Do Not Urinate Here. Spot Fine - Slap!

I saw this public notice on the American in Africa blog.

There are a few others, like 'Do Not Dificate On This Farm' and 'Only A Fool Would Not Urinate Here' but this title one is my favourite. The signs are pretty typical examples of the type of everyday sight that cracks me up. Over the years I have found that I cannot go to an African city or town, usually a city, without seeing, hearing or smelling something outageously funny.

Whether it is a driver who cuts in front of a police car because he is fed up of waiting in traffic - on that occasion the driver dared to question the police's authority, saying that their fathers had not built the road - I can just imagine a similar scenario in London. Or some new decency-defying fashion, or a street hawker's loud advertisement for the latest remedy for piles, will have me laughing till I cry.

It is to our credit that we can laugh at ourselves, but I often wonder, whether I can credibly present these funny incidents or idiosyncracies in my writing without diminishing, disregarding or disrespecting the fact that in Africa, 'jokeyness' is the antidote to poverty, hunger, disease, corruption...the list is heavy. And long.

I guess it is about reaching a fine balance (sorry, couldn't resist mentioning one of my favourite books) between the sublime and the ridiculous. Or painting an accurate picture and treating the subjects with respect. A few ethnic writers have fallen foul of this balance, with some pretty horrific consequences. Not even a knighthood could placate me if I felt that millions of people believed that I had decided to denigrate them through my book. I would be devastated if my book provoked that sort of response.

Yet writers can open the window on a world that others have not yet seen. My book is my attempt at opening a window on a small aspect of African life. Hopefully, I will achieve this without pissing anyone off.

Famous last words? I hope not. In anycase this blog is easily deleted!

Cane River by Lalita Tademy

Some stories just have to be told. Cane River is one of them. One reviewer described it as 'Roots' from a female perspective. It is that and more. It moved me to tears and inspired me.

It made me realise that those who call for a simple apology for the Slave Trade are absolutely right to do so. It's effects are far reaching. A hundred years is nothing.

Read Cane River. It is education and elightenment.

The 'N' word on Big Brother

So the posh bird who entered the Big Brother house spouting 'education, education, education' has been booted out because she used a word that is offensive to many black and brown people? ..She must have missed the 'how to behave' part of the curriculum.

Chimamanda!

Young African author wins the Orange Prize. Stop. African literature is finding its place. Stop. UK agents and publishers pay attention. Stop.

Querying literary agents (again)

It's a bit like going out on the pull. You make your pitch to the person you think you know, who you think will understand where you are coming from, the one you have heard so much about. You know that this person will connect with your work and recognise its brilliance.

You prepare your first three chapters, synopsis, hook and send it off with crossed fingers and prayer. You wait six to eight weeks for a response. When it arrives, your fingers tremble as you open the envelope. The letter begins well but it's a rejection.

You spend the next few days licking your wounds, telling yourself that it is just part of the process. You try to see things from their perspective...yeah maybe you could do better next time. You dust yourself off and try again. And again. Soon you can spot a rejection without opening the envelope.

You give up writing for a bit and try to distract yourself with other things. But that tiny niggling, I would love to be writing feeling stalks you like a rejected lover. You ignore it and grow gloomily love sick by the day. Nothing makes sense. You are never 'present'. You stay home and watch tv, second guessing all the plots and wishing that you had written them. Newly published authors taunt you with their success stories. Their novels call to you, as if to show you how it should be done. Friends think you are depressed. They tell you to get out more, have some fun. You feel like staying in, so you can write.

So one day, that's just what you do. You write. And write. And write. It feels great. You start thinking of characters, voice and plot. You are starting all over again. Cheerily obsessing over every single word. Writing up a storm. On and on until you can trace the generations of edits on your edits. The finished product reads well. It has a lyrical rhythm and bounce to it. It's modern and edgy. You hope that people will love your characters and laugh at the right places. You spruce up your first three chapters, and go out on the pull again..............

Big Brother

My trash threshold, which was already sweaty Brazilian limbo height, has just dropped to an all time low. I watched the opening of this year's Big Brother. What can I say? I had nothing better to do. It was just a bit of light entertainment. Still pissed me off though.

Why oh why do the black women in these programmes have to conform to such stupid stereo-types? Either you have the bust-thrusting, booty-shaking bimbo or the big fat mama whom every one loves....And when stirred they all seem to do that 'no nonsense, hands up in your face' bullshit which seems to be passed on from generation to generation of (televised) black women via their mothers' milk.

Why don't they ever have intelligent, educated career women with something to say for themselves...ahem, like me? I could do a lot with the prize money. Give up my job and write full time.