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Valentine’s DayAnthology 2015Edited and with a foreword byEmma Shercliff and Bibi Bakare-Yusuf


ContentsForeword Emma Shercliff and Bibi Bakare-YusufvFish Chuma Nwokolo 1Fish (pidgin) Victor Ehikhamenor 3Candy Girl Hawa Jande Golakai 5Nέnii Nέέ (Kpelle) Yarkpai Keller 9The Idea Is To Be Sealed In Binyavanga Wainaina 11Ni Wazo la Kufunika (Kiswahili) Elieshi Lema 14Woman In The Orange Dress Sarah Ladipo-Manyika 17Arábìnrin Inú Asọ Ọlọsàn (Yoruba) Kola Tubosun 19Cotyledons Toni Kan 21Cotyledons (Igbo) Chikodili Emelumadu 24Solitaire Edwige-Renée Dro 27Solitaire (French) Edwige-Renée Dro 30Painted Love Abubakar Adam Ibrahim 33Launukan So (Hausa) Abubakar Adam Ibrahim 36Other Contributors 39Permissions 42


ForewordWelcome to this very special Valentine’s Day Anthology of African romance stories.Since the launch of Ankara Press in December 2014, we have been overwhelmed by the positive response of readers to itsvision of ‘a new kind of romance’, with African settings, storylines and characters. One of the key reasons for establishingthe imprint was to counter the one-dimensional view of life as portrayed in many romance novels. As we know, modernromance does not always revolve around a dominant male hero, a submissive heroine and a happily ever after.We wanted to harness some of this excitement to focus attention on a wider issue this Valentine’s Day. African literatureis sometimes accused of presenting a rather depressing portrayal of life across the continent. Whilst we acknowledgethat it would be disingenuous for African writers not to engage with the serious issues that frame daily life - issuessuch as corruption, insecurity, violence, poverty, unemployment and civil unrest, all of which have been highlighted byNigeria’s current election campaign - we feel it is important, as publishers, to do what we can to provide African writingwith the space to reflect the stimulating, vibrant, quirky, joyous complexities of life here.Our motivations for commissioning this anthology were very clear: to provide a Valentine’s Day ‘treat’ for readers,particularly those based in Nigeria who may need respite from the election fever sweeping the nation by 14th February,and to invite literary writers to see if they can invert the romance genre and make it meaningful for themselves. We alsowanted to show that romance can be empowering, entertaining, and elegantly written, by men as well as women.Thus, this Valentine’s Day Anthology contains pieces by authors based in Liberia, Nigeria, Cote d’Ivoire and Kenya,writing not about Ebola, poverty and terrorism, but about the joy of the everyday: the love, laughter and heartbreak thatforms part of a universal experience. The stories also recognise that romance can occur at the most unexpected times(although, admittedly, rarely in as unexpected a situation as that explored by crime writer Hawa Jande Golakai) andbetween any two individuals. We are therefore particularly proud to include Binyavanga Wainaina’s beautiful portrayalof same-sex romance within this collection, underlining that desire and intimacy are a very real part of life in Africa, asthey are elsewhere in the world.Moreover, romance in Africa takes place in multiple languages and we wanted to reflect that in this collection. Eachstory has been translated into a language spoken by one of the authors and an audio version of each text recorded. Thisanthology therefore becomes a much truer representation of romance in Africa as we can hear and see what romancingin different languages might sound like and mean.We owe a huge debt of gratitude to everyone who has worked so hard, and often to unfeasibly short deadlines, to enableus to produce this anthology. One of the most exciting aspects of the project is that it has been a truly collaborativeeffort, bringing together writers, publishers, translators, readers and photographers from across Africa, all of whomhave shown an incredible amount of goodwill by donating their time and talents for free. We believe the generousresponse we received indicates how strongly the writing and publishing community feels about the issues we are tryingto highlight. It also goes to prove that the near impossible can be achieved, despite seemingly insurmountable technicaland editorial issues, with a healthy dose of determination, good humour and mutual support.Thus, we present our selection of sensuous stories from across the continent. We do hope you enjoy them. And please feelfree to share the love – and the Anthology - with your wives, husbands, civil partners, friends and lovers.Happy Valentine’s Day!Emma Shercliff, Valentine’s Day Anthology CoordinatorBibi Bakare-Yusuf, Publisher, Ankara Press


FishBy Chuma Nwokolo1


He smiled at her, and waited.***It was his usual grin – a laconicamusement wired into his steel-graymoustache. It was often there but today,suddenly, Nkemdilim wondered if hewas laughing at her.What if he had been play-acting thatnight when they first met? She was theone laughing at him then: ‘This is 2014!’she had shouted, to be heard above theclub music, ‘nobody says Excuse meDance, any more!’His spectacled brows had risen inembarrassment. She had started to feelbad about laughing, especially with herbest friend, Taiye, joining in.’I am sorry,’ he had shouted back. ‘I justreturned – unexpectedly – to the datingscene.’He had straightened up, about towalk away, and then almost as anafterthought, leaned into her ear: ‘Whatdo people say, these days?’Her nostrils had picked up the restrainedsuggestion of a man who knew hisperfumes, and she shrugged, holdingback another bout of laughter: thiswould be something for the girls at theoffice! She was teaching a man at leasttwenty years her elder modern pick-uplines – and on a dance floor at that!‘I don’t know! Anything except Excuseme dance! God!’ He was still lookingat her, with those guileless eyes of his.This sort of man would be hard work! Ifyou wanted him you would have to doall the work! She added, ’Say somethingfunny, or do something confident…’’Like?‘She shrugged again. ‘Like take herhand and lead her to the dance floor orsomething…’He had taken her hand then.There was a lighter circle on his ringfinger. As though he had pulled off ahabituated wedding band the minutebefore, as he walked into the club, orthe month before, as he walked out of adivorce court…‘Like this?’ he had asked, pulling hergently into his half-smile.She had exchanged wide-eyed,rolling-eye glances with Taiye and theyhad laughed again, this time, with him.‘You are funny!’ She had said, meaningthat he was anything but. Yet, she hadrisen all the same – not really to dance,merely to have yielded to the culturedstrength of that arm, and to give hima few more lessons on the 2014 datingscene…***Beside her, Taiye coughed discreetly, inmaid mode.He was still waiting. Nkemdilimstudied him as he stood in his blackand whites. He did look too wise, fartoo experienced to have honestly saidExcuse me dance on a dance floor,barely six months earlier. Perhapsthe pretended incompetence was anelaborate pick-up ruse... Perhaps itwas mere bait, and she had bitten. Shereplayed the scene as he lifted her upto the dance floor with that masterlyangler’s arm. She let the sharp thought ofthat realisation sink into the soft palateof her feminine pride. She let it raise apout so pained, so organic it seemed torise from a deep, excavating memoryof a Chastity Vow remembered, or anOld Love rekindled... something deepand cataclysmic enough to abort thepresent solemn proceedings... She letthe devastatation of that thought cloudher features, so that from her peripheralvision she could see his easy grin slipinto a moue of concern. A cord ofconcentration tautened his brows,tightening his gloved grip of her fingers– as though it were the desperate grip ofsome fisherman at the end of an epicfight with a prized marlin who felt herslipping away from his hook at the verylip of his boat.Then she smiled sweetly, and said, ’I do.’Listen to the audio version read by Chuma NwokoloChuma Nwokolo is a lawyer and writer. (Fish is a short story from the final volume of How to Spell Naijain 100 Short Stories, due in print this year, but also under weekly release via http://www.okadabooks.com). His ten books include How to Spell Naija in 100 Short Stories (Vol. 1), Diaries of a DeadAfrican, The Ghost of Sani Abacha and One More Tale for the Road. His latest poetry collection is The FinalTestament of a Minor God. His candidate in Nigeria’s controversial 2015 elections is a new Bribe Code(http://bribecode.org) which should ensure that whoever is crowned, Nigeria wins. Blog: http://www.nwokolo.com/blogs. Twitter handle: @chumanwokolo2


FishTranslation by Victor Ehikhamenor3


He smile, look her, come wait.***Na so the man dey smile, tey, tey: that kainsmall smile wey be like say dem wire amjoin im grey bia-bia. but today Nkemdlimcome dey wonder whether na im the mandey laugh sef.Abi the man just dey play that night weydem first meet? Na she dey laugh am theno; ‘This na 2014!’, she holla well well sotayshe loud pass the club music, ‘Man nor deyyarn babe ‘Excuse me dance’ again na!’The see-finish answer wey Nkemdilim giveam just weak the man. Im face embarrass.She come dey feel bad small, because herbest friend, Taiye, come join hand dey laughthe man.‘Abeg nor vex o’ the man holla back, ‘e dontey when I enter club sef.’He arrange imself like say e wan waka go,but e change im mind, come put mouthnear her ear ‘How dem dey talk am thesedays?’.As the man near her like that, her nosecome smell scent wey tell am say the mansabi better perfume, she come hold herselfmake she nor laugh the man, as im take askam the question - how babe like her go deyteach bobo wey take like twenty years senioram as im go take toast babes – and for insideclub for that matter! Her office girls must tohear dis tori! ‘I nor know o! Anything sha,but nor be Excuse me dance, God!’The man still dey look am, with those iminnocentie eyes. This kain man na work o!Babe wey want this kain bobo, na she gochase tire! ‘You suppose make the girl laugh,you suppose gather better swagger…’’Like how na?‘She raise her shoulder. ‘Like, you fit justcarry the babe hand waka go dance floor na,or something like that sha…’Na so the man take carry her hand o.The man ring-finger white small, like say imjust comot im wedding ring before e enterthe club, or like say e remove am as e wakacomot for court where im and im wife gotear paper, before before.‘Like so?’ the man ask, as im laugh, takestyle draw her near body.She come look her friend Taiye. They openeye, roll eye, come begin laugh again but distime nor be say dem they laugh the man.Na dem with the man dey laugh. ‘You funnyo!’, she talk, although nor be say the manreally funny sha, but she sha follow am. Norbe say she wan dance o, but the man gatherone kain strong hand, that type wey deyweak woman. And she dey think whethermake she teach am small how dem dey taketoast babe for 2014.***Taiye nor forget say na she be chiefbridesmaid, she come cough small.The man still dey wait her. Nkemdilim lookthe man as e tanda for im black-and-white.He be like who get korrect sense. E nor belike mugu wey fit dey yarn Excuse me dancefor club only six months ago.Abi na sense the man take play am? Abiall that excuse me dance yarn na the wormwey im take hook her like fish! And he donhook her well well! She come remember asthe man take carry her go dance floor withim ogbonge fisherman hand. Kai. She justopen eye dey remember. The shame of thematter come enter her body well well sotay e reach the side wey her woman yangadey sleep jeje. She come let that vex full herbelle, come dey comot for her face smallsmall. Person wey look her face go think sayshe just remember say she don swear beforebefore say she go never marry lai lai, or sayshe just remember the original bobo weshe bin wan marry and that love don catchfire again. That vex come full her face, likesay some serious katakata don gas wey fitdabaru the big show wey dey for ground…She come take corner eye see as the mansmile just dey wash, as im swagger just deymelt, sotay the hand wey im take hold hercome tight her finger – like say the manbe fisherman wey hook one kain ogbongefish, wey don drag am, drag am, struggle,struggle, sotay im don draw the fish reachfor the very doormouth of im boat… andthe fish wan comot for hook!She come smile one kain sweet smile likedat, come say ‘I do’.Listen to the audio version read in Nigerian pidgin by Eghosa ImasuenVictor E. Ehikhamenor was born in Nigeria. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared or areforthcoming in The New York Times, Agni, The Washington Post, Wasafiri, The Literary Magazine,Per Contra and elsewhere. He is the author of Excuse Me!, published by Parrésia Publishers. He isalso a painter and a photographer whose art has been widely exhibited and collected worldwide, andused for notable book and journal covers. Ehikhamenor holds an MSc in Technology Managementfrom University of Maryland, University College, and an MFA in fiction from University of Maryland,College Park. He lives and works from Lagos.4


CandyGirlBy Hawa Jande Golakai5


“Grab her legs.”“I should do whetin? Haaaay, mah pipo lookah troubo.You nah serious for true.”Shaking my head, I try to prop Leonora up by theshoulders, making sure her head’s turned awaybecause that clotted spit oozing over the peeling redlipstick and onto her chin is no wet dream. Then Icrouch low and heave; my wife is no small woman.Once I’ve lifted her torso off the floor, I look up.“Ciatta! Really?” Was she serious? I’m breakingmy back and my so-called lover is over there withher arms crossed looking on like I’m a psycho, likeI just asked her to kill somebody. Okay, poor choicesomebody come bust inside heah and find out whatwe doin’.”“We?” I rotate my spine, trying to unclench. “Morelike what I’m doing. If you’re not interested in savingmy neck, I don’t see why you’re here.”“Mtssshw. I’hn blame you. I came, dah why you tellin’me nonsense.”She cocks her chin away from me, classic move whenshe’s trying to control that spitfire temper. She’snot pissed, not really, I can tell. Anger runs a wholedifferent tier, in spectral shades, with her. She looksround the room, deciding if she approves, if I chosewell despite the shitstorm this has turned into. Fromof words, considering the situation. I jerk my headwildly in the direction of Leonora’s feet, urgingher to jump in anytime. Ciatta still doesn’tt h etiny smile that crooks up theedge of her mouth,I did good. Cleanbudge, instead draws her arms tighterandrespectableand juts a hip. “Cia, come on!”but not high-end,I lose it, then “Dammit!”romanticbutwhen my back loses it,popping a tendonseedy enough fordebauchery. A tough comboorsomethingin this nosy Monrovia. Sheelse that isn’tbeckons with the crook of hersupposedtofinger; I notice for the firstpop. Grinding painbetween my teeth, Idrop Leonora, who doesquite an impressive face-plantinto the carpet.“Fineboy chill, I beg you, befo’time a French manicure witha tiny red heart stuck to eachnail. Why would somethingI’d normally find so cheesymake me want her more?I go to her like a little boy.6


“Dah wha’ happin’?” she coos,massaging me. Tiny knots dissolvelike sugar to caramel.“You see what happened – my wife’sdead!” I point to the body, whichI’m past the point hoping will wakeup, stagger to its feet and cuss myass out.Ciatta huffs. “Aay mehn, my eyeballdem nah bust. Whetin happinexactly, tell me it,” she flaps a hand,“articulate it, in dah yor fine-finewhite pipo book.”I ignore the gibe. She’s no trash butplaying up our differences (many)is her thing and though I protest,opened the box of chocolates …” Myhead slumps into my palms. “Oncethe reaction starts, it’s unstoppable.She’s so sensitive. She’s alwayscareful about carrying her epi penbut clearly dressing like a hooker tosurprise me took precedence.”“De geh didn’t tink her husbandwas gon kill her on Valentine’s Day.”“I didn’t –” I choke on a sob and shekisses me, silences me. “We ... weneed to get rid of the body.”“No. Now’days you can’t try dahone deh. You’hn do nuttin wrongbut let’s get yor story straight.” Shelooms over my wife, unblinking.at home. I’ll destroy the extra onemeant for Ma and use the customcandy as proof of the mix-up.”“Ehn-heeehhn, palaver fini. Dahwas mistake. Dey say when badluck call your name, ripe bananawill break your teeth.” She laughsat my awe. “O-o-o you jek! Youlookin’ inside my mouf like myteeth made o’ diamond. I nah onlygood for one ting.” She crosses tothe bed and I drink in every muscleshifting under her thin wrapper. Ishouldn’t be tingling right now …why am I tingling?“It been how long?”that edge of forbiddenfrisson it adds ... hotdamn. Who knew Iknew how to messaround. In looksmy jue is so like mywife I shouldn’t havebothered. Night and“From the tiny smile that crooksup the edge of her mouth, I didgood. Clean and respectable butnot high-end, romantic but seedyenough for debauchery.”I check my watch.“Twenty, twenty-fiveminutes.”“Good. More than onehour and it look bad.After I leave be ready togive de performance ofyour life. After you giveday though. Take for instancetheir outfits: Leonora, champion atmaking pretty love and eye contact,straight out of a corny rom-comwith her red trenchcoat, fancyblack frills underneath no doubt;Cia in the very lappa I tore off herthe first time we ravaged, withthose hideous tiger-print heels thatslaughter me every time they’re upin the air.“She was sitting on the bed when Iwalked in. I don’t know how but shefound out about your surprise andgenuinely thought it was for her.What could I say?” I gulp. “Then she7When she looks up her eyes glitterso dark and sultry in the twilight,like oil dancing on top of ink, thatI know I’ll wreck it all for her, nowand always. “Nobody saw me sinceI came by the back way, so dah partokay. Jes pretend dis was like lastyear but one smuh sumtin’ wentwrong.”“How will that…” The clouds part.“Yes, yes! I always order candyfor you, my Ma and a special boxfor her. In my hurry to get here Igrabbed the wrong box and that’show this catastrophe happened.Thank God the other boxes are safeme de performance of your life.”She drops the colourful lappa. Herbody is heaven turned on its head.She picks a truffle from the box andruns it over her lips.“Don’t,” I rasp.“Why not? I nah de one who got nutallergy. Had,” she smiles.“Why you make me buy it? Youalways say it’s too sweet.”Ciatta shrugs. “Which geh can everbe too sweet?” The finger with thelittle red heart crooks at me again.I’m going to hell a thousand timesover.


Listen to the audio version read by Helene CooperBorn in Frankfurt, Germany, Hawa Jande Golakai spent a vibrant childhood in herhomeland Liberia. Her 2011 crime debut The Lazarus Effect, published by Kwela Books/NB Publishers, was nominated for the Sunday Times Fiction Prize, the University ofJohannesburg Debut Prize and the Wole Soyinka Prize. Her forthcoming novel is duefor publication in 2015 and she is at work on the third. She loves doing autopsies andis bored stiff by romantic gestures, except when they involve intrigue and food. Whenshe isn’t moonlighting as a crime author, she works as a medical immunologist andhealth consultant. She lives between Monrovia and anywhere else she finds herself.8


Nέnii NέέTranslation by Yarkpai Keller“Gᴐᴐ soᾐ”“Yἑ nga lekὲ?” Haaay, ᾐganua ᾐgaaMἑnikὲtὲ kaawὲ . Mἑnἑfe ί ᾐgei a tᴐ᷈ᴐ᷈yὲ”ᾐga ᾐgun kpὲlίn. ᾐga nᴐi kpanan, agὲὲᾐga Leonoraup soᾐ a galan. ᾐga duanẻtἑ. ᾐga bene āgἑἑ fἑ nayai kaa, gὲyeᾐnagbᴐᾐ kpᴐlii timἑί, gὲyẻn ᾐὲn mu, vеyὲagὲὲ nίί ᾐga ẻ yẻᾐ. Ganᴐ yἑ nίί ᾐgwanaί,kὲ vẻtί, ᾐga gᴐlᴐᾐ. ᾐgᴐ lίί ᾐgwnaί kayὲ awἑlίkἑma lίί ᾐgwna. A tἑ a gἑtἑ, ma ẻyẻᾐ a nὲlὲὲ a gὲὲ ίgaa. ẻ lumuί sukaa. Anί n᷈ a᷈ a wἑlί kama, bẻlẻmaᾐ kwaa naa bὲkἑla yufu yufu. ᾐga gaa gὲ nagbὲᾐ kpᴐlilὲlὲὲί tί mu sίẻ. ᾐga gᴐlᴐᾐ a gὲὲ“ᾐga lᴐ pὲlὲi mu, gὲwo seeῂgbiῂ ᾐga. Fe gᴐlᴐῂ, kὲ e gili kᴐlᴐῂ agὲὲzamaseῂ ka a pᴐᴐ. Lebeᾐga pᴐli moi?”E naa chukile bai labo. ᾐga ᾐguῂ mayeῂyeeᾐga. Kpὲnifὲ nii nὲὲi ti kᴐᴐ a pilan,va kpela. Daliyὲa. ᾐgᴐ kᴐlᴐ pu᷈ u᷈ seῂkanᴐma. Gὲmayili yὲ seῂ soῂ seῂ. E ᾐgᴐia sẻί wὲlί mὲmίί Gὲ mίlί mίlί pumā. ᾐgaᾐga tίί lὲlὲὲί kὲ.Wὲlίkὲmaa mawaakὲtuwὲ agὲὲ mὲni kula a ᾐya᷈ a᷈ .mayẻᾐ, ᾐga gbaloᾐ.Mamu fе a nὲnίίzᴐ᷈ᴐ᷈ fẻ kὲtὲnί. Kὲ bakὲma kagu a nἑlἑἑ.“Nὲὲᾐ noi ti fekὲnigᴐlᴐni aniloᾐ. ᾐga naa musίẻ tί, ᾐgὲ ᾐgwὲlὲmakaa.“Ciatta! Ciatta bẻitί? Mἑnἑka ᾐgeiᾐgίlί kὲ sίa wὲlίkὲmaa lὲlὲὲί mὲnίma daDucᴐᴐ mὲnί tamaaί, ᾐga naa ᾐyẻẻ gbuapὲlὲ fẻlὲί tίᾐ mὲnί. ẻ gὲnᴐ tί agὲὲ ᾐgaᾐgᴐ suloᾐ a pai baai ᾐwὲlikὲma yeleᾐgima.”“Vekὲni a gᴐlᴐᾐ ᾐgᴐᴐ. E nagbὲᾐ sei ᾐgᴐia tᴐ᷈ᴐ᷈yὲ?ᾐgὲ ᾐyamā yalẻ bὲ, dίὲ ᾐgagaa. ᾐyẻẻ ᾐgalẻᾐ pὲlὲ kẻlẻẻ kpὲtὲὲ yὲma , na ekὲ mu. Fὲὲ ku saai kula bὲ.”wὲlίkὲma nὲnίί … gatᴐnί a ᾐyẻẻ pu gίίlagὲ ᾐgaa yίὲ bonuu? Ekὲtί. Nawoo fakὲtia yẻlẻ kὲὲᾐ. Yὲ da nuu malẻkὲ a gὲὲ ẻbẻlẻί Frίᾐ ᾐgaίda dί wἑί kpὲtὲlai. Lebegὲ seῂ yii nὲὲfеzu ᾐga ῂwὲli a dama? ᾐgὲli bᴐnaa yὲ“Kpa.” I fagὲti a tе᷈е᷈I ᾐgi. Ife mὲniᾐgᴐmᴐ kὲni. Fὲὲ ku mὲni mέni ila a za᷈ a᷈ .E mapέlέ ᾐga nὲnii mbὲi. E yelei su kaa,nuu paa.Nga ᾐgun pẻnẻ ᾐgὲί ẻ pίlanloloῂ?ᾐgai gao tὲi kὲpiliᾐ pepe … yὲ ya ᾐgaLeonora kᴐᴐmu. Nyίὲ ma pίlίbὲ, ίkponmatὲὲmᴐ. Kὲ vἑ tumon, e yea sukpanaᾐ“lebekὲ?” E mὲi saa, gὲ ῂyee sia ma anὲlὲὲ. Saa pὲlὲὲ dikὲ seeῂ yὲ nὲὲ seῂ.wulᴐ. “Nuuda fe ᾐgaani ᾐgὲkula pὲlὲipolu pele.”gẻgẻί, ẻ ᾐgobẻί kầnaᾐ zu. “ Cia, pa kulί!“Meni kὲi ya gaa. ᾐga nὲnii a saa. ᾐga“ᾐyiti lὲlὲi.”Gὲὲnᴐ yὲ golaᾐ pᴐlᴐiẲẳẳẳẳ Nyama kἑ kula zu, “Daamẻy!”ᾐzu nanaί, ᾐgὲ ᾐgala, gὲ solί zu. Ngἑᾐyin ᾐga mίί, gὲ solί su, Leonora ẻkulayẻί ẻ too gầlầίma a ᾐgὲί.“Sulon loᾐ lὲlὲί kwὲlὲ pu ίliima, ᾐgaίᾐgee kpuwa lὲma, ᾐga kiliᾐga siaikὲnὲ a pai musie saa yei, e tᴐᴐ gὲ nalaῂ.Kὲ tὲn a tὲὲ.Ciatta kὲlwo a mafila. Eemhn,fe kwa kai a nὲlὲὲ. ᾐgὲi kὲyὲ e wolo.sumὲni. Kὲ mὲniloᾐ kamu.”A pai kέi liᾐ? ᾐgele kᴐlᴐᾐ su e bela?“Owei, owei. ᾐgapai seᾐ nέέ tέi ipᴐ, kamama. ᾐga katuᾐ da kpὲni sie ᾐgὲὲ paia mafilai. ᾐgabe gὲ mὲni ᾐgᴐmᴐi kὲkὲti.kpẻlai fẻi. ί mὲί saa. Nuuda falaa pa ẻLebekὲ? Boma.E yea laa gieῂ polu,Yala zὲὲ. Ga᷈ la᷈ kpeli kanaa, ᾐyii kanaamὲnίί kaa kwagἑί pὲlὲί mu.”“Kwaya?” ᾐga ᾐyama soᾐ, ᾐgakpίlan zu. ᾐgawo su ẻ tᴐᴐ a nἑlἑἑ. “Daᾐga kaa I kᴐlᴐ laa kwelei su. ᾐga ᾐgilikula naa. Ve a kala. Kὲ, kwa pele kὲnᴐa kukemὲni a tamaiti. ᾐga nii ᾐwana.mi, ᾐga pai ganai. ᾐga pai nέlέέti lέiᾐga ᾐga kiliᾐga pui mέi pέlέ.“Aaaa heee mέni saai akpέέ.nᴐbẻKὲ ve lὲlὲῂ. Gbὲὲ be gᴐlᴐῂ a gὲὲ ᾐyak-Pᴐlama kati.Dia mὲni ᾐgᴐmᴐ a itoli,ᾐgagἑίί. Anί ίfẻ ᾐwὲlί ί ᾐgᴐn soᾐ, fẻpiῂ ᾐga sia aia kὲ a damaa. Kwakaa,gὲni goi kpᴐlu a i ᾐgin ᾐgale.”E yέlέmὲnίί kᴐlᴐn ί kabὲ mὲnίmaί.”“Nὲni, yafẻi ᾐyabẻ. ᾐga pabἑipᴐnaa ίkὲ mὲni boma ᾐgun fẻma.”E nἑἑᾐ kula polu gbonoma,ᾐga gambelei kayὲ mamu, vakὲ a mὲni.Akὲ a kpiῂ a kpini da folo. Dimayili seedikelee da doi, Lenora ᾐgᴐi tὲὲi. A kpelakula a nὲlὲὲ.ma. Ooo, Ya kpέliᾐ! Ya nakai yέ nuu beᾐgiᾐ kayὲ kᴐni kweleῂ. “ᾐὲlὲὲi nᴐ mὲnitᴐnᴐ ma.”E tinaᾐ gbiᾐ ᾐga. Nanai kelekὲ sa᷈ a᷈ zu9


see feᾐ feᾐ mu. Mafe kpὲliᾐ naa.Lemὲnima?Aa kὲ a gukoya?Owei. ᾐga wasi su kaa. “Mini buufelὲ …buufelὲ kaolᴐlu.” Nὲlὲi. Akὲ a awa tᴐᴐᾐgᴐmᴐi. I kpiᾐ kpὲtὲ, ᾐga lὲὲ pai kula bὲ.I eenia sumὲni tὲὲ mbᴐ. E ᾐgᴐ seewaᾐlabo ᾐgὲi, eteema. ᾐgᴐ kponoiti kὲfoloyὲ da yalataa labo.E ᾐyee lᴐ ga᷈ la᷈ su e kiane tᴐnᴐzu e gia nagbὲᾐ tima.“Ife gὲti”“Lemὲnima?“Ve a nuu ᾐgii togo ᾐgun ka a diye” Gὲyὲlὲ mᴐlᴐῂ.I gὲ ᾐga ᾐya lemὲnima? “Yakὲ moi ma agὲὲ nὲὲi a damaa.”Listen to the audio version read in Kpelle by Yarkpai KellerYarkpai J.C Keller was born in Handii, Bong County in Liberia in 1959. He received his diplomain information technology studies in 2003 and currently works as computer technician withthe Liberian Observer in Liberia and as a freelance translator. He is married with children anddependents.10


THE IDEA ISTO BESEALED INBy Binyavanga WainainaThe idea is to be sealed in.is too naked to them. Too opaque. In plain them: nodding, approving, agreeing,It is not hard. He is a soft, mild dreamychild, content to follow others. His ritualsare simple. They exist only to carry himself(always (within) enchantment). He is tensight. But unseen. When they do, he smilesinnocently, cries even, when really pressed,allowing tears.He has some private contempt for hiscopying, frowning knowingly. Because henever insists, he is always the one to share:bedrooms, sweets. He prefers to offer first.George Waruiru Odero did conquer oneyears old, and in his slow, dreamy way, he sisters, his cousin Ochieng. They seem piece of ground for himself. His threehas marked out all the go-to graph points unable to control their impulses to act. sisters hate using the outside toilet. Histhat awaken his inner joys. He haslearnt to open his tap of enchantat will: to save it up for carryingto school, that naked screech ofencounters he loves, but whichturbulents his soul.He knows to softly bypass; to"But his face and lower arms,are a dark dark copper, busywith veins, nerves, tendons andmuscles."mum and Auntie Njenga hate ittoo. He loved it. It was those oldlong drops with a pull down chainfor flushing. At night, it rumbledwith the thick sounds of crickets,which to him was the stadiumcheer of stars. He had his ownavoid trouble; to never demand; to notmake claim; to fight for no territory;to never snitch (better to confess first,even if you are innocent); to avoid allconfrontation without seeming to. To puton a blank easy face when mum or AuntieNjenga sit eye to eye with him, frowningin concern; determined to solution: to puttheir curiosity right inside his intestines,shift them around, seeking his secrets. HeTo try. To trip. To say no! Their faces areoften swollen with desire and vulnerability:tears, anger insistence. They confuse him.Why? Surely the world is only a fridge. Toopen briefly? To take some food out for hissoul, and slowly stuff it into the stretchystomach-giant world inside himself? Incar trips, he has learnt to train his ears toremain blocked; to vague out his siblings.His interface is in agreement to be withkey. It had a crude shower, which was notused. He brought in an old couch. Hereunder a naked 60 watt bulb, he could sit forhours, and let his insides loose, let the flowof dreaming roll over him. Grow stories,and dreams over days so they createdthicker feelings. Many times he arrivedagitated, banging the door behind him afterwalking fast, away from the rest. There wassomething about the nakedness of tangling11


with people: their words and contentiousness.Their hard unselfconscious sunlightbrought him often to the edge of panic. Hehated crying.This toilet was always dark, built for Africanservants in colonial days, with a tiny windowso high he had to stand on a chair on thecouch with a stick to pull it open. It was fullof shadows, light was only soft angles andflutters, sounds were always muffled. Therewas mould, rust and moods.It was here he brought his first short novel,aged seven, and his second the next day, andthrough his childhood, hundreds. It was herethat he first masturbated, and soon enough,several times daily. The idea of beingsexually vulnerable left him uncomfortable.That somebody would see his availabilityfrom sweat on his nose. He liked to leave histoilet into the world refreshed, neutered, andwith enough enchant and novels in his bagto carry him through the day.So, this way, he cruises through to fifteen,to boarding school in Njoro. One day, aSunday, after church, free from school towalk into Njoro town, his bag full of novels,he avoids the crowds of friends all going tolook for chips, cheap booze, in the popularplaces where school girls like to go for thesame.He has seen this tree many times before. Itreminds him of his toilet. Full of moodsand dappled shadows. A huge gnarled oldeucalyptus rising high above the middle ofan open air nyama choma joint. He walks in,the place is packed with Sunday Lunchtimetreats. Most people choose to avoid thetree, to sit under the mabati shades withlinoleum covered tables. That is fine. Thenoise of strangers is the best silence. Thereis a crude table nailed to the tree, with abench below it. He sits in the shade of thetree, faces away from the crowd, opens hisbag and piles three novels on the table. Oneremains in his hands. Alistair MacLean. TheGolden Rendezvous. He puts his fingersinto the folded page mark and heads forthe butchery. He orders a quarter kilo ofgoat ribs, chips, some slices of mutura, anda bitter-lemon, the short cloudy one. Theygive him a receipt for the food. He takes thereceipt into the kitchen, which is hot withcharcoal. There is a huge pot of boilinggoat-head soup.And the wide sweat soaked back of a man.Facing away from him.Avoid direct eye contact. Narrow your eyesa little. Vague your face and look dreamy.Smile/frown a bit.He turns.There are bits of bone on the man’s face,and sweat. The man’s torn white apronjacket is folded to the elbows. The man’sskin above the halfway mark between thewrist and the elbow is shockingly soft andcreamy-skinned. Pale tea. But his face andlower arms, are a dark dark copper, busywith veins, nerves, tendons and muscles.He wants to lock the door to the toilet. A12


slow creamy feeling tingles through hisbelly. The man’s voice crackles into him,like fat on fire. There is a sawn off-log anda machete by its side whereThe man laughs in his face, so free andopen, eyes almost shut, pupils clear, withno shadow. With joy he says, “ Umepoteachews bones. In the late afternoon, peopleclear the butchery, the drinkers move to theneighboring bar.In the cool of seven PM, themeat is hacked.The man turns. And his armrises. It is most certainlyheaded for the receiptbetween George’s finger. Itis not. Thick work-grimyfingers full of calluses brushhis upper arm, for the briefest momentthey linger so close they tickle, then theycurve into a fist and grab him gently and heturns to find the man’s breath flutter pasthis cheeks. Something wrapped up andmuffled shivers, then runs around his solarsystem. A big glowing full moon groans.The smell of fresh sweat fills him, burningmeat.He turns, smoothly, determined not toallow his screen to freeze, to expose him.Raises an eyebrow ruefully. The man isundeterred. His face moves closer. Largewhite sooty teeth, a giant open child’ssmile in that battered matatu of a face fullof crinkles, angles and a busy jawbone.George looks at the pipes of life gulpingat the man’s neck, the open overall ridgedwith bone and gristle. The hand is so gentleon his upper arm. It strokes down his arm,and pulls the receipt out gently, and a laughtickles out of the man’s belly and climbs upfrom George’s toes, his testicles fist, andthe laugh growls like the school tractor,finds the simmering acid of shame poolingin his belly.The other hand reaches behind hisshoulder and smoothly pulls the bookfrom George’s hand. All the diners aregone.pages of the novel. He allows himself toenjoy the uncurling of this strange itchy joy.George gathers the moistures of feelingaround his neck and earlobes and bringsthem to the front of his mind near his eyes.He reaches into the mood of the novel andis lost.The meat comes. He eats. Another waiter.Not the man. The man who now occupiesthe hairs on the back of his neck. Littleflows of feeling trickle down his spine.He reads and reads. Lost in that ship. Hehand lands on his shoulder.This time he can hear thesmile’s sunlight. Already,the mabati roof is cracklinglike fat, like stars about toburst out from blackness,and bristle sharply out thewapi?”back of his neck. The other hand reachesThe thick hand leaves his fingers tingling, behind his shoulder and smoothly pulls theand returns to give George a mild slap on book from George’s hand. All the dinersthe back. The man turns away and says, are gone.“Nuthu Thaa.”“Leave that book. I want to show youThe lunchtime sun is overhead and there something.”are no shadows. One foot ahead of the Elbow is gripped, tearing the cobwebsother, fingers working frenziedly inside the of shy from behind his face. He is naked."He reaches into themood of the novel andis lost."They walk past the little wooden kitchen.One arm leans across his shoulders inconfident brotherliness. A little corridor.A small golden padlock. A safari bed. Alittle shocking pink basin. Apron drops,trousers, underwear. Scoops of tea colouredbuttocks. A dirty yellow jerrycan fillsthe shocking pink basin. Soap. Vigoroussplashes. Ahh, a stretch. Wipes. Underwear.Jeans. T shirt. The man sits down. George’sfingers are thrust into the grey blanket. Thehand moves across his shoulders, turns hishead to face him. The voice finds his ear,wet with droplets of man, raspy from latenight shouts.“Pass me those cigarettes on the headboard.You can leave when you want.”Listen to the audio version read by Billy KahoraBinyavanga Wainaina is an African writer. He lives in Nairobi.13


Ni Wazo laKufunikaTranslation by Elieshi LemaSiyo vigumu. Yeye ni mnyamazifu nampole, mwenye kuridhika kufuata wengine.Matendo yake ni mepesi, hayana madoido,nayo huyabeba na kuyatumia yampefuraha, kwani kila mara hupenda awe katikafuraha. Ana miaka kumi. Kwa njia yake yaunyamazifu isiyo na haraka, ameviwekeaalama vitu vyote vinavyoamsha furaharohoni mwake. Na amejifunza kufungua,kama bomba, yale yanayofurahisha wengine.Na huviweka awe navyo anapokwendashule, avitumie katika matukio yanayomchangamsha,lakini ambayo humfanyakuona kama siri zake zimedhihirika. Yumuwazi sana kwao. Hawawezi kupenya.Anaonekana wazi. Haonekani. Nawanapomuona, anajua kutabasamu kamaasiye na hatia, kulia, kama akilazimishwasana, lakini kulia polepole. Anajua jinsi yakuruhusu machozi tu, na siyo kububujikwa.Binafsi, anayo dharau ya chinichini kwadada zake na binamu yake Ochieng.Wanashindwa kabisa kudhibiti mihemkoyao. Kutenda. Kujaribu. Kufanya makosa.Kukataa.Mara nyingi nyuso zao huvimba kwavitamu. Hupenda kutoa kwanza.Lakini George Waruiru Odero alipataushindi kwenye jambo moja. Dada zakewalichukia sana kutumia choo cha nje.Mama yake na Shangazi Njenga naohawakutaka. Yeye alipenda kukitumia.Choo chenyewe kilikuwa ni vile vilivyokuwana cheni ndefu ya kuvutia maji. Usikukilipiga kelele nzito kama za nyenje, sautiambayo kwake ilisikika kama kelele zanyota wanaoshangilia uwanjani. Alikuwana ufunguo wake. Kulikuwa na bomba lamvua, lilikuwa halitumiki. Aliongeza kochi"Lakini uso wake na mikono sehemu ya chini nirangi ya shaba iliyokolea, imetapakaa mishipa,vena, mikano na misuli."asononeke. Anafahamu vitu vya kukwepaili asiingie kwenye matatizo, vitu vyakutokudai, vya kutomiliki, kutopiganiaumaarufu bila sababu, katu kutoiba ( niafadhali kukiri kwanza, hata kama hunahatia), kukwepa ugomvi. Anajua wakatiwa kuwa na sura iliyo tupu, isiyosemachochote, hasa wakati mama au ShangaziNjenga anapoketi naye, ana kwa ana,uso ameukunja kwa wasiwasi, akiazimiakupata suluhisho kutoka kwake. Anajuajinsi ya kuuweka udadisi wao ndani hukokwenye utumbo na kisha kuupekuapekuamatamanio na udhaifu: machozi, hasira,kung’ang’ania. Wanamshangaza. Kwanini? Hakika dunia ni kama jokofu tu. Sihufunguliwa kwa muda mfupi? Kuchukuachakula cha kulisha roho yake na kishakuvilundika ndani ya dunia kubwa yatumbo lake. Katika safari zake kwa gari,amejifunza kuziba masikio yake ili kufifishamaongezi ya ndugu zake. Amekubali kuwanao kwa juujuu tu, akitingisha kichwa,akiridhia, akikubali na kuiga. Kwa vilehalazimishi chochote, yeye ndiye anatakiwakushirikiana: vyumba vya kulala, vitukuukuu. Na hapa ndipo alipoweza kukaakwa saa nyingi, akimulikwa na balbu ya wati60 wakati akiachia tumbo lake lifunguke,akiruhusu ndoto zake ziufunike mwiliwake, akirutubisha hadithi zake alizobunisiku nyingi ili zijenge hisia nene. Alitumiasaa nyingi akitafuta sehemu zenye utata.Mara nyingi alifika akiwa na mashaka,na kufunga mlango kwa nguvu baada yakuwakimbia wenzake. Alipobishana nawatu alihisi kama anabaki mtupu, manenoyao na ubishi na uwazi uliojitokeza kwenyemwanga ulimfanya afike kwenye ukingo14


wa hofu. Hakupenda kulia.Hiki choo kilikuwa na giza mara zote.Kilijengwa kutumika na Waafrika wakati waukoloni. Kilikuwa na dirisha moja, dogo,lililokuwa juu kiasi kwamba ilibidi asimamejuu ya kiti, kilichokuwa juu ya kochi,kisha atumie fimbo ili aweze kulifungua.Choo kilijaa vivuli, mwanga wake hafifuulichezacheza, kila siku sauti zilifififshwa.Kulikuwa na kuvu, uchakavu, kutu nasununu.Ndani humu, akiwa na miaka saba, ndipoalipoleta kitabu chake cha kwanza cha fasihi.Na kingine siku iliyofuata, na katika maishayake ya utoto, alileta na kusoma mamia yavitabu vya fasihi humu. Ni humu ndanindipo alipojichua kwa mara ya kwanza,na kisha kufanya hivyo mara kadhaa kwasiku. Alichukia kuonyesha udhaifu waujinsia wake. Kwamba mtu angewezakuona jasho kwenye pua yake na kutambuatamaa yake. Alipenda kuondoka chooni nakuingia katika dunia akiwa safi na mwenyefuraha ya kutosha, fasihi zake kwenye begizilizomtosha kwa siku nzima.Kwa njia hii, ndivyo alivyoishi na kutimizamiaka kumi na tano na kuingia shule yabweni huko Njoro. Kwa siku moja, Jumapilibaada ya kusali, alikuwa huru kwenda mjiniNjoro. Begi lake likiwa limejaa vitabu vyafasihi, aliwakwepa makundi ya rafiki zake,na wanafunzi wasichana, wote wakiendakutafuta chips na pombe rahisi katika baapendwa zilizojaa watu.Ameshauona mti huu mara nyingi sikuzilizopita. Unamkumbusha choo chake kwajinsi ulivyojaa sununu na vivuli vyake hafifuvinachezacheza. Mkaratusi mkubwa sana,wa miaka mingi, wenye makovu, ulionyookahadi juu, katikati ya baa ya wazi ya nyamachoma. Anaingia ndani na kukuta pamejaa.Watu walioukwepa mti walikaa chini yakivuli cha mabati kilichokuwa na mezazilizotandikwa vitambaa vya plastiki. Sawatu. Kelele za watu asiowajua ndizo huwa naukimya. Anaona meza ya ovyo iliyopigiliwakwenye mti ikiwa na benchi.Anakaa chini ya kivuli cha mti akiwaamewapa watu mgongo, kisha anafunguabegi na kutoa vitabu na kuweka vitatujuu ya meza. Kimoja kinabaki mkononi,mwandishi, Alistair MacLean, jina, The15Golden Rendezvous. Anafungua ukurasauliowekwa alama ya kukunjwa na kuwekakidole chake pale na akiwa nacho, anaelekeakwenye kibanda cha nyama. Anatoa oda,nyama ya mbuzi, robo kilo ya mbavu, chips,vipande vya mutura na soda, bitter lemon,ile ndogo ambayo siyo angavu. Wanamparisiti. Anachukua risiti na kueleka jikoni.Kuna joto kali la moto wa mkaa, supuya kichwa cha mbuzi inachemka kwenyesufuria kubwa.Kuna mgongo wa mwanamumeuliofunikwa na jasho. Ameangalia mbele.Anajiambia, usimtazame machoni, finyamacho kidogo, ficha uso na urembue.Tabasamu au nuna kidogo.Mwanamume anageuka.Kuna vipande vidogo vya mifupa usonimwake, na jasho. Aproni yake nyeupeiliyoraruka imekunjwa hadi kwenye kiwiko.Ngozi yake, kati ya kiwiko na kifundo chamkono ni laini ajabu, ni rangi ya krimu kamachai nyepesi. Lakini uso wake na mikonosehemu ya chini ni rangi ya shaba iliyokolea,imetapakaa mishipa, vena, mikano namisuli.


Anataka kufunga mlango uendaochooni. Msisimko wa hisia laini unampitamwilini. Sauti ya mwanamume inapasukiandani mwake, kama mafuta yanayoungua.Wanapokatia nyama kuna gogo dogo napanga kando yake.Mwanamume anageuka, mkonowake unainuka. Bila shaka kuchukua risitiGeorge aliyoiweka katikati ya vidole vyake.La hasha. Vidole vyake vichafu, vyenye sugukutokana na kazi, vinapangusa mkono waGeorge, vinasita hapo kwa muda kidogo tu,karibu mno, hadi vinasisimua. Halafu vidolevinajifunga kama vile ngumi na kumshikakwa utulivu, na mara George anapoinuauso, pumzi ya mwanamume inampitamashavuni. Mtetemo wa kitu kilichofungwana kufifishwa kinazunguka katika mfumowake wa jua. Mwezi pevu unaguna. Harufuya jasho changa inamjaa, ya nyama inayoiva.Hali ya afya fulani, uhalisia fulani.Anageuka polepole, akiwaameazimia kuwa sura yake ile isigande nakuonyesha ukweli wake. Anainua jichokwa huzuni. Hilo halimzuii mwanamume.Uso wake unazidi kusogea. Meno, rangi yamoshi mweupe, tabasamu kubwa la kitotokwenye uso uliojaa makunyanzi, kamamatatu chakavu. Taya linatafuna. Georgeanatazama koromeo linavyogugumiashingoni mwa mwanamume, tuta wazi lamfupa na gegedu. Kiganja cha mwanamumekimetulia sehemu ya juu ya mkono wake,karibu na bega. Anapapasa mkono kuelekeachini na kuivuta risiti polepole. Kichekocha mwanamume kinatokea tumboni, nakumtekenya George kuanzia vidole vyamiguu na kupanda kuelekea juu, korodanilinajikunja na kukaza. Kicheko kinangurumakama trekta la shule na kukuta aibu chachu,kali, inayochemka polepole na kukusanyikatumboni.Mwanamume anacheka waziwazimbele yangu, kicheko huru, kisicho nakificho. Macho amefunga nusu, mboni zakeni ang’avu, hazina kivuli. Akiwa amejawa nafuraha, anasema, “Umepotea wapi?”Kiganja chake kinene kinaachavidole vyake vikisisimka. Anampiga Georgekibao kwa utani mgongoni. Anapoondokaanasema, “ Nuthu Thaa.”Jua la mchana liko utosini na hakunavivuli. Mguu mmoja mbele ya mwingine,vidole vyake vinahangaika ndani ya kurasa zahadithi. Anajiruhusu kukumbatia furaha hii,kuona inavyofunguka, ni ngeni, inatekenya.George anakusanya hisia nyevunyevu iliyoshingoni na kwenye ndewe la sikio nakuivuta mbele akilini mwake, karibu namacho. Anazama katika sununu ya hadithina kupotea.Nyama inakuja. Anakula.Ni mhudumu mwingine. Siyo yulemwanamume. Mwanamume ambaye sasaameteka hisia zake. Anahisi michirizimyembamba ya hisia ikitiririka kwenyeuti wa mgongo. Anasoma kwa bidii.Amepotea katika jahazi hili. Anatafunamifupa. Baadaye, mchana, watu wanasafishakibanda cha nyama na wanywaji wanahamiabaa nyingine jirani.Katika ubaridi wa jua la magharibi,mkono unatua begani. Wakati huu anasikiamwanga wa tabasamu lake. Tayari mabatiyanalia kama mafuta yanayoungua, kamanyota zilizo karibu kulipuka kutoka kwenyegiza tororo na kufanya nywele zimsimameshingoni. Mkono wa pili unapita nyumaya bega na kwa utulivu, unachukua kitabukilicho mkononi mwa George. Wateja wotewameondoka.“Acha hicho kitabu. Natakakukuonyesha kitu.”Anamshika kwenye kiwiko chamkono, akipangusa buibui la aibu usonimwake. Wanaonekana wazi. Wanatembeana kupita jiko dogo la mbao. Mkono mmojaumeegemea bega lake katika undugu imara.Wanapita kwenye kibaraza kidogo, kofulindogo ya dhahabu, kitanda kidogo chasafari, beseni ndogo sana ya rangi ya waridi,matone, matako rangi ya chai, dumu chafula manjano linajaza beseni ndogo sana yawaridi. Sabuni. Rushia maji kwa nguvu.Aaah. Jinyooshe. Jikaushe. Chupi. Jeans.T-Shirt. Mwanamume anaketi. Georgeanapitishapitisha vidole kwenye blanketi.Mkono unazunguka bega na kugeuzakichwa. Sauti inapata sikio lake, imeloavitone vya mwanamume, inakwaruzakutokana na kelele za usiku.“Nipe hizo sigara juu ya kitanda. Unawezakuondoka wakati wowote unapotaka.”Listen to the audio version read in Kiswahili by Mukoma wa NgugiElieshi Lema, author and publisher, has authored two novels - Parched Earth and In the Belly of Dar esSalaam - and a good number of children’s books. She is co-founder of E & D Vision Publishing, whichpublishes textbooks, children’s books and general fiction. She actively promotes reading through variousprojects initiated to support readership in indigenous languages. In her writing, Lema has an explicit genderperspective. She addresses topics such as patriarchy, gender and children’s rights, and HIV/Aids. She writesin Kiswahili and English.16


Woman in theOrange DressBy Sarah Ladipo-Manyika17


She came into the restaurant on crutches, so Ilooked to see what was wrong. Broken foot?Broken leg? Torn Achilles tendon? There wasno cast. No plaster or boot. No, not even from theside view was there a leg bent back. There was no leg.At least none that came beneath the hemline of hersimple cotton dress of pale, orange lace. Cantaloupeorange, with short puff sleeves, scooped neckline andhem hovering just beneath the knee. Could it be thenthat the limb ended at the knee, or somewhere evenhigher? All that could be seen was just the one leg withits dainty black shoe the colour of her hair. She wassmiling, smiling so broadly that it made me wonderwhat she and her companion were celebrating. Hewore a grey suit and tie and stood no taller than her,but slimmer and balding in the back. She had an afrowhich was wrapped in a long scarf of bright blue silk.And as if that were not frame enough for her dark,honey glowing face, the window behind her headwas decked in tinsel and twinkling yellow lights. Allthrough dinner she kept smiling and flirting withthose large brown eyes as though giddy with somesecret excitement. From time to time she would leanacross the table to share a private joke and as she didso, her pendant, a miniature Benin bronze, swungever so gently, suspended from the tiny chain aroundher neck. Apparently mesmerized, the man broughthis chair closer and closer until it went no furtherand it seemed that he might disappear into thoseliquid, amber eyes. Twice, she threw back her headwith such loud laughter and clapping of hands thatpeople turned to stare, but she didn’t care. All shenoticed was he. And when the restaurant turned upthe music and dimmed the lights, I caught a glimpseof her shiny black shoe tapping a dance between thewooden legs of their chairs. And that was when mypartner reached across our table.“Everything will be okay,” he said, dispelling thesilence that had fallen between us.“Yes,” I nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yes, I think so.”Listen to the audio version read by Sarah Ladipo-ManyikaSarah Ladipo Manyika was raised in Nigeria and has lived in Kenya, France, andEngland. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of California, Berkeley, and teachesliterature at San Francisco State University. Her writing includes essays, academicpapers, reviews and short stories. In Dependence is her first novel published by LegendPress, London; Cassava Republic Press, Abuja; and Weaver Press, Harare. Sarah sits onthe boards of Hedgebrook and San Francisco’s Museum of the African Diaspora andshe is this year’s Chair of Judges for the Etisalat Prize for Literature.18


ArábìnrinInú AsọỌlọsànTí Kola Tubosun túmọ19


Ówọ’nú ilé ounjẹ náà pẹlú ọpá; èyí sì jẹ kí nwòó láti mọ oun tó sẹlẹ. Sé ẹsẹ kíkán ni?Tàbí ẹsẹ yíyẹ? Ishan tó fàya? Kò sí èdìdí egbòníbẹ, bẹẹni kò sí bàtà. Rárá, bí mo se n wòó láti ẹgbẹkò tilẹ fi ẹsẹ kankan hàn tó rọ sẹyìn. Kò sí ẹsẹ kankanníbẹ. Kò sá sí ìkankan tó jade lábẹ asọ léésì olówùúaláwọ ọsan tó wọ. Àwọ ọsàn nlá, pẹlú ọwọ pémpéwíwú, ọrùn tó gé kúrú àti ìsàlẹ rẹ tó n fò pémpé ní oríorúnkún rẹ. Njẹ ó lè jẹ pé ẹsẹ rẹ parí sí orúnkún ni bí,tàbí ibòmírán lókè síi? Oun kan péré tí a le rí ni ẹsẹkan yìí pẹlú bàtà tó dúdú mirinmirin bí irun rẹ. Ó nrẹrìín músẹ; ẹrín tó lọyàyà gidi dé’bi wipe mo bẹrẹ sís’àsàrò oun tí òun àti ẹnìkejì rẹ n sàjọyọ rẹ. Òun wọasọ isẹ aláwọ aláwọ eérú pẹlú táì ọrùn. Kò sì ga juarábìnrin lọ rárá. Ó kàn tínrín díẹ, ó sì pá lórí lẹyìn.Irun arábìnrin yìí gùn, ò sì pọ púpọ bíi ti àwọn eléré.Ó kóo pọ pẹlú ìborùn fẹlẹfẹlẹ aláwọ ojú ọrun. Àfi bíiwipe kò tíì mú ojú rẹ (tó n tàn rederede bí oyin) dàbíèyí tó wà lẹyìn àwòrán fọtò, fèrèsé tó wà lẹyìn orí rẹn tan yanranyanran pẹlú ina kékèké mirinmirin. Títítí wọn fi jẹun tán, ó sá n rẹrìín, ó sì n f’ojú nlá rẹ tódúdú mininjọ sọrọ, bíi pé inú rẹ n dùn fún nkan àsíríìkọkọ kan tó lárinrin. Ní ìgbà dé ìgbá, yóò tẹ síwájúlóríi tàbìlì láti sọ ẹfẹ kan. Bó se n se bẹẹ, ẹgbà ọrunrẹ, tí ó jẹ ère kékeré láti ìlú Bìní, yóò máa mì jolojolobí ó se rọ láti ara séènì kékeré tó fi sọrùn. Bó se dùnmọọ nínú tó, ọkùnrin náà gbé àga rẹ súnmọ títí tí kòfi le lọ síwájú mọ, tí ó sì dàbí wipe ó lè pòórá sínúàwọn ojú olómi olówó iyebíye obìnrin rẹ. Lẹẹmejì, ósọ oríi rẹ sẹyìn pẹlú ẹrín nlá àti ìpàtẹwọ aláriwo tíàwọn ènìyan fi kọjú síbẹ láti wòó. Kò tiẹ kọbiara síwọn. Nkan ẹyọkan tó rí ni ọmọkùnrin rẹ. Nígbà tí iléoúnjẹ sì yí orin sókè tí wọn yí iná sílẹ, mo rí bàtà rẹdúdú tó n tàn yanranyanran tó sì n jó díẹdíẹ láàrín igiẹsẹ àga. Ìgbà yìí ni ẹnìkejì mi na ọwọ mú mi láti orítábìlì.Ó ni, “Gbogbo nkan ni yóò dára nígbẹyìn.” Ó sì légbogbo ìdákẹjẹẹ tó ti dúró sáàrín wa lọ.“Bẹẹni,” mo fèsì pẹlú orí mi, mo sì di ọwọ rẹ múdáadáa. “Bẹẹni, mo rò bẹẹ.”Listen to the audio version read in Yoruba by Yemisi AribisalaKola Tubosun is a linguist, teacher, and writer. With an MA in TESL/Linguistics from the Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, he hasworked in translation, language teaching and documentation. He hasworked at the International Institute in St. Louis, and is currently involvedin building a multimedia dictionary of Yoruba names and also in translatingTwitter into Yoruba. His work has appeared in the International LiteraryQuarterly, The Moth, Farafina, Sentinel Poetry and Saraba, among others.He blogs at KTravula.com, and he can be found on Twitter at @baroka.20


CotyledonsBy Toni Kan21


The air was taut, like astring pulled too tight, theday I finally gave in andstepped into his room.Everyone said I started late and thenthe first man that came along made mehis wife.That was my luck but it was not forwant of trying.Back at secondary school in Isi-Enu, Iwas wanted but not the way other girlswere wanted. The boys wanted mebecause I could not be had. They didnot want me the way they wanted Tina,the one they all called 9 to 9 because shefollowed five boys into their room andwas raped from 9am to 9pm.Or the way they wantedIfeoma Okeke who all theboys had used to gba set.I was wanted because noneof the boys had ever seen mypant and it was somethingthat made me proud.“You will marry one day and one manwill use your thing to play football,”Georgie, my friend said.Georgie was tall and light skinned withlong hair and nose that looked like aFulani. She was not like the other girlsbut every year she would fall in lovewith one or two boys.“If you don’t service this thing, one dayit will close up o,” she would say everytime I rolled my eyes at herI did not service the thing even thoughI was tempted to. Once, on a trip toNsukka, Gideon, one of the seniorboys in our school had slipped me anote: “Your breasts are like cotyledons.”“Ke kwa nu nke bu cotyledon?” Georgiesnorted as she let the paper fly out thewindow to be interred in the red earth.In my first term of form three I did not“Me, I am going to theuniversity,” Georgie said.“I will not sell bags for anybagger.”know what cotyledons meant but I wasso impressed that I let him touch mybreasts some nights as we went homefrom prep.Izu was tall and different from anyboy I had played with before includingGideon.“How can he be like Gideon when heis an old man,” Georgie who did notknow how to bite her tongue said.He was thirty two and I was just turningnineteen when he came to ask for myhand. He lived in Lagos and had twoshops in Idumota where he sold bags.“Business is moving well and after weenter matrimony, you will help me inthe shop,” Izu said to me in Englishbecause he said he wanted our childrento speak English first and not Igbo.“Me, I am going to the university,”Georgie said. “I will not sell bags forany bagger.”Then she took my hand andasked me how it was.“Did you enjoy it?”I told her I did. I told herhow Izu filled me up theway a big bowl of fufufills up a hungry man. His thing, I toldGeorgie amidst giggles, was so big andlong I feared it would come out of mymouth.I never got the chance to work with Izuin the shop because I was pregnant twomonths after I joined him in Lagos andby the time my second child was born,fire had gutted the building housing his22


“He would wait for me by the staircase as I camedown to fetch water. “Come with me and I willmake you happy,””shops and turned his wealth to ashes.He sold one car first and then the otherbefore he took to staying at home anddrinking all day and beating me.Things had gone bad between us theway a pot of egusi soup goes bad if youforget to warm it. We had forgottenhow to keep things warm between us.That was when he began to whisper tome; Osas, the Bini boy who lived downstairs. He would wait for me by thestaircase as I came down to fetch water.“Come with me and I will make youhappy,” he’d say, his tongue sweet likeekwensu, my skin breaking out in goosebumps.“I have a husband,” I’d tell him but hisanswer was always the same.“He will not know until we have gonefar away.”“And my children?”“We will take care of them.”Osas did not work but he had two carsand always seemed to have money tospend.One day, Izu found me talking to him.He did not say a word as he walked pastus but when he got home that night hebeat me so much my period came tendays early and I could not go out forthree days.Osas sent me money and medicine andwhen Izu travelled to Kano to see acousin, Osas brought me cake while thekids were in school.I had not eaten cake in a long time. So,I sat in the living room and ate it alluntil I was as full as a python that hadswallowed an antelope.Izu’s cousin gave him money to start anew shop and the new business seemedto consume him. He left early andcame back late as if he was on a questto recover all he had lost at once. Izustopped beating me and even though Iwas thankful, I missed being touched;the love we made when he wanted tomake up.That was when I started allowing Osasto touch me.“Let’s do this thing,” he would whisper,his hands running like ants all over mycotyledons.I would hold them and tell him to stop.“The neighbours will see, they willhear,” but he would laugh and push myhands away.The air was taut, like a string pulledtoo tight, the day I finally gave in andstepped into his room. Osas took offmy clothes as if they were made ofglass and when I was naked, he laid meon his bed and covered my body withkisses from my lips to my cotyledonsand in between my legs.I was trembling when he finally spreadmy legs and our bodies became onebut then before I could open wideenough to take him in, he cried out andcollapsed on top of me.I lay there still very hungry and thinkingof fufu, while Osas snored beside me.Listen to the audio version read by Dike ChukwumerijeToni Kan holds both M.A and B.A degrees in English Literature. He worked as ajournalist for 5 years and rose to the position of editor at the age of 26 years, beforemoving on into banking and telecoms. Author of 4 critically acclaimed works of fictionand poetry including Nights of the Creaking Bed and When A Dream Lingers Too Long. ToniKan was, until recently, editor of the Sunday Sun’s literary supplement, Revue. Toni isthe publisher of sabinews.com and a managing partner at Radi8. He is at work on twobooks: Infidelity and The Carnivorous City; a collection of short stories forthcoming fromCassava Republic Press.23


CotyledonsTranslation by Chikodili EmelumaduOtutu ndi mmadu siri na chi eforoolum gboo, ya mere njiri kwenyerenwoke izizi gafetere nu.Obu otu akaraka m siri di, obughi namu agbaghi mbo.Mgbe m n’agu akwukwo sekondarin’isi-enu, umu nwoke n’achu m nkeukwu. Mana obughi otu ha siri achuumu nwanyi ndi ozo ka ha siri chumunwa. Umu ikorobia n’eso mun’ike n’ike bu makana m ekwero hanchuta. Okwa mu kariri nke Tina,onye umu nwoke buru ‘9 to 9’ siten’otu osiri soro okorobia ise n’imeha baa n’ulo ha wee raa ya n’ike, bidona elekere itenani nke ututu ruo naelekere itenani nke abani. Ma obukwaIfeoma Okeke nke ha ncha n’ile jirigba set.Ihe m guru ha aguu makana onweghionye n’ime ha huru mpeteri m anya.Obu ihe njiri turu ugo.Enyi m nwanyi Joji siri m “Okwaimegide ihe a, mgbe inuoro di, ojirigi baa bolu.”Enyi m nwanyi a bu Joji toro ogologo,n’enwu ocha. Imi ya piri onu ka nkendi n’achi efi. Onaghi eme ka ndiumu nwanyi ndi ibe anyi kamana kwaaro, o ga enwenata otu nwoke maobu abuo oga ahu n’aya.“Nodu ebe ahu. Oburu na imesapughiaru, mee ka ndi ibe gi siri eme, nekwaka itachiri atachi.”Eyerodi m ya onu, kama na ihe okwuru guru m a guu. Otu ubochi,mbge ndi ulo akwukwo anyi jereNsukka, Gideonnu no na klaasi umunwoke totasiri n’ulo akwukwo anyikpanyere m leta n’aka nke odere‘Mkpuru ara gi di ka cotyledon’.Joji chiri ochi. “Kekwa nke bucotyledons?” o rapuru mpempeakwukwo ahu Gideon dere ihe na yao wee fepu na window, danye n’imeaja uzuzu.Mgbe anyi bidoro klasi nke ato,amaghi m ihe ‘Cotyledon’ bu, manaotu osiri da mu uda na nti soro m uso,ya mere njiri kwere ka Gideon kpatum obere aka na anyasi mgbe anyi naanachigha n’ebe anyi no n’akwadoakwukwo anyi ga agu echi ya n’ile.Izu toro ogologo bia di iche n’imeumu nwoke n’ile mu na ha megasiriihe egwuriegwu, ma nyanwa buGideon n’onwe ya.Joji n’amaro otu esiri ata okwu eze,si m “Kedu ka osiri di gi ka agadinwoke a aga eyi Gideon?”Izu di aro iri ato n’abuo, mu n’onwem n’acho ime aro iri na itenani,mgbe ojiri bia okwu nwanyi m. ObiLagos mbge ahu, nwee shop n’abon’Idumota ebe ona ere akpa.“Afia n’aga nno ofuma, kamana mgbeanyi gbasiri akwukwo, aga m acho kaitinyere m aka na shop.” Otua ka osirigwam ya na bekee n’ihi na ocholu kaumu n’ile anyi ga amu buru uzo suobekee rapu asusu Igbo.Joji si m “Hmmm, munwa agameje ya bu mahadum. Onwerokwaonye m n’enyelu aka ire akpa n’afia.”Owere jide m aka n’aka m, juo m otunmekorita anyi siri di oge izizi ahu.“Onyere gi obi anuri?”Asiri m ya ‘Ee’. Agwara m ya etu Izusiri juu m afo, ka nni onuno siri juunwoke aguu n’anyu ikpakwu. Ochi kam n’achi mgbe ngwara Joji na ihe yatoro ogologo, gbaa agbaa, obere iheka osi m n’onu puta.Enwerozi m ike iso Izu wee ree ihen’afia; ka onwa n’abo gasiri njiri biaya bu Lagos, ntuta ime. Tupu njesiaije ime nke ibuo, oku gbaa ulo ebe24


shop Izu di, aku n’ile okpara weeghoro ntu.O buulu uzo ree otu ugboala, reekwanke ozo, wee bido noba n’ulo, nwubammanya kwadaa, wee n’ebi m aka.Anu m di na nwunye anyi biaragba uka, ka ofe egusi siri agba ukama oburu na adaghi ya n’oku. Anyichezosiri otu esiri edobe ihe okun’etiti anyi n’abo.Obu mgbe ahu ha Osas, nwoke Binibi n’ala jiri bido takwuiba m umuobere ihe na nti.O siri m, “Bia ka m mporo gi si ebeapuo, aga m eme ka obi di gi polinapolina,”ire ya n’ato uto ka nkeekwensu. Akpata oyi wurukasiri mn’aru m n’ile.Ana m agwa ya si “Imana m bu nwunyemmadu,” mana ngwachakwaa ya, oka na ako ihe o na ako.O siri m, “Mgbe o ga eji wee maran’anyi apugo, anyi eruola ebe anyin’eje.”“Umu m aa?”“Anyi ga enedo ha anya.”Osas enweghi ihe m furu ona aru,kama na onwelu moto abuo, jide egoofuma ofuma.Otu mbochi, Izu jidere anyi ebe anyin’akpa nkata. Oyero di anyi onu,ghara anyi gafee. Mana oge onaruteren’anyasi ahu, otiri m ihe ee, nsonwanyi n’erubeghi eru m jiri oso-osobia bido m. Enweghi m ibinyi oto sin’ulo puo iro ubochi n’ato gaa.Osas nyere m obere ego, goro mogwu. Mgbe Izu jere ugwu awusa ihunwanne ya, Osas zutara m achichaoyibo wetere m oge umuaka m n’n’ulo akwukwo.Oteena aka mgbe m tara achichaoyibo, n wee noro n’iru ulo be m, weetajuo ya afo, dorozie ka eke noro ene.Nwanne Izu ahu ojere ihu na ugwuawusa nyere ya ego ka o were bidozuba ahia ozo. Di m tinyere onwe yan’ile na azum-ahia ya. Onu ututu kaojiri apu, lota n’ime ndeli, ka ochoroiji osiso kpaa aku n’uba ya nke gbaraoku. Izu kwusi kwuru iti m ihe. Obidi nma n’ihi na okwusiri iji arummelu igba, kamana ahu m choro akaona adi emetukebe m ma ocho kaanyi dozie.N’oge a ka njiri kwenyere Osas.“Ngwanu ka anyi mee ifea,” akaya noro n’awukasi m ka aruru nacotyledons mu.Ejidere m ya aka, si ya kwusi, na ndiagbata obi anyi ga ahu anyi, ma nukwa ihe anyi n’eme. O chiri ochi,were aka m wepu n’ara m.25


Ikuku di n’ime ulo ya bia sie ike di kaeriri adoro aka ubochi nkwenyere ya.Osas yipuru m akwa ka obu ihe naakuwa akuwa, dinaba m ala n’elu akwaya mgbe ogbara m oto. Ojiri nsusu weregbaa m arum n’ile okirirkiri, ma na etitimpata m.Aru bidoro maba mu lilili mgbe o jayerem ukwu, dinakwasi m, anyi ewee buruotu anu aru. Mana tupu nwee ike idozionwe m ka o wee nodu n’ime m ofuma,otie mkpu akwa, dakwasi m n’elu aru.Osas dinara n’akuku m n’agwo ura, muonwe m nodu n’eche uche nri olulo.Listen to the audio version read in Igbo by Chikodili EmelumaduChikodili Emelumadu is a writer, journalist and broadcaster living in London. She starteda career in print journalism at the age of fourteen, working on school publications. Sheleft her job at the BBC World Service to dedicate her time to writing fiction. Her work hasappeared in Eclectica and Apex magazines and Luna Station Quarterly. She speaks andwrites two languages fluently and two others rather badly. She can be found ranting aboutlife, Igboness and whatever else seizes her fancy on Igbophilia.wordpress.com.26


SOLITAIREBy Edwige-Renée Dro“She’d gone up to her library to find a document whensomeone had put his hand on her mouth. The terrifiedsound she made died instantly in her mouth, as sheheard him whisper in her ear.”Aurélie arrived at her TV company,sweaty. She had jogged from herhome at La Riviera 3 to her officeat Les Deux Plateaux.“Stéphanie, comment va?” shegreeted the receptionist.“Any messages?” she asked.“No, but you have a visitor.”She looked across the lobby asStéphanie gestured in the directionof her office. To the frown on herface, the receptionist added, “It isMonsieur Sylla.”“Oh. What time …” then she wavedher hands, thanked the receptionistand made her way to her office.Sylla was sitting across her desk,looking as if he’d always sat there.“Stranger! Where were you? Orperhaps you were in Ghana allalong,” she said as she stood at theentrance to her office.“My favourite person in the wholeof Côte d’Ivoire.” He got up,walked towards her and pulled herinto his arms and into the room.“How I’ve dreamed of seeing thisday, djarabi.” He kissed her, and shekissed him back. Those lips! Thatbody. He’d put on a bit of weight,but nothing much to distract fromthe military physique that toweredover her and always got her weakat the knees. She stayed in his armswhen they broke off the kiss.“I need to take a shower, you know,”she whispered.“I suppose. Gyms in this countryno longer have showers?”“I ran from home to here,” shesmiled at his surprised look. “Ihad to distract myself from youdisappearing like that.” She put herhands under her chin and looked athim.The last time she saw him, Gbagbohad finally been dragged out of hisbunker. Sylla had arrived at herhome late one night. How? She’dno idea. Not even her watchmanhad been aware of his entrance.There had been blood on hishands. So maybe he’d climbed thehuge wall with the barbed wire andthe broken bottles that had beenlogged into the cement to deterthieves. Her living room had beenthe HQ of her staff. They listenedto gunshots whilst talking abouttheir relief, but sadness at Gbagbo’sdeparture. She’d gone up to herlibrary to find a document whensomeone had put his hand on hermouth. The terrified sound shemade died instantly in her mouth,as she heard him whisper in her ear.“Djarabi, c’est moi.” Darling, it’sme.The relief had been short-livedwhen he’d turned on the desk lamp.He looked like he’d been throughthe wars. He had.“How did you get in?”“Am I a civilian?” he’d smiled, a sadsmile. “I need money, baby. I need27


to leave this country. The situationis lethal and I can’t take money outof my account.”“Not a problem,” she’d said. Withthe situation the way it had been,she made sure she always hadenough money on her. Nobodyknew when one would have tocross into Ghana.“I will reimburse you.”She’d waved her hands and fetchedthe money from the back of one ofthe bookshelves.“Will you leave immediately?”“I’ll lie low a bit, then I’ll leave.Insh’Allah.”She’d given him the spare key to herbungalow in Bassam. That night,after two years of being separated,she told him she loved him. And,in her heart, said, “I wish I’d neverleft you.”She’d beena voraciousnewspaperreader afterthat, andhad paidhe’d left the country.do with a good job at the AfricanUnion. What about my career?“Trust me, I didn’t mean to go She’d wanted to ask him but Charlesincommunicado but you know, it would have spoken about the willwas better like that.”of God and how he’d prayed aboutLater on as they were relaxing in her the thing and all that tra la la.bedroom, he asked her about her At the beginning, she’d beennews, “since you’re not forthcoming pleased. Here was a man with…”the same ideals as her, someone“What do you mean?” she carried willing to live out his faith, without“How I’ve dreamedof seeing this day,djarabi.”on tracing circles around his bellybutton.“Maybe I’m mistaken, but when Iwas in Sweden, the kind of ring youare wearing was commonly used asan engagement ring.”compromise. Bold in the Lordand all the rest. Then she realisedthat she wasn’t like him. She wasn’tas rigid as Charles for whom twoglasses of wine were more thanenough and a joke about Jesus’first miracle being turning waterinto wine would raise a theologicaldiscussion“Indeed, my darling, I am engaged.”“And there I was thinking youwere not the marrying kind. Your“That night, after two years of being separated,she told him she loved him. And, in her heart,said, “I wish I’d never left you.”own words,”he placedhis handon hers,caressingher.attention to Abidjan’s Kpakpatoya.Even though she was a media“Oh.” She twiddled with the ring.A solitaire Charles proposed with“A girl can change her mind.”“Especially when it concerns a niceperson, she took the gossips of a week ago. She was still using Christian man, hum?”Abidjan with a huge pinch of salt.But with Sylla leaving like that, shetook every piece of kpakpatoya veryseriously. Rumours of assassinationor of arrests of Ivorian exiles inGhana made her heart jump. ThenSylla rang a month later to tell herthe novelty of the engagement toexplain her discomfort with thering. But really, the thing felt likea noose around her neck, especiallynow that Charles has announcedthat they would live in Addis-Ababaafter the wedding. Something to“No, not necessarily.”“So change your mind and let’s getmarried instead.”“Are you serious?”“You wouldn’t know how much.”She smiled at him, sat up and tookoff the solitaire.Listen to the audio version read by Edwige-Renée Dro29


SOLITAIRETranslation by Edwige-Renée DroAurélie arriva à sa station de télétoute en sueur. Elle avait fait dufooting de chez elle à la Riviera 3à ses bureaux aux Deux-Plateaux.“Stéphanie, comment va?” ellesalua la réceptioniste. “J’ai desmessages?”“Non, mais vous avez un visiteur.”Elle regarda autour d’elle dansle lobby au même moment oùStéphanie gesturait dans la directionde son bureau. Au froncement de“Ma personne préférée dans toutCôte d’Ivoire là.” Il se leva, sedirigea vers elle et la tira dans sesbras et dans la pièce. “Tu peuxpas savoir combien de fois j’ai rêvéde ce jour, djarabi.” Il l’embrassaet elle l’embrassa en retour. Ceslèvres! Ce corps. Il avait pris unpeu de poids, mais rien qui pouvaitdistraire de ce grand physiquede militaire qui dominait sur lesien et qui lui donnait des jambessous son mention et le regardadroit dans les yeux.La dernière fois qu’elle l’avait vu,Gbagbo avait été finalement tiré deson bunker. Sylla était arrivé chezelle tard dans la nuit. Comment?Elle n’en avait eu aucune idée.Même son gardien n’avait rien vudedans. Il y avait du sang sur sesmains, donc peut-être qu’il avaitgrimpé le grand mur avec les fils defer barbelés et les bouteilles cassées“Cette nuit-là, deux années après leur rupture, elle lui avaitdit qu’elle l’aimait encore. Et dans son coeur, elle avait ajouté,“j’aurais jamais dû te quitter.” ”ses sourcils, la réceptioniste ajouta,“C’est Monsieur Sylla.”“Oh. À quelle heure…” puis ellebalaya la question du révers de samain, rémercia la réceptioniste etse dirigea vers son bureau.Sylla était assis dans le fauteuilréservé aux visiteurs. C’étaitcomme s’il avait l’habitude detoujours s’asseoir là.“Hey, étranger! Tu étais passé où?Ou bien tu étais au Ghana tout prèslà là pendant tout ce temps,” elles’arrêta à l’entrée de son bureau.en coton. Elle resta dans sesbras même quand ils finirent des’embrasser.“J’ai besoin de prendre une douche,tu sais,” elle murmura à son oreille.“C’est ce que je vois là! Les sallesde gym dans pays là n’ont plus dedouches, ou bien?”“J’ai fait du footing de la maison àici,” elle sourit à la surprise qui selisait sur son visage. “Hey, écoutes,je devais faire quelque chose avecla manière dont tu as disparu dela circulation.” Elle mit ses mainsmises dans le béton au-dessus dumur pour dissuader les voleurs.Son salon servait de QG à sesemployés. Ils écoutaient le bruitdes Kalach tout en exprimantleur soulagement mais aussi leurtristesse au départ de Gbagbo. Elleavait quitté le salon pour se rendredans sa bibliothèque pour prendreun document quand quelqu’un luiavait mit la main sur sa bouche. Lecri effrayant qu’elle avait pousséavait été aussitôt étouffé.Il chuchota, “djarabi, c’est moi.”30


Son soulagement avait été decourte durée quand il avait allumésa lampe de bureau. Il ressemblaità quelqu’un qui en avait livré desbatailles. En effet, il avait fait cela.“Comment tu es rentré?”“Est-ce-que moi je suis unlambda?” il avait souri, un tristesourire. “J’ai besoin de wari, bébé.Je dois fraya d’ici. Le pays estgâté et puis je peux pasaccéder à mon compte.”“Pas de problèmes,”elle avait dit. Avecla situation commec’était, elle avaittoujours l’argentsur elle. Personnene savait quandla route du Ghanaserait prise.“Je vais te rembourser.”Elle avait balayé cetteproposition du révers de la mainet s’était dirigée vers l’une desétagères pour prendre de l’argent.“Tu vas quitter le pays maintenant?”“Je vais attendre un peu. Après, jevais partir. Insh’Allah.”Elle lui avait donné la clé de sonpied-à-terre à Bassam. Cette nuitlà, deux années après leur rupture,elle lui avait dit qu’elle l’aimaitencore. Et dans son coeur, elleavait ajouté, “j’aurais jamais dû tequitter.”Elle avait été une avide lectricede journaux après ça et avaitmême commencé à faire attentionau kpakpatoyad’Abidjan.Bien qu’elle exerçait dansles médias, elle prenait les ragôtsd’Abidjan avec un pincement desel. Mais avec la manière aveclaquelle Sylla était parti, elle prenaitau sérieux tous les kpakpatoya.Les rumeurs d’assassinations etd’arrestations d’exilés Ivoiriensau Ghana faisaient sauter soncoeur. Et puis un mois après, Syllal’appela pour lui dire qu’il avaitquitté le pays.“Pardon coco, c’est pas que jevoulais faire silence-radio, maisc’était mieux comme ça.”Quelques heures plus tard, quandils prenaient du repos dans sachambre, il lui avait démandé deses nouvelles, “comme tu veuxpas m’affairer là…”“Qu’est-ce-que tu veuxdire par là?” elle continuaà tracer des cerclesimaginaires autour de sonnombril.“Ah, peut-être que je voismal mais quand j’étais enSuède, le genre de bague que tuportes là était pour les fiançailles.”“Oh.” Elle tourna la bague autourde son doigt. Un solitaire aveclequel Charles lui avait démandé enmariage il y a une semaine de cela.Elle prenait pour prétexte la courtedurée des fiançailles pour justifiersa gêne avec la bague. Mais, pourdire vrai, la chose était comme unétau autour de son cou, surtoutdépuis que Charles lui annoncéqu’ils vivraient à Addis-Ababaaprès le mariage. Une affaire deboulot à l’Union Africaine. Etmon bara? Elle avait bien voulului démander mais Charles auraitdit quelque chose à-propos de la“Tu peux pas savoir combien de fois j’ai rêvé de ce jour,djarabi. ”31


volonté de Dieu et comment ilavait prié pour savoir si le bara étaitvraiment la volonté de Dieu et toutle tralala qu’il allait verser sur elle.Au début, elle avait été heureusede sa relation avec lui. Un hommeavec les mêmes idéaux qu’elle.Quelqu’un qui voulait vivre sa foi,sans compromis. Courageux dansle Seigneur et tout le reste. Puis,elle arriva à la réalisation qu’ellen’était pas comme lui. Elle n’étaitpas aussi rigide comme Charlespour qui deux verres de vin étaientplus qu’assez et une plaisanteriesur le premier miracle de Jésus– la transformation de l’eau envin – aurait soulevé un débatthéologique.“En effet oui, mon chéri, je suisfiancée.”“Et moi qui pensais que tu n’étaispas le genre à se marier. C’est sortide ta propre bouche.” Il mit samain sur la sienne et la caressa.“Une fille peut changer d’avis.”“Surtout quand il s’agit d’un bonChrétien, hein?”“Non, pas nécessairement.”“Donc faut changer d’avis et puison a qu’à se marier kèh?”“Tu es au sérieux?”“Est-ce-que mon visage ressembleà pour quelqu’un qui est entrain des’amuser?”Elle lui sourit, se leva et ôta lesolitaire de son doigt.Listen to the audio version read in French by Edwige-Renée DroEdwige-Renée Dro hails from Côte d’Ivoire and is a laureate of the Africa39 project. Herstories have been published in Prufrock magazine, Prima magazine and on africanwriter.com.She is currently editing her first novel amidst endless nappy changes and broken sleep – the joysof being a mother! Edwige-Renée blogs at laretournee.mondoblog.org, a France24 and RFIplatform, and works freelance as a translator (French/English). Edwige loves reading more thanwriting and believes that red wine can solve every problem under the sun.32


PaintedLoveBy Abubakar Adam IbrahimHe fell in love with her smile whenshe was still a house officer who hadquietly, untainted by any scandal ofnote, garnered the reputation of havinghad a thing with some of the mostwealthy men in Abuja, without everbeing ensnared by their promises ofmaking her a fashionably corpulent andcontented wife.Every time Yaro thought of her, andthis was often, it was her melancholicsmile, like twilight shimmering througha lazy fog— a faint promise ofhappiness persisting through the haze,that came to his mind. It was the firstthing about her that struck him theday she walked in late to his seminaron child and maternal health. She satdown and fiddled with the woodenbangle on her right arm and her cowrienecklace. He had thought her apparenteccentricity was more suitable to awriter or some other creative-mindedhobo than a medical doctor.During the coffee break, she walked upto him, shook his hand and said, “I amcalled Inara. Have coffee with me.”He couldn’t say no when she smiled.It took him two more coffee dates,caught on the occasions theirduties allowed, and a whole day ofdaydreaming to the tinkles of the halfa dozen bracelets on her left arm to33convince himself that he had fallen inlove with the houseman at the NationalHospital.She loved as she lived, withoutinhibitions, and laughed like windchimes in the night. She dazzled hisaustere world with the colours of herfervour and painted the four grey wallsof his bedroom canary yellow, limegreen, azure and carnation.When he walked in, she was putting thefinishing touches, covering the last bitof grey with bright yellow.“God in heaven! Inara, you crazy girl,what have you done, saboda Allah fa?”She smiled, her face splotched with ariot of colours. “Your room lookedtoo sterile, like your consultation roomat the hospital. Now each wall has adifferent mood. Feel it.” She closedher eyes as if absorbing the ambiencethrough her skin.She loved the outrage out of him andlay in his arms, her head cushioned byhis impressive biceps.Drifting in post-coital bliss, he lookedat the yellow, blue, green and pink walls,shook his head and smiled.Two months later, after she had invadedhis life with her contagious energy, shelooked around at her handiwork, at thedecorated gourds she had fixed on hiswalls, at the abstract tribal totem carvedout of a massive bull horn she haddangling from his ceiling, she sighed, “Icould live here forever, you know.”“So do.” He put his arms around her.She looked away. “I can’t. I have to go.Do you understand? I have to leaveyou.”She had signed up with a field missionteam of Médecins Sans Frontières andwas going to Darfur to help with thehumanitarian crises there. She had noidea when she would be back.“I am not letting you go. I need you.”“Those people need me more, darling.”“I love you, I really do.”She kissed him.“Marry me, Inara.”She looked into his eyes and finally said,“Don’t be silly. That is so unromantic!Is that how you would propose to me,if you were serious?”“But I am. I am serious. I want to spendthe rest of my life with you.”She smiled her sad smile, kissed himon the lips and said, “You won’t marrymy type, Dr. Yaro, we both know that.Besides, this is what I want to do, tohelp. You will be fine without me.”Sometimes she replied to his emailsweeks after he had sent them.Sometimes not at all. Because internetconnection in Darfur was poor.Because she was busy helping. Because


she did not know what to tell him.Eventually she wrote to him about aboy she had tried to save, about howdespite his bullet wound he had seemedmore interested in his pet canary. Afterthe boy had died, she had let the birdout of the cage so it would fly after theboy’s soul, or to its salvation or doom.Whatever, it would be on its own terms.She did not believe in caging things,even if done in the name of love. Thatwas the last email she sent to him.“And you look good, Inara. Youstopped writing.”“Long story,” she said and turned tolook at the men who were waiting forher some distance away. “My field team,from MSF. We are heading to Bangui.”“Yes, the war there.”She nodded.“Please be careful.”“I will.”“I’ve missed you. I miss you still.”“I thought you had forgotten all aboutA year later, while his new girlfriend,who worked in a bank, wore high heels,crispy corporate suits and wanted himto paint his bedroom white, was lying inhis arms, he caught a glimpse of Inaraon CNN, in a news report from a Syrianrefugee camp. He envied her free spirit,her travels and convictions and herrefusal to be caged by commitments andconventions, romantic or otherwise.One sunny Saturday morning in July,thirteen months after he had seen aHis colleagues remarked on his me and married a fine, wifely woman.” flash of her on TV, he answered theslouching posture,door and found herabout the hollownessin his eyes, in his voice,about how totallycommitted he seemedto the task of cuttingup people and stitching“She loved as she lived, withoutinhibitions, and laughed like windchimes in the night. ”fiddling with the endof her braid, rubbingit against her lips,her bracelets tinklingsweetly.“Did you meet anotherthem up, about how uninterested heseemed in the things that made youngpeople think they would live forever.“What else are surgeons supposed todo?” he would say, his voice dry andnippy like the harmattan wind howlingoutside and stripping the trees of theirleaves.During his stopover at Charles DeGaulle, on his way to Ontario for aconference, she appeared out of thecrowd in a departure lounge.“Dr. Yaro. Two years and fifty-eightdays,” she said, “the years have beenfair to you.”“And fifty-eight days?” He held her atarms-length so he could look at herface. “Have you been counting the dayssince you left me?”She fiddled with the coral-bead bangleshe was wearing. “You are slimmer.”Her smile was even hazier.“I haven’t forgotten you. When I said Ilove you, you thought I wasn’t serious.”“I have missed you too, you have noidea how much.”“Then come back to me. Let me showyou that love isn’t a cage.”She laughed but her eyes were misty.“You wouldn’t want me. You are a goodman. And I am a crazy woman. I willpaint your shoes turquoise and your carscarlet.” She laughed and looked at hercolleagues behind her. One of thempointed at his wrist watch. “I have togo. But we should be in touch, yes?”She took his card and promised tocontact him once she got to CentralAfrican Republic.For the next three weeks, he checkedhis emails and his spam box every hour.He kept his phone at hand. He searchedfor her on Facebook but couldn’t findher.woman?” she asked.“No . . . I mean, yes.”“Did you marry her?”“No.”“Why?”“Well, she was . . . she . . . she wantedme to paint my walls white.”That was when she smiled. “Why didn’tyou come for me all these years?”“I didn’t know where you were or ifyou wanted to be found. But I washoping you’d find your way back – tome.”“You are just a silly man,” she said.“But I am here now. Show me how loveis not a cage.”Listen to the audio version read by Elnathan John35


Launikan SoNa Abubakar Adam IbrahimMurmushinta ne ya fara kamahankalinsa, a yayin da take kwantataaikin likitanci a asibiti bayan kammalakaratun jami’arta, bayan ta shaharasaboda alakarta da fitattun masu kudinAbuja, ba tare da ta bari sun tirke ta dadadin bakinsu ko dukiyarsu ko kumaalkawuran da suke mata na mai da itakasaicacciyar matar aure ba.A duk lokacin da Dakta Yaro ya yitunanin ta, kuma hakan ya kasancea kodayaushe ne, murmushinta maisanyaya jiki yake fara tunawa sabodayana masa kamar wani haske ne daa lokacin da aikace-aikacensu sukaba su damar haka, da kuma ganin tada ya rika yi a tunanin zucinsa kafinya tabbatar a ransa cewa lallai ya afkakogin soyayya da wannan ma’aikaciyarBabban Asibitin Kasa.Tana soyayyarta ne yadda takegudanar da rayuwarta, ba tare dawani takunkumi ba, kuma tana dariyatamkar wata sarewa da ake busawacikin dare. Ta shiga rayuwarsa da kenan dishi-dishi, ta haskakata da irinkalar son ta da kuma hamasar ta. Kumata bi farin launin dakinsa ta mulka waba?”Ta rufe idonta kamar yanayin da taambata yana ratsa jikinta gaba daya.Ta tarairayi bacin ransa da kyakkyawarkulawa har ya kai ga ta kwanta a jikinsa,ta dora kanta a damtsensa.Yana kwance cikin natsuwa, sai ya dagaido ya dubi dakinsa da ke da launinruwan dorawa da shudi da kore dawani nau’in ja, ya kada kai kawai ya yimurmushi.Bayan watanni biyu, bayan ta mamayerayuwarsa da karfin son ta, sai ta tsayata dubi aikace-aikacen da ta yi a dakin,ke bijirowa ta cikin hazo. Lokacin da bangon launin ruwan dorawa da shudi har da wata kwalliya da ta yi masa daya fara ganin ta,yana gudanar dawani taron karawa juna sani ne akan kula da lafiyarmata da yara. Tashigo a makare ta“Tana soyayyarta ne yadda takegudanar da rayuwarta, ba tare da wanitakunkumi ba, kuma tana dariya tamkarwata sarewa da ake busawa cikin dare.”wasu kawatattunkwarairayi dawani kaho da akabi shi da zaneda ke rataye asilin dinsa, ta yiajiyar zuci ta ce,samu waje ta zauna tana dan wasa daawarwaronta da aka sassaka da icce dakuma sarkar da ke wuyanta, wacce taduwatsun wuri ce. Da ya dube ta, sai yayi tunanin wannan ai yanayin shigar tataya fi dacewa da hatsaniyar marubuta kowasu masu zane-zane, ba likitoci ba.Da aka yi hutun rabin lokaci, sai takaraso wurinsa, ta riki hanunsa ta ce,“Suna na Inara. Zo mu sha shayi taremana.”Da ya kalli murmushinta, sai ya ji ba zaiiya ce mata a’a ba.Ya dauke shi ganawa da ita sau biyu,da kore da kuma wani nau’in ja.Ya dawo kawai ya cin mata, a yayin data dukufa tana wannan aiki, tana macikin karasawa ke nan.“Ina lillahi wa inna illaihi raji’un! Inara,dimautacciyar yarinayar nan, wacebarna kike mun haka? Saboda Allahfa!”Ta yi murmushi, fuskarta cike dadabbaren fenti kala-kala ta ce, “Ai dakinnaka ne ya yi dilim tamkar dakin dubamara lafiya a asibiti. Amma yanzu ka gakowane bangon yana ba da wani launida yanayi na daban. Ba ka ji a jikinka“Ni kam zan iya zama nan tsawonrayuwata.”“To ki zauna mana.” Ya rungume ta.Sai ta kawar da kanta ta ce, “Ba zan iyaba. Tafiya ta kama ni. Ka fahimce ni?Ya zaman mun dole in bar ka.”Ashe a wannan lokacin ta riga ta bada sunanta a Kungiyar Likitocin SaKai ta Duniya, har sun tura ta yankinDarfur saboda kai agaji. Kuma ba tasan lokacin da za ta dawo daga wannanaikin ba.“Ba zan taba barin ki ki tafi ba sabodaina bukatar kasancewa tare da ke.”36


“Ai su ma mutanen can din suna dabukatar kasancewata a can.”“Ai ni kuma son ki nake yi, matukar sokuwa.”Ta dangana ta sumbace shi.“Ki yarda mu yi aure mana, Inara.”Ta kalle shi har cikin kwayar idanunsata ce, “Kai kam ka fiye shiririta. Aiyadda ka yi maganar nan ma ko kamahankali babu. Yanzu haka za ka nemiaurena in da gaske kake yi?”“Da gaske nake yi mana. Ina son inkaraci sauran rayuwata tare da ke.”Sai ta yi dan murmushinta mai sanyayajiki, ta sumbaci lebensa ta ce, “Ai baaurena za ka yi ba, Dakta Yaro, duk munsan haka. Ni ba irin matar da za ka auraba ce, balle ma ni abin da nake so na yida rayuwata ke nan; in taimaki mutanenda bala’i ya afka masu. Rayuwarka zata ci gaba da gudana ba tare da ni ba.”Bayan ta tafi, wani sa’in takan amsa37sakonninsa na e-mel a makare, wanilokaci ma makonni bayan ya tura su.Wani sa’in kuma ko ta tamka masa,saboda yanayin yanar gizo a Darfurbabu kyau, ko saboda ayyuka suna shankanta, ko kuma saboda rashin bayaninda za ta iya yi masa. Amma bayan wanilokaci sai ta yi masa sako da a ciki takeba shi labarin wani yaro da ta taimakamawa. Duk da fama da yaron nanyake yi da raunin alburushi da aka yimasa, wannan yaron bai gushe ba yanatarairayar wani kanarinsa da ya sanyaa keji. Bayan yaron nan ya cika, sai tabude kejin nan, ta saki kanarin sabodaya bi ruhin yaron nan, ko ya tashi zuwaga tsira ko halaka. Duk wanda tsuntsunya zaba, zai kasance zabin kansa ne.Saboda ita Inara ba ta amince wa turkeabu a cikin keji ba, ko da an yi hakane saboda so da kauna. Wannan shi nesakon karshe da ta aiko masa ke nan.Abokan aikinsa kuwa sun kasance sunamagana a kan rankwafewar da kafadarsata yi, tare da yadda idanunsa suka yizuru-zuru, muryarsa ma ta dushasheda kuma yadda ya dukufa wajen tsagamarasa lafiya da kuma dinke su batare da damuwa da abubuwan da ke sasamari su ji kamar za su rayu har abadaba.Yakan ce musu, “To me ke aikin likitain ba ya tsaga mutane ya dinke ba?”In ya yi magana haka, muryarsa takanzamanto a bushe ne tamkar iskarhunturu da ke bi tana tsige ganyayenbishiyoyi.A hanyarsa ta zuwa taro a garin Ontario,inda ya yada zango a filin saukar jirgi naCharles De Gaulle a Paris, sai kawai yaganta ta bullo daga cikin cincirindonmutane.Suna hada ido sai ta ce masa, “DaktaYaro, shekara biyu da kwanaki hamsin


da takwas. Lallai tsawon lokacin nan kakasance a cikin alheri.”“Da kwanaki hamsin da takwas?” Yariki hannunta, ya kare wa fuskarta kalloya ce, “Ashe kina kirga kwanakin dakika tafi kika bar ni?”Ta sunkuyar da kanta, ta kuma kamawasa da abun hannunta da aka yi dawani irin kodi. Ta yi murmushi, tare dajin kunya ta ce, “Har kuwa ka fada.”“Ke kuma kin kara kyau. Sai kuma kikadaina rubuto mun sakonni.“Wannan wani dogon labari ne,” ta juyata dubi wasu mutane da ke tsaye sunajiran ta, ta ce masa, “Abokan aikina nedaga kungiyarmu ta MSF. Za mu je kaidauki ne a garin Bangui.”“Inda ake yakin nan ko?”Ta kada kai.“Don Allah sai ki kula.”“Zan kula.”Ya ce, “Na yi ta kewar ki kuwa. Haryanzu ma ban gushe ba ina kewar ki.”“Ni da na dauka ka manta da ni, kasamu wata hadaddiyar mata ka aura.”“Ai kuwa ban manta ki ba. Ke da na ceson gaske nake maki, kin dauka wasanake yi ai.”“Kai ma ba ka san yadda na rika jinkewar ka ba.”“To, ki dawo gare ni mana don intabbatar maki cewar so ba keji ba ne.”Sai ta yi dariya, amma idanunta sam bawani haske cikinsu. “Kai kuwa me zaka yi da ni? Kai fa kamilin mutum ne, nikuwa tamkar mahaukaciya nake. Sai iniya mulka wa takalamanka shudin fenti,motar ka kuma in mulka mata wani irinja bau haka nan.” Ta yi dariya ta juya gaabokan tafiyarta. Daya daga cikinsu yayi nuni zuwa ga agogon hannunsa. Tace, “Ya kamata in tafi yanzu. Amma yadace mu dinga sadawa ko?”Ta karbi katinsa da ke dauke da lambarwayarsa da adireshin e-mel dinsa, takuma yi masa alkawarin tuntubarsada zaran ta kai Jamhuriyar Afirika taTsakiya.A sati ukun da suka biyo bayanhaduwar su sai ya kasance a kowanesa’i yana duba e-mel dinsa sabodatsumayen sakonta kuma ya kasanceyana kaffa-kaffa da wayarsa ko za ta kirashi. Ya hau Facebook ya yi bincikentaamma kuma bai same ta ba.Bayan shekara guda, a yayin da yakasance tare da sabuwar budurwarsa,wacce take aiki a banki, ta kuma kasancetana sanya takalman kwaras-kwarasmasu dogayen dundunniya da kumatsukakkun riguna irin na kwararrunma’aikata, sai ya hango Inara a CNN,a cikin wani rahoto na musamman daaka yi… na ’yan gudun hijirar Syria. Yakada kai yana mai jinjina wa himmartada kuma ire-iren tafiye-tafiyen da takeyi da kuma kin yarda da ta yi na kangerayuwarta, ko da a dalilin so ne kosabaninsa.Wata rana cikin watan Yuni, watannigoma sha uku bayan ya ga wulgawartaa CNN, sai ya ji an buga masa kofardaki. Ya je ya duba kawai sai ya ga aiita ce. Tana tsaye tana wasa da silinkitsonta, tana shafa shi a lebenta yayinda warwaronta suke wani kara mai dadi.Ta tambaye shi, “Shin ka samu watabudurwar ne?”“A’a . . .ina nufin e.”“Ka aure ta?”“A’a.”“Me ya hana?”“Am . . . wai so ta yi in yi wa dakinafarin fenti.”Nan take fuskarta ta dau haske damurmushi. “To me ya hana ka ka nemoni duk tsawon lokacin nan.”“Haba, ke da ban san duniyar da kikashiga ba, ko kuma ma shin kina son agano inda kike? Amma na kasance inafatar za ki karkato akalarki ya zuwagare ni.”“Kai kam ka faye son shiririta wallahi,”ta ce masa. “Amma ga ni nan, sai katabbatar mun da cewa so ba keji ba ne.”Listen to the audio version read in Hausa by Elnathan JohnAbubakar Adam Ibrahim is a Nigerian writer and journalist. His debut short story collectionThe Whispering Trees was long-listed for the Etisalat Prize for Literature in 2014, with the titlestory shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Writing. Abubakar has won the BBC AfricanPerformance Prize and the Amatu Braide Prize for Prose. He is a Gabriel Garcia MarquezFellow and was included in the Africa39 anthology of the most promising sub-SaharanAfrican writers under the age of 40. His first novel will be published in 2015 by ParrésiaPublishers.38


Other ContributorsAudio RecordingsYemisi Aribisala is a writer and a lover of good food. She has written about Nigerian foodfor over 7 years; for 234Next, the Chimurenga Chronic, and at her personal blog LongthroatMemoirs. Her essays on food are a lens through which the complex entity of Nigeria isobserved. Nigeria has a strong culture of oral storytelling, of myth creation, of imaginativetraversing of worlds. Longthroat Memoirs is a trusteeship of some of those stories to paperand ink, collated into an irresistible soup-pot, expressed in the flawless love language ofappetite and nourishment. Her food stories are soon to be published by Cassava RepublicPress. Her essays can be read online under the pseudonym Yemisi Ogbe..Elnathan is a lawyer who quit his job in November 2012 to write full-time. His work hasbeen published in Per Contra, ZAM Magazine, Evergreen Review, Le Monde Diplomatique(German) and The Chimurenga Chronic. In 2013 he was shortlisted for the Caine Prize ForAfrican Writing for his story Bayan Layi. He also writes satire for his weekly column for theSunday Trust newspaper. He is a 2015 Civitella Ranieri Fellow. His first novel, A Star Withouta Name, is forthcoming from Cassava Republic Press.Billy Kahora lives and writes in Nairobi. His short fiction and creative non-fiction hasappeared in Chimurenga, McSweeney’s, Granta Online, Internazionale, Vanity Fair andKwani. He has written a non-fiction novella titled The True Story Of David Munyakeiand was highly commended by the 2007 Caine Prize judges for his story Treadmill Love;his story Urban Zoning was shortlisted for the prize in 2012, and The Gorilla’s Apprenticewas shortlisted in 2014. He wrote the screenplay for Soul Boy and co-wrote Nairobi HalfLife. He is working on a novel titled The Applications.Kahora is Managing Editor of Kwani Trust and also an Associate Editor with theChimurenga Chronic. He was a judge of the 2009 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and2012 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. He was a judge for the inaugural Etisalat Prizefor Literature.39


PhotographerJames Manyika grew up in Harare. Lives in San Francisco. Takes pictures. ReadsPoetry. Loves Sarah. What else is there?DesignerJibril Lawal is a graphic and web developer. He works with Cassava Republic Press and TapestryConsulting as a Research Analyst and Graphic Designer. He holds a bachelor’s degree in ComputerScience from Bayero University Kano. In 2014 he became the first Impact Business Leaders Fellowfrom Nigeria. He has a great passion for agriculture and is the founder of the social enterprise SaharaGreen Company.Project CoordinatorEmma has worked in the publishing field for over 15 years and was formerly Managing Directorof Macmillan English Campus, a global digital publishing division of Macmillan Publishers. Sheis based in Abuja, where she is working with Cassava Republic Press. She holds an MA in ModernLanguages from Cambridge University. Her translation of award-winning children’s book MagazinZinzin was published by Chronicle Books (USA). Emma is a PhD candidate at the UCL Institute ofEducation, University of London; her research explores the role of female publishers in shaping theliterary landscape in Africa. Emma is a regular contributor to Africa in Words. She conceived andcoordinated the Valentine’s Day Anthology project for Ankara Press.41


PermissionsWoman In The Orange Dress first published in Pulsations, Vol. 1 (African World Press)Reproduced by kind permission of the author.Fish No. 96 in the forthcoming collection How to Spell Naija in 100 Short Stories, due in 2015.Reproduced by kind permission of the author.Photographic reproduction on page: 1, 3, 5, 10, 12, 15, 17, 19, 21, 25, 28, 31, 34 and 37 by kindpermission of James Manyika42


ANKARA PRESSA New Kind of RomanceANKARA PRESS GRATEFULLY ACKNOWLEDGES THE FOLLOWINGINDIVIDUALS FOR THEIR INVALUABLE SUPPORT IN CREATING THEVALENTINE’S DAY ANTHOLOGYAbubakar Adam Ibrahim * Amina Alhassan * Bashir Yahuza MalumfashiBilly Kahora * Binyavanga Wainaina * Carmen McCain * ChikodiliEmelumadu Chuma Nwokolo * Dike Chukwumerije * Edwige-Renée Dro* Eghosa Imasuen Elieshi Lema * Elnathan John * Hawa Jande Golakai *Helene CooperJames Manyika * Jeremy Weate * Jerry Adesewo * Jibril LawalKola Tubosun * Marcus Boni Teiga * Mukoma Wa Ngugi * Onyinye IwuSa'adatu Baba Ahmad * Sarah Ladipo Manyika * Toni KanVictor Ehikhamenor * Wangui wa Goro * Yarkpai Keller * Yemisi AribisalaAnkara Press, a digital romance imprint of Nigerian publisher, Cassava RepublicPress, was launched in December 2014 and is devoted to publishing ‘a new kind ofromance’, with African settings, storylines and characters.www.ankarapress.comFollow us on Twitter: @ankarapressLike us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ankarapressbooks

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