When it is good to be a woman

The past few days have been almost whirlwind like. Finally, one of my projects is complete and I’m proud to share it with anyone who thinks things like these are totally cool.

In doing the research I needed to compile my super duper list of African authors, I came across the story of an Algerian author.

Yasmina Khadra (Arabic: ياسمينة خضراء‎, literally “green jasmine”) is the pen name of the Algerian author Mohammed Moulessehoul.
Moulessehoul, an officer in the Algerian army, adopted a woman’s pseudonym to avoid military censorship. Despite the publication of many successful novels in Algeria, Moulessehoul only revealed his true identity in 2001 after leaving the army and going into exile and seclusion in France. Anonymity was the only way for him to survive and avoid censorship during the Algerian Civil War. 
The irony of this is completely incredible!
For those who have not had the privilege of studying African literature, many authors from the 70’s were very vocal about corruption and the state of their countries. They were subsequently jailed, killed or forced into exile. This was about 10 years after Europeans decided it was time to stop fighting so hard to control people and give them their independence.
Almost every author I know who was sent into exile was a man and in reading Moulessehoul’s short biography, I see why. Maybe the words women wrote were not considered quite as powerful, or subversive. Even today women struggle trying to get their voices heard. They write and speak and invent titles meant to instigate others and force them into conversations about issues they find important.
On the other hand we have a man, using a woman’s name, in order to say what he wanted to say.
I wonder if this is still where we are. Ignoring female voices because their words do not weigh as much as a man’s words would. Maybe not.
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Unpacking my Afrocentricity

I was born and raised in Uganda. A few years in the middle were spent in Canada. I came to consciousness in Uganda, first fell in love there, bones were nourished there… I consider myself Ugandan even though I do not live there right now. I’m not sure how else to exist. My identity is not confused or mixed, my people live in the land where my great grandparents were buried. They’d have moved around, but Berlin Conference circa 1884.

Subconsciously, Uganda comes first, then the wider continent, then the descendants of African people spread throughout the World, then the rest of the World. I’m not sure I can change that so easily. I’m Ugandan-centric, then Afrocentric. I look for and celebrate the achievements of African people. In a circle of “others” they are practically my cousins.

Somehow I am now representative of all Ugandans in an international arena. I have learned to carry my responsibility with pride and honor. I’m an Ambassador.

I’m going to excise the accusatory tone of Afrocentricity from it. I have to be. It is weird to ask me to be something else -centric.

Micro 0122: Silence

http://kellcandido.deviantart.com/art/Sweet-angel-of-death-306560833

Sweet angel of death, by KellCandido

It is silent here. Not ‘absence of noise’ silence. I can hear the Movement, slow and unchanging. I can hear crying. Someone is wailing. And yet it is silent, like laying still under dead earth where you cannot hear the sound of birds or the voices of family that just threw dirt over your body.

It is silent here. Not quiet, silent. Like the grungy scepters that hunch over unsuspecting children featured in artists imaginations, we hunch over our wards, watching and waiting for their transition to this place. Somehow we chose them, in a time whose memory has faded, having been exposed to the endlessness of this place, yawning and horrible, swallowing purpose and every feeling of love.

Someone is wailing in the distance. The sound struggles to reach me through the thick silence, finally squeaking past in a soft hoarse gasp. Whoever they are, they made it here. I resent them. I resent her.

The time for her transition is near, but sentiment and obligation stubbornly tie her to the flesh of her flesh, and bone of her bone. She does not know. How could she? It is a trap. She does not know. Nothing she can do will stop the painful tear that will bring her here, to the place where sentiment is going to trap her and she will learn hatred. Then she will forget hatred and learn to forget.

I’m locked here because of foolish words etched into the memory of this ether.
“I’ll be watching over you.”

She is my last one, my last promise.
Die.
So I prise her fingers.
Die.
White knuckling to life.
Die.
One by one.
Die.
I must get free.

Old Poetry

Because I’m feeling it today.

walking

For Your Love

I see you, Dark Chocolate
Swinging your hips to the throom throom of this foreign music
Your skirt so short, my imagination is unnecessary
Your titties jiggling in your dress like the many eyes trying to keep up with them.
Know that I love you, no matter what
That the tears of your pain and loneliness stain my pillow.
I know if I fell in love with you
You could shatter my soul with your passing interest
And the sweet succulent love I was encased in
Would pass to another.

Hey there Tangy Caramel
Swinging those dreadlocks to the beat of my heart
You have me arrested in those wide brown
Deep pools of cinnamon chocolate.
You cling so steadfast to the notion that your voice is drowned out
You yell so loud, to be heard, to be remembered
I love you sweet Caramel
I hear your words, golden drops of honey
Reverberating in that beautiful throat.
I cannot let my heart be swayed
Your passion would drain me completely
Overwhelm me till I am just a shell of the woman I used to be.

Tall glass of sweet dark Ebony
Strong long legs strutting to your own internal beat
Polished like well worn wood, reliable, sure
Your essence is so fragrant wafting behind you
Every eye stretches completely as you Tyra stomp by
Your beauty prostituted for the attention
Of the least of people.
I adore you, dark coffee, filling my senses
With your soft and tender embrace.
Don’t you dare touch my skin
I’ll be tingling forever with the memory of you
And ache to be touched again…

@ndungi2012

Micro 0119: Welcome

Welcome.

Your mother told you not to join a gang. But here you are, foolish rebel. You have romanticized this moment but it is not going to turn out the way you think. You need to stop watching movies. There is no information in there that will tell you the truth. We live hard lives, we are not friends, you will not be receiving fringe benefits for a long time.

We are a serious organization. It is not our fault that the ‘authority’ call us a gang. We do what we want, when we want it, regardless. And don’t you go “regardless of what” -ing me. REGARDLESS! That should be enough, you lazy sunzabee… Now look what you made me do.

That scared look you have donned is not going to help you either. My emotional armour is tighter than your little brother’s briefs and cannot be penetrated by pathetic looks. Mcccchhhheeeww. So stand up straight, and look into my eyes.

First order of business: Today you thought you would be attending some kind of briefing. This is not to be so. You were brought here by someone who hand picked you from a throng of admirers of our work, and some seriously twisted parents who want to make a little money off you. A rival gang has challenged us to a duel at 51st and Juma Avenue. We are not cowards and we will not be put to shame. You will be sent to battle on our behalf. Do not return until you are victorious. If you are unable to achieve victory, be sure to perish in battle. There will be no sympathy for survivors.

Line up against that wall. I will be handing your weapons to you in a just a moment, as soon as Yunia stops crying. Wipe those tears, foolish child. No one wants to be here as much as you do. And yes, George, you have to fight. No way to get out of it.

NO MORE QUESTIONS.

What do you think this is? Chatterbox time. Look at my face. My I-am-not-playing face. Remember it.

Take only one package from the top of the pile (thank you Cissy), the small bag is to be worn against your hip. All the packages go inside and your weapon is worn against the side of your chest for easy access.

What is it George? Are you old enough? For what? Fighting? You think you can stop the inevitable? You think that you have earned the right to question the laws put down… hold on…

The vehicle is here. No more time. Line up!

Enjoy your day at school.

Street Art

I love street art.

I hate dusty black and grey buildings stretching up to the blue sky, blocking the sun and blocking my view. They sit there, bloated with frustrated employees who hate their lives, attempting to assuage their hopelessness with purchases advertised to them on their paid tv programmes.

That is why I love street art. It is subversive. A sort of ‘fuck you’ to the proponents of a colorless World in which we’re supposed to live as clones of one another.

It has its drawbacks, but I’d rather live in a World where people are pinging off in all kinds of directions, finding out what may be from the imaginings of their own brain, than one in which I’m being forced to turn in to this:

In light of that. I bring you one of my favourite instagram accounts (follow her on Instagram, Pinterest, iPhonogram, Twitter. @empressshire) Toronto has its own culture and street art heroes.

Celebrate them today!

Micro 0115: I wrote a letter to my friend

My Dearest,

My heart is spilling emotions, squeezing them through cuts. I’m bruised from keeping this in.

You’ll wake up this morning and find I’ve gone. I could not stay. Not because I didn’t love you, because I do. You know that too. After all the pain and fear and anger have gone (I promise you they will), you will be able to see that once again. Since the day we met my heart has only had eyes for you. I wanted you to feel it, every day. That is why I kissed you, and held you, and watched you tenderly as you cared for us and our home.

My Angel, you have my heart for all time, but I must do this and leave you. I know you would have never let me do it this way, but this is how it must be. We talked about it, but it upset you. For days we tried mending the agony that arose because I brought it up. We got passed it.

Life is cruel. It is taking me from you. Not all of a sudden, a band-aid ripping off the tender scab of a slowly healing wound. No. Slowly. So that what will remain is the shell of the shadow of my shadow. Nothing of me will exist. I cannot bear that. To watch the look of love and honour and trust wither into pity and sorrow. Lines of worry stretching across that beautiful face as you watch my life force slowly ebb from my body into… nothingness. No, my love. It would be torture for me, and in that way, torture for you.

I watched Musazi grieve. Struggle to give away Deeya’s belongings. Watch him look at them with acute loss and try to comfort him as he struggled. His new wife is fighting the ghost of a perfect woman in his eyes. He will make her miserable. She will make him miserable. That is why I took my things. So that the empty space can be filled with love again. Because you deserve it.

Do you understand why I had to leave?

You’re going to be angry, and I understand why. You may grow to hate me, I hope you do not. Just don’t give up on life and love and living it to your fullest.

I did not lie when I said you are my life. If you wither while I wither, I cannot live. Maybe I’ll get better and we can have coffee. But that is wishful thinking, my love.

Don’t say goodbye.

Your forever gal,

Kiya

Thankful to all my subscribers

The African Literature Magazine on Flipboard has gone from strength to strength. What a journey!

Thank you for being a part of the journey in 2014 and for continuing strong into 2015.

With 15,491 subscribers catching up on stories coming out of Africa, it is easy to forget where we started.

flip Feb 25 14

With humble beginnings in Feb 2014, I just wanted to collect stories about African Literature in one place. I wanted to fill my tablet with these books and read them without much fanfare. Then 6 people subscribed to the magazine. That was so startling, but also VERY informative. Other people were looking for these too!

flipb june 2014

By June it was obvious that people were searching for this content online. But it also meant that I had created a baby that needed caring for. It was exciting, and daunting, and so very, very humbling.

 flipb august

By August we hit 10,000 + subscribers! Every day was like Christmas, checking to see how many more of you came to the magazine for more stories. It was wonderful.

Now we’re in 2015 and I’m still committed to bringing you the latest from my sources. Invite your friends, invite your relatives, invite your enemies. As we continue to write our stories, lets make 2015 the biggest year yet!

Happy 2015!

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Micro 0112: Through the Yellow Door

Gayaza High School

The hallway was empty.

The clean floor, polished by years of moping rags and stomping feet, reflected the cool, crisp early morning light through the glass door that marked its end. The brightly coloured doors that separated adjoining rooms from the hallway entombed the sleeping girls, who floated on the last vestiges of their dreams.

With a soft noise, the ruffling of a many layered skirt, Pajini stepped out of nothingness into the middle of the HSC block in Korgi House. Her image shimmered, a bad signal adjusting itself, and then solidified and stabilized. This was her hour and there were changes that needed to be made. Asiimwe was key.

With silent, but purposeful footsteps, she sent ripples of slumber through the floor and warm sleepy bodies turned around in bed pulling their blankets closer to their faces, breathing deep and allowing their minds to be drawn in further into wild and vivid dreams.

Asiimwe’s door, the only yellow door blazed like a beacon, beckoning. Pajini glided soundlessly to the door pausing for a quick second before passing straight through the thick door to the darkness inside.

Asiimwe was locked in a familiar dream. Children. Lots of children in an idyllic setting, but as they passed her, haunting images flooded her mind, grabbed her gut and squeezed. In a dream minute Nambi was beside her exchanging worried glances. They had to do something, anything to take these children away from whatever suffering had snuffed out the innocence in their eyes, replaced by a magnetic hopelessness, strong and unavoidable.

“Please take us away.” The voice of a child who had not yet turned four.

Nambi reached for the child’s hand and Asiimwe flinched. Something was not right. This was not what happened at this point in the dream. Was it changing?

“Asiimwe,” Nambi’s voice urged.

“Something is wrong.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m no…”

“We’re wasting time Asiimwe, come on!”

There were children who needed to be saved. Worrying about what  felt wrong would not help. She grabbed the free arm of the child who stood with Nambi and raced to one of the free standing buildings that dotted the grassy hillside.

“Don’t let go,” the child whispered, locking eyes with Asiimwe.

“I won’t,” her voice was resolute.

Pajini smiled, the warmth of victory spreading over her body. She reached deeper into Asiimwe’s body enjoying sensations alien to her, watching imagination build a World that rippled, a syncopated accompaniment to Time’s own ripples.
It was going to be a wonderful day, the warmth of the room had already risen by a few degrees. The night was chased away by the galloping sun, fleeing in all directions.
Loud thrum, thrum, thrums of cowhide drums echoed through the dewy morning air and the HSC block of Korgi House stirred with the noise.

“Asiimwe!”

“Yeah, I’m coming!”

Pajini smiled with someone else’s lips, the last vibrating tremors of her call still echoing in her lungs.
This was going to be a fantastic day.