A few weeks ago a dear friend asked me if I could help admin a page on Facebook.
It has taken over my life! I LOVE IT.
Our little family has grown by leaps and bounds, and the people who have joined and are actively participating in discussions surprise me with their passion every day.
Africans have long been accused of being the bane of African Literature. We are accused of not reading it, not buying it, not supporting authors, not selling it, not distributing it… we are the reason it is not as successful as literature coming from other places.
The problem is we have believed these lies about ourselves, which is a pity.
While it is true that it is difficult to sell books on the continent, the reasons are not as clear cut as everyone would make it seem.
English is a difficult language. The objects and verbs come in weird places in a sentence. But imagine interpreting one book in 55 different languages for just one country!
Authors understand their audience and their point of view. It is difficult to sell a story to someone from the West unless it tells of war, of poverty, that explains some strange quirk of the culture they come from. This is not interesting to audiences in Africa (generally speaking). There is a reason why Nollywood is such a huge industry. Here are stories that the local population understands.
New books are EXPENSIVE and understandably so. Turning trees into paper is an expensive project, printing can be expensive too. By the time all the expenses are tallied, the book agent, distributor, printer and publishing house get paid (oh wait! We haven’t counted the author and illustrator) the book is too expensive to purchase.
Africans are thirsty. We want to know, to read, to understand. What is someone from Zimbabwe thinking about something we’re all concerned about in Nigeria? What about the bruhaha over the other thing that happened with president so-and-so? How is the government in Mogadishu going to deal with the minerals they just found in Seylac?
We want to know and it is evidenced by the sheer number of people asking to join the group on a daily basis.
I hope someday they will all know, it is my honor to serve. Come and join us!
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.
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…