loving writing it. If you think that sounds immodest, or even if you don't, I would like to refer you to another quote from the wonderful, wonderful, Things Fall Apart:
"The lizard who jumped from the high Iroko tree said, I will praise myself if no-one else will."
I think it's true. At least for African stories.
If there is anything that is genre-like about them, it is the existence of proverbs. Even writers who shun the paranormal/metaphysical aspect of African culture still always rely on the odd proverb to make the tale authentic and credible.
That's smart. There is a real poetry to African proverbs.
I once witnessed a huge quarrel between two girls in my school. I must have been about 14 years old at the time, they were the same age. The girls were shouting in a language that I did not fully understand but I still remember being shocked to discover the cause of the bust up later on.
One girl, let's call her A, used a proverb that she herself did not fully understand.
Unfortunately, the other girl, who we'll call B, took offence. Big time. She wept as if someone had just shot her mother.
Girl A told Girl B that her 'shameful bottle had broken'.
That is the literal translation of course. The interpretation, if I am right - I am sure someone will tell me if I am wrong - is that we (humans) all hold our shame in a delicate 'bottle'-like structure. When we lose face that 'bottle' is broken. I'm not sure how Girl B even came to understand the proverb but it was curtains for that relationship, I can tell you. Quite a few of us had to pull them apart.
There was blood everywhere. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little about the blood part. Don't shoot me.
Exaggeration is the ladle from which stories are served....
Anyway, writers are supposed to make stuff up. Even proverbs. Although it's a bugger to create original authentic-sounding proverbs. Still, I plough on. Working on the details, for your reading pleasure.
So in the highly unlikely and unusual event that you don't like my novel, you can rest assured that I am loving writing it. If you think that sounds immodest, or even if you don't, I would like to refer you to another quote from the wonderful, wonderful, Things Fall Apart:
"The lizard who jumped from the high Iroko tree said, I will praise myself if no-one else will."
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Single Black Parent
According to the Office for National Statistics, almost half the black children in Britain are being raised by a single parent. That is, forty-eight percent of Caribbean families and thirty-six percent of African households. Overall, nine out of ten single-parent families are headed by mothers, and our children are more likely to be unemployed, commit crime and leave education early. They are also twice as likely to be homeless.
So we might as well all just give up now.
Because according to this study most of our kids are fucked, whatever we do. Bring on the guilt, I say. We single parents could do with more.
I'm not sure that this report is saying anything new or different. Apart from the ethnic breakdown which is interesting but not really valuable in the broad scheme of things. If and when government social policy is implemented along racial lines then it becomes relevant. Otherwise...
Anyway, the thing that really bugs me is the fact that these statistical studies always seem to focus on the parent (nine out of ten times it is the mother) who stays behind to look after the child.
Why don't they ever measure the IQ/moral code/mental age/ego of the men who leave the job of bringing up their child to someone else? Let's argue that in most cases these men just up and leave: Does society ever stop to ask why they behave in this way (without blaming the woman)? Is there such a thing as a serial child deserter? And should society shun them?
We should ask ourselves these questions. Re frame the debate. Shake things up a bit. Replace, 'single, lone, and one-parent' with, 'responsibility, duty and shared parenting'. That would be cool.
In the meantime, if being a single parent gets me the same sort of publisher's advance as a certain very famous single parent author, I'll tattoo the label on my forehead.
So we might as well all just give up now.
Because according to this study most of our kids are fucked, whatever we do. Bring on the guilt, I say. We single parents could do with more.
I'm not sure that this report is saying anything new or different. Apart from the ethnic breakdown which is interesting but not really valuable in the broad scheme of things. If and when government social policy is implemented along racial lines then it becomes relevant. Otherwise...
Anyway, the thing that really bugs me is the fact that these statistical studies always seem to focus on the parent (nine out of ten times it is the mother) who stays behind to look after the child.
Why don't they ever measure the IQ/moral code/mental age/ego of the men who leave the job of bringing up their child to someone else? Let's argue that in most cases these men just up and leave: Does society ever stop to ask why they behave in this way (without blaming the woman)? Is there such a thing as a serial child deserter? And should society shun them?
We should ask ourselves these questions. Re frame the debate. Shake things up a bit. Replace, 'single, lone, and one-parent' with, 'responsibility, duty and shared parenting'. That would be cool.
In the meantime, if being a single parent gets me the same sort of publisher's advance as a certain very famous single parent author, I'll tattoo the label on my forehead.
Monday, 9 April 2007
Money for your life
There is controversy in the air this morning. The media is abuzz with wide ranging commentary at the British Ministry of Defence's decision to permit released naval officers to sell their stories to the media. Some have refused to sell their stories but the single woman in the crew, Leading Seaman Faye Turney, has sold her story to the tabloid press and TV for a reputed six figure sum.
On the one hand I am thinking, good luck to you girl. How can I begrudge you the opportunity to make money? I have not had to endure solitary confinement and scary prospect of never seeing my three year old child again. I was not allegedly 'forced to wear a hijab' or those awful clothes and made to write letters of apology to the Iranian people. And, I would definitely want compensation for having to smile and shake hands with my captor.
But then I'm not a soldier or naval officer or whatever. And that' s the point I think.
These amazingly brave service personnel sign up to represent our interests abroad. They are paid to risk their lives in so doing. They are supposed to be made of sterner stuff than you and I.
This sort of story is best served cold in my view. In a memoir or proper documentary some time after the facts have been chewed over and when it can be placed in context. Given that service men have died and are still serving in Iraq, this sort of quick cash tabloid deal places what must have been an extremely harrowing experience in the same context as a tacky David Beckham kiss and tell.
But who can resist this new reality economy? There is hard cash to be made from it. I will be only slightly surprised if we next see the fair seawoman completely made over on the X-factor post -boob job and nose job, trying to convince us that she is our next idol. So er you go, girl.
Back to me now. Or rather the book. I scribbled away till four am this morning still working on a major edit. Next time, next time, I will spend MONTHS drawing up the structure before I begin. That seems to be hardest thing for someone like me who has never been on a creative writing course. No one really tells you the rules about structure: how chapters function, how to introduce new characters, backstory, voice. But now I know and I'm working on it. Making it sequential, joining the pieces together, taking the reader with me. Maybe someday soon someone will give me some cash for my completed efforts. 'Cos it's a great story. Believe.
On the one hand I am thinking, good luck to you girl. How can I begrudge you the opportunity to make money? I have not had to endure solitary confinement and scary prospect of never seeing my three year old child again. I was not allegedly 'forced to wear a hijab' or those awful clothes and made to write letters of apology to the Iranian people. And, I would definitely want compensation for having to smile and shake hands with my captor.
But then I'm not a soldier or naval officer or whatever. And that' s the point I think.
These amazingly brave service personnel sign up to represent our interests abroad. They are paid to risk their lives in so doing. They are supposed to be made of sterner stuff than you and I.
This sort of story is best served cold in my view. In a memoir or proper documentary some time after the facts have been chewed over and when it can be placed in context. Given that service men have died and are still serving in Iraq, this sort of quick cash tabloid deal places what must have been an extremely harrowing experience in the same context as a tacky David Beckham kiss and tell.
But who can resist this new reality economy? There is hard cash to be made from it. I will be only slightly surprised if we next see the fair seawoman completely made over on the X-factor post -boob job and nose job, trying to convince us that she is our next idol. So er you go, girl.
Back to me now. Or rather the book. I scribbled away till four am this morning still working on a major edit. Next time, next time, I will spend MONTHS drawing up the structure before I begin. That seems to be hardest thing for someone like me who has never been on a creative writing course. No one really tells you the rules about structure: how chapters function, how to introduce new characters, backstory, voice. But now I know and I'm working on it. Making it sequential, joining the pieces together, taking the reader with me. Maybe someday soon someone will give me some cash for my completed efforts. 'Cos it's a great story. Believe.
Sunday, 8 April 2007
African Time
Easter Sunday and by now the streets of Accra are filled with yellow-blue, yellow-green, yellow-orange taxis tooting loudly; their occupants waving palm fronds shouting 'Christ is risen today, Halleujah! '
Doesn't quite feel the same in old Blighty, but never mind.
I settled down to enjoy the day with a book by acclaimed travel writer, Ryszard Kapucinski.
I was advised to read non-fiction while writing some time ago as it is an effective antidote to those feelings of absolute despair when that bastard Critical Voice within starts to compare my work in progress with the latest New Big Thing on the book shelves.
For me, the latest New Big Thing is invariably a ground-breaking novel about Africa or the immigrant experience in the UK, whose author is too young to realise just how ground breaking their New Big Thing really is. Sickening, really.
So Ryszard Kapuscinski is the perfect read. For one thing he's dead. No disrespect.
For another, he writes breathtaking poetic non-fiction about Africa. I went through the first few pages of his book, 'The Cobra's Heart' thinking yes, yes, absolutely. I agree with everything this man says.
And then I came to a pause. Hmm I thought. Not so sure about this one.
You see, Mr Kapuscinski gives an interesting analysis about what me and my friends call 'African Time'.
On his arrival at a bus station in Accra destined for Kumasi , a swarm of boys rush to him to ask where he is going. He tells them and they lead him to the appropriate bus driver who rewards the boys with bananas and oranges. So far so good.
The potential faux pas comes when the Foreigner looks around and asks, 'when will the bus leave?' To which the astonished driver replies, 'What do you mean, when will the bus leave? It will leave when we find enough people to fill it up.' Kapucinski records this as a moment of potential culture clash.
In his view the European feels himself to be enslaved by time; compelled to meet deadlines and dates, until he is ultimately defeated by time.
Africans (a simplified definition), according to Kapuscinski, view time as a much more fluid concept, influenced by man. Things happen when they do. Asking when something will happen such as a war or a meeting becomes a nonsense. It will happen when people turn up.
In my experience this is fairly, if not infuriatingly, spot on. No quarrel there.
What concerns me though, is the view that Africans are forever patient, ever passive, happy to wait for things to happen. That somehow, our respect for the physical, spiritual and ancestoral worlds makes us more inclined to this type of profound waiting than any other peoples.
History tells us this is not the case. Africans have fought and continue to fight wars that they hope will bring about wide scale change. People are hungry and inpatient for change. But before I get on my high horse about this - bearing in mind that my own perspective may be more than a little skewed by my Western proclivities - I have to say that I am drawn to the idea of things happening when they will. After all, babies do. As does love, death, life, fame, money, restored health.
So on Easter Sunday, as I go back to my book I feel content that its completion will also come when it will. And it will be the right time. Happy Easter.
Doesn't quite feel the same in old Blighty, but never mind.
I settled down to enjoy the day with a book by acclaimed travel writer, Ryszard Kapucinski.
I was advised to read non-fiction while writing some time ago as it is an effective antidote to those feelings of absolute despair when that bastard Critical Voice within starts to compare my work in progress with the latest New Big Thing on the book shelves.
For me, the latest New Big Thing is invariably a ground-breaking novel about Africa or the immigrant experience in the UK, whose author is too young to realise just how ground breaking their New Big Thing really is. Sickening, really.
So Ryszard Kapuscinski is the perfect read. For one thing he's dead. No disrespect.
For another, he writes breathtaking poetic non-fiction about Africa. I went through the first few pages of his book, 'The Cobra's Heart' thinking yes, yes, absolutely. I agree with everything this man says.
And then I came to a pause. Hmm I thought. Not so sure about this one.
You see, Mr Kapuscinski gives an interesting analysis about what me and my friends call 'African Time'.
On his arrival at a bus station in Accra destined for Kumasi , a swarm of boys rush to him to ask where he is going. He tells them and they lead him to the appropriate bus driver who rewards the boys with bananas and oranges. So far so good.
The potential faux pas comes when the Foreigner looks around and asks, 'when will the bus leave?' To which the astonished driver replies, 'What do you mean, when will the bus leave? It will leave when we find enough people to fill it up.' Kapucinski records this as a moment of potential culture clash.
In his view the European feels himself to be enslaved by time; compelled to meet deadlines and dates, until he is ultimately defeated by time.
Africans (a simplified definition), according to Kapuscinski, view time as a much more fluid concept, influenced by man. Things happen when they do. Asking when something will happen such as a war or a meeting becomes a nonsense. It will happen when people turn up.
In my experience this is fairly, if not infuriatingly, spot on. No quarrel there.
What concerns me though, is the view that Africans are forever patient, ever passive, happy to wait for things to happen. That somehow, our respect for the physical, spiritual and ancestoral worlds makes us more inclined to this type of profound waiting than any other peoples.
History tells us this is not the case. Africans have fought and continue to fight wars that they hope will bring about wide scale change. People are hungry and inpatient for change. But before I get on my high horse about this - bearing in mind that my own perspective may be more than a little skewed by my Western proclivities - I have to say that I am drawn to the idea of things happening when they will. After all, babies do. As does love, death, life, fame, money, restored health.
So on Easter Sunday, as I go back to my book I feel content that its completion will also come when it will. And it will be the right time. Happy Easter.
Saturday, 7 April 2007
Religion and violence
Holy Saturday. Not sure what that means. Christianity seems to be taking a back seat these days. Yet the news is full of the experience of the UK marine officers who were arrested for a number of reasons, including I am sure, religion. Funny that. Then there's this poor pregnant lady who was shot at her doorstep.
Sometimes these news stories are too painful to bear.
Writing till the wee hours, I am struggling with structure and point of view. But it's all good. Working towards an end of 2007 completion date.
Sometimes these news stories are too painful to bear.
Writing till the wee hours, I am struggling with structure and point of view. But it's all good. Working towards an end of 2007 completion date.
Friday, 6 April 2007
Basic ingredients...
Welcome to the first post of my blog about life as a new (soon to be published to ground breaking commercial success and international critical aclaim) writer.
I always think of writing in terms of food.
Kenkey, fish and black fried pepper is the first dish that springs to mind whenever anyone asks me what I would choose for my last dish on this earth.
Kenkey is a fermented corn dumpling that combines with fried red snapper and black pepper to give a truly Ghanaian definition of comfort food. It's the sort of meal that sits in the belly and tingles the taste buds long after you have washed the sticky white kenkey from your finger tips and picked out bits of fish from your teeth. I love eating it with friends; sitting on the floor in a circle around the food, or in one of those lovely Ghanaian restaurants that encourage you to eat with your fingers. I feel a wonderful guilty pleasure when I eat it on my own, because I tend to over eat, with more kenkey than I need and blow-your-head-off hot pepper, chased down with gallons of water.
I then become so full that I have to lie down, and think.
Either way, the memory of a good kenkey and fish meal lingers for days, weeks, sometimes years.
A good book should do that too. And that is what I am aiming for.
So I first got the idea for the book in 1997.
Yeah, I know what you are thinking:...and it's still not finished?
Believe me, it will be worth the wait. I promise. Just think about kenkey and fish.
Anyway, I diagress. I was on a skiing holiday in beautiful Vail, the only black person in a snowy white resort, unable to walk in skis let alone glide down a moutain, feeling like a fucking fish out of water, home sick as hell.
So I retired to my over priced log cabin and started to scribble.
Twenty thousand words later I chucked my fledgling manuscript into a drawer where it sat obediently fermenting, while I lived.
I dusted off the cobwebs in 2002 and here I am now, still scribbling up a storm. I have had some encouraging responses from Those Nice People Who Will Help Me Become A Published Author. But nothing significant to report as yet. It's a long process. What can I say? I just have to keep on with it. And now those nice people at blog city central are giving me the space to vent on the Internet! I love this life.
I always think of writing in terms of food.
Kenkey, fish and black fried pepper is the first dish that springs to mind whenever anyone asks me what I would choose for my last dish on this earth.
Kenkey is a fermented corn dumpling that combines with fried red snapper and black pepper to give a truly Ghanaian definition of comfort food. It's the sort of meal that sits in the belly and tingles the taste buds long after you have washed the sticky white kenkey from your finger tips and picked out bits of fish from your teeth. I love eating it with friends; sitting on the floor in a circle around the food, or in one of those lovely Ghanaian restaurants that encourage you to eat with your fingers. I feel a wonderful guilty pleasure when I eat it on my own, because I tend to over eat, with more kenkey than I need and blow-your-head-off hot pepper, chased down with gallons of water.
I then become so full that I have to lie down, and think.
Either way, the memory of a good kenkey and fish meal lingers for days, weeks, sometimes years.
A good book should do that too. And that is what I am aiming for.
So I first got the idea for the book in 1997.
Yeah, I know what you are thinking:...and it's still not finished?
Believe me, it will be worth the wait. I promise. Just think about kenkey and fish.
Anyway, I diagress. I was on a skiing holiday in beautiful Vail, the only black person in a snowy white resort, unable to walk in skis let alone glide down a moutain, feeling like a fucking fish out of water, home sick as hell.
So I retired to my over priced log cabin and started to scribble.
Twenty thousand words later I chucked my fledgling manuscript into a drawer where it sat obediently fermenting, while I lived.
I dusted off the cobwebs in 2002 and here I am now, still scribbling up a storm. I have had some encouraging responses from Those Nice People Who Will Help Me Become A Published Author. But nothing significant to report as yet. It's a long process. What can I say? I just have to keep on with it. And now those nice people at blog city central are giving me the space to vent on the Internet! I love this life.
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