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Archive for the ‘South Africa’ Category

Sudanese-American poet Safia Elhillo wins 2016 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets

The Promise of HopeSeven New Generation African PoetsMadman at KalifiThe Kitchen-Dweller's TestimonyFuchsia

Alert! Sudanese-American poet Safia Elhillo has been named the winner of the 2016 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets for her manuscript, Asmarani.

The Sillerman First Book Prize is coordinated by the African Poetry Book Fund, with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln’s literary journal, Prairie Schooner. These two organisations also run the Glenna Luschei Prize for African Poetry, which was won in January by South African poet Kobus Moolman.

Elhillo will receive a $1 000 cash prize and publication of her manuscript as part of the African Poetry Book Series by the University of Nebraska Press, to be released in 2017.

The judging panel for the Sillerman Prize is made up of the African Poetry Book Fund’s editorial board, including Chris Abani, Bernardine Evaristo, Matthew Shenoda, Gabeba Baderoon, John Keene and Kwame Dawes, who also serves as director of the African Poetry Book Fund and Prairie Schooner editor-in-chief.

The Secret History of Las VegasMr LovermanTahrir SuiteA hundred silencesCounternarrativesDuppy Conqueror

South African poet Baderoon says of Elhillo’s manuscript: “The poems demonstrate a riveting sense of the power of language. They are alert to history and formally compelling as well.

“There is an alluring sense of wholeness to the collection. The themes flow convincingly from poem to poem, and the voice is so confident that I trust the speaker to lead me through sensitive and risky territory.”

From African Poetry Book Fund:

Safia Elhillo is Sudanese by way of Washington, DC. A Cave Canem fellow and poetry editor at Kinfolks Quarterly, she received an MFA in poetry from the New School. Safia is a Puschcart Prize nominee and joint winner of the 2015 Brunel University African Poetry Prize. Her chapbook, also titled Asmarani, is forthcoming as part of New Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tatu), from the African Poetry Book Fund with Akashic Books. Her work has also appeared in several publications and in the anthologies The BreakBeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop and Again I Wait for This to Pull Apart.

African Poetry Book Fund also shared an excerpt from the poem “Date Night with Abdelhalim Hafez,” a celebrated Egyptian singer in the mid-20th century to whom many of the poems are addressed:

i’m not looking for anything serious       just someone to watch
my plants when i’m gone       [you can sing now if you want to]
they’re worried no one will marry me       i have an accent in every language


The 2015 winner of the Sillerman First Book Prize was Mahtem Shiferraw, whose book Fuchsia will be released in April. Ladan Osman won the 2014 edition, and her book The Kitchen Dweller’s Testimony was published in spring 2015, while the inaugural winner of the prize was Clifton Gachagua, whose book Madman at Kilifi was released in 2014.

The prize does not have a set number of finalists, but as Dawes explains: “Each year a few manuscripts become serious contenders for the top award and those are important enough for us to name them as finalists. This year there were six such collections, including the winning manuscript. This is very exciting for African poetry.”

The five finalists for the 2016 Sillerman First Book Prize this year are Nick Makoha, born in Uganda and living in London, for his manuscript Kingdom of Gravity; DM Aderibigbe, of Nigeria, for his manuscript Becoming My Mother’s Son; Viola Allo, born in Cameroon and living in California, for her manuscript Schoolgirl from Cameroon; Shittu Fowora, of Nigeria, for his manuscript Touch Machines; and Nebeolisa Okwudili, of Nigeria, for his manuscript Country.

“We are especially excited to have had a good showing of women poets in our general pool and among our finalists,” Dawes says. “We continue to be proactive about seeking out and encouraging women to complete and submit manuscripts for consideration.”

Submissions for the 2017 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets will open September 1. Manuscripts by African poets who have not yet published a full-length collection are eligible.

To learn more about the African Poetry Book Fund and its initiatives, visit its website or stay connected on Twitter or Facebook.

More information about Prairie Schooner is available here.

The Sillerman Prize is sponsored by philanthropists Laura and Robert FX Sillerman.

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Book details

  • Seven New Generation African Poets: A Chapbook boxed set by Ladan Osman, TJ Dema, Clifton Gachagua, Tsitsi Jaji, Nick Makoha, Warsan Shire, Len Verwey, edited by Chris Abani, Kwame Dawes
    EAN: 9781940646589
    Find this book with BOOK Finder!

Image courtesy of the African Poetry Book Fund

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Exclusive: Read Cat Hellisen’s ‘The Worme Bridge’, winner of the 2015 Short Story Day Africa Competition

Exclusive: Read Cat Hellisen's 'The Worme Bridge', winner of the 2015 Short Story Day Africa Competition

Over the past three weeks, Books LIVE has had the honour of exclusively sharing the winning stories from the 2015 Short Story Day Africa Prize for Short Fiction.

This week, the final story: WaterCat Hellisen’s “The Worme Bridge”, which took home the trophy this year.

Read the previous instalments:

Both of SSDA’s previous anthologies have received widespread acclaim; two stories from Feast, Famine & Potluck were shortlisted for The Caine Prize for African Writing – with one, “My Father’s Head” by Okwiri Oduor, going on to win the prize – while Terra Incognita was given an excellent review from the LA Review of Books.

The theme for this year’s edition of the SSDA Prize – Migration – was announced on Wednesday, along with a new editing mentorship programme.

Hellisen is a South African-born writer of fantasy for adults and children. Her work includes the novel When the Sea is Rising Red and short stories in Apex, F & SF, Shimmer, and Her latest novel is a fairy tale for the loveless, Beastkeeper.

This year’s judging panel, Mary Watson, Billy Kahora and Abubakar Adam Ibrahim, said: “‘The Worme Bridge’ stood out for us with its brave story and clear, distinctive voice; it’s a wonderfully dark exploration of the water theme.”

In a chat with SSDA recently, Hellisen explained the background to the story:

Tiah Beautement: “Serein” the original story you wrote for Water didn’t meet SSDA’s submission’s guidelines for length, so you sold it Shimmer. You then penned “The Worme Bridge” which took the coveted $1 000 (R10 000) prize. What was it like trying to write a second entry after you’d already invested so much energy into “Serein”? Did you consider quitting after it fell short of our entry rules? Or are you one of those people with a multitude of stories whirling around in your head?

Hellisen: “Serein” came about because I find the non-endings of the stories of vanishing people, people who go missing intentionally, so delightfully and horrifyingly fascinating. After I was done, and realised that it was too short for SSDA, I sent it off to Shimmer because that’s what you do – never stop submitting stories. I needed something new for SSDA but I wasn’t too stressed because water is a pretty open-ended theme and I think it’s clear from my fiction that I am obsessed with people who live in the liminal zones of human community. And water is a perfect metaphor for that – it’s even in the clichéd phrase, “a fish out of water”. Which is essentially what “The Worme Bridge” is about. Once I started playing with that and I had the voice of the character in my head, the initial draft came out very quickly.

Read Hellisen’s SSDA-winning story:

The Worme Bridge

Cat Hellisen

When I was old enough to walk by myself to the shops to buy my mother her cigarettes, she decided I was too old to believe in rubbish like Santa Claus and the tooth mouse and fairies that live at the bottom of the garden. Instead, I would learn the real stuff, like what really happened to Pa and my older brother Matty, and what was going to happen to her.
        Why ever since Pa had died she’d made me take him as medicine, ground up into my food to ward off the sickness.
        Ma couldn’t walk properly because her feet pained her now that they’d gone all boneless and scaly with sickness, and no one would serve Matthias because of the stink, even if he could have walked to the shops himself. Which he couldn’t. Matty was born like that though, Ma told me, with his legs all melted together like two candles lit too close to each other and forgotten.
        The trips weren’t so bad. I liked the walk past all the square little houses with their concrete ox-wagon wheel walls, with their laundry and their chimney smoke, flicking the lighter in my pocket and thinking about things to burn. I liked to pretend no one saw me, walking up to the corner shop where the Indian men would sell me cigarettes even if I was only ten, because they knew my ma and I guess they felt sorry for her. The walk there and back took twice as long as it should have because I had to go to the second-closest shop. The closest one meant going riverwise and crossing the foot bridge built in 1809 and named after some dead man, I guess the one who built it in 1809. Or maybe he just had other people build it in 1809. He was very proud of it because he put a big stone right by the front that said Built in 1809 so we would never forget. The man was called Matthias too, but they called the bridge Worme instead.
        By the time I got back to Ma, I’d always be wishing she didn’t have these rules about the bridge and the river. Some days it could get so hot the tar would melt under your feet and give you new soles for free, and sometimes it was so cold you wouldn’t even be sure you had feet and would have to check at the door before going in to the house. Are these feet inside my shoes? Or have I got the sickness too?
        Let me tell you for nothing it was a great relief to find all my toes in the right order and with the right amount of skin and bone. You miss them fierce when you don’t have them.
        I would open Ma’s cigarette box for her while she shivered, wrapped in dog blankets she bought cheap at the Pick n Pay. The skin on her hands hurt too much to do it herself. I loved that crinkle of the see-through plastic, thin as sleep, the slow tear. I loved peeling back the silvery paper and finding the twenty sticks, all neat as soldiers. The smell of new tobacco, before the fire ate it. I would breathe deep, then pick the bottom middle one to draw out. The virgin straw.
        If it had been my box of smokes, I would have taken that one and turned it over and placed it back in, filter face out. I am old enough to know about virgins, but too old for fairies.
        Ma was always like that – telling me what it was time for me to believe in. I knew about virgins because one time she decided I needed god, or we all did, so she took me and Matty to the church – rolling him all the way there on a low wooden trolley with wheels from a pram. We had to sit on cold hard pews and listen to the man at the top tell us stuff from the Bible. This was when Matty was alive, of course. We didn’t take his stinking twisted body to church after, even though they seem to love believing in dead guys.
        It was boring in the church, and because Matty couldn’t sit properly, he was rolling around on the pew and flopping about and just being a general nuisance, so people kept looking at us and whispering and shaking their heads. It was also because Ma was single. I had a dad but he died before Matty was born so it was hard to explain to people how that worked. They thought Ma was a whore. Another word I was old enough to know.
        Except for all the idiots, there was one nice thing, and that was the singing. During the boring bits the man at the top would say every body rise and turn in your hymn-books to page and every person who still had their body would shuffle up with whispers and cracks and rustles through their pages until they found the right one. Not Matty, he just rolled about, gasping because he already couldn’t breathe properly then. But I would stand up, and Ma next to me, and we would share this hymn-book which was a thick book with pages made of fairy wings. We joined together in praise of our good risen lord, who I guess was Jesus or his dad, since they were actually the same person. And this Jesus guy was dead and then alive again, and all the church people were okay with that and made songs about it. So you can see why I didn’t understand when they couldn’t deal with Pa or Matty.
        The music was slow and sad and filled with water, and it was like drowning, but nicer. There was an old lady who would play this organ, which was a big thing like a piano but with a different sound, a sound of waves. It made music that crashed down right over your head. Then all the cold deep men’s voices rose up with currents and little waves and eddies of higher sounds, like water that is warm in the sun.
        And I would sing too, catching the tune and letting it pull me on, the notes flickers of fish, shoals of bright sounds that raced through the river of the organ swell. And that’s how I know about virgins because they kept going on about Jesus’s ma being a virgin and my ma had to explain it there in the church because I kept asking.
        And then one day Ma decided we didn’t need god after all and we stayed home on Sundays again. She had to drown Matty and there’s no way to explain that kind of thing to church people.
        “Sanette? Is that you?” Ma called from inside the house even though no one else ever comes to us. I sighed and kicked off my shoes so I could unroll my socks and check my toes. It was winter – the third after Ma took Matty to the river and the second after her own feet gave in. All my toes were present which is what you say at school when the teacher calls your surname in home class.
        I always get called last: “Worme.”
        And my answer is to say: “Present, mejevrou.” Like I am giving her a gift, which I am not, unless it is the gift of my presence, which is a pun, Matty says. Also I must call her mejevrou, even though it is an English school, because she says mis is what cows make.
        I wriggled all my toes, one by one. “Ja, Ma,” I said. Then I frowned, because the one pinky toe was stiff and a little blue, but I couldn’t tell if that was because of winter, or because I was going down the road of illness. Ma had always said that I would be fine because my legs were straight and strong, and it was only the boys who have to be drowned and brought back. But that was before her feet went, so now I am extra scared all the time.
        Quickly, I covered up my toes, rubbed them hard to make them warm, and shoved them back in my school shoes, which were black and pretty with a strap and a floral cut-out and were more expensive than plain Mary Janes. I had feet, so all the shoe money went on me.
        “I got your cigarettes, Ma.” I grabbed the plastic bag back up. Cigs for Ma, a Kit Kat for me and a tin of sardines for Matty. I hopped over the little ridge of wood on the front door step, and went inside.
        The smell was very bad in my house. Partly it was because of Matty, but also Ma who sat with her feet in a black plastic tub of hot water and her dog blankets wrapped around her, hoping to stay human, and partly it was because she kept Pa’s bones. Though they were dried out now, they still had a funny stink to them, like the skin of a snake or a lizard. They were in a box covered with sea shells and lined inside with red felt. A very expensive box – almost a hundred rand – but not very big, because there weren’t so many bones left. Ma kept grinding them up and feeding them to me.
        “Here,” I said, unwrapping the box of cigarettes as slowly as I could. I folded the silver paper neat and tucked it in my blazer pocket, took out the first virgin straw and lit it with my yellow lighter that I keep only for Ma’s cigarettes, and not for anything else, like setting fire to the school dustbins. The smoke tasted like the death of fairies and Santa Claus. The smoke tasted like learning the truth and it always made me choke. I handed her the lit cig and crouched down to look at her feet.
        They were going wrong. I didn’t need to be a doctor to see they were turning long and thin and see-through like Matty’s. The skin at her ankles was rubbery, melting together. There were raw bits shining pale red where she’d pulled the skin apart. It didn’t matter. In a few months Ma would be as bad as Matty. She was already starting to smell rotten. Worse than cigarettes and not-washing. “You okay, Ma?”
        She nodded, and blew out smoke so I couldn’t see the expression in her eyes. She only started smoking when her feet started changing, and I think it was because she believed that the stink of the cigarettes covered up the other smell. Which was definitely getting worse. Maybe she and Matty couldn’t tell because they were wrapped in it all day like a duvet, but I still went outside and knew that healthy people with two good strong legs did not smell like cod liver oil rotting inside a bottle left on a windowsill in the sun.
        “Ma, where’s Pa’s old trolley?” I said, because at thirteen I was learning to be practical. We’d used the trolley to take Matty to school, and to church, and then, right at the end of his first life, to take him down to our family bridge built in 1809, which is probably when the first Worme had to drown someone in their family.
        Ma coughed, choking on her stinking cigarette. “Don’t need the trolley yet,” she said and waved at her feet. “I’m fine now, the water’s helping.”
        The water would only help with the pain for so long, we both knew. Towards the end, we kept Matty in the bath, trying to slow everything down with clean water, scraping off his scales and trying to cut his fingers apart. He used to cry when Ma took the little vegetable peeling knife and slit through the skin growing thin between his fingers, gluing them together. He never cried loud, but he turned his face to the wall and his shoulders would shake. Ma dropped the bits of skin in a plastic bowl that I held out for her, and then I buried them in the garden.
        But even with all that cutting and burying, we couldn’t stop his insides from changing, or help his lungs work. We had to drown him. It was the quickest way to set him free, in the end.
        We’d gone at night, Matty crouched and covered with a sheet on his trolley, and rattle-bounced down the gritty tar road that was always full of potholes because of the summer rain, all the way to the river and the Worme Bridge.
        Ma had drowned him. I had just sat on the edge of the river with my knees right up against my chest and cried because ten is too young to know that sometimes your parents have to do what’s best for you even if it hurts you. Even if it hurts them.
        Afterwards we had dragged Matty back home, wrapped in his sheet again, and three days later he’d said he felt much better and he was sorry that Ma was so sad.
        I watched Ma smoking her cigarettes and smelling like rancid fish, before I left her and went to the bathroom. The door was closed, so I knocked, and after a while Matty said to come in.
        “How was school?” he asked. He could still talk, though it could be hard to make out the words unless you knew what he was saying. Also, he was really smelly. Not in a rotting way, like Ma, but like a harbour full of seals and seaweed.
        “Okay,” I told him. “You lucky you missed all this, I think this is the hundredth time we are learning about the Great Trek.” Which is basically the story of how a bunch of Dutch people in the Cape got mad at the English and missioned off up the country, and mostly they had a horrible time of it but they said god was on their side so he helped them kill a lot of black people, which seems a bit unfair to the black people, really. This god guy, I don’t know.
        “I brought you something,” I told him, and peeled open the tin of sardines.
        Matty took them with a wide grin, which was horrible because all his teeth had fallen out and his mouth was full of needle white splinters. I was used to them, but I could imagine if anyone else had seen him they’d be grossed out. And scream, and probably try bash his head in with a spade.
        I waited till he finished his meal, dripping the last of the fishy oil down his throat, and handed me the empty tin before I told him about Ma.
        He frowned. “I was wondering why she never came to visit me any more,” he said, and I could hear how sad that made him. “Thought maybe she was sick of seeing me.” He waved at his legs, which were under water, fused all together and silvery green and scarred with white ridges. In the beginning Ma had tried to scrape the scales off with the back of a knife, but she gave up after he died and now they’ve grown in funny. Some scales were beautiful, silver and the size of my thumb nail, others were twisted and small and a dull grey. In places the scales never grew out at all, and the skin was white and puffy-raw. I knew they hurt him, those raw scars. We would never do that to Ma, but we couldn’t stop her doing it to herself.
        “She’s definitely going funny,” I said. I curled my toes in my shoes, and felt the one twinge and ache. Not me. I wasn’t going. My legs were fine. I wasn’t going to die. But Ma was. “I’ll dig the trolley out of the garage tonight. We’ll need it soon.”
        Matty didn’t say anything after that, just swirled his webbed fingers through the little bit of water he could move in, and sighed deeply. Every now and again he would shift his body so that he could put his head under water for a moment to wet his gills. He could breathe out of water for a little while if he had to but preferred it the other way: gillwise.
        I pulled the plug to drain some of the water, and ran in fresh cold water from the taps. Matty didn’t feel the cold like I did. He said it was better, the cold. Being warm made breathing hard, even though he tried holding on to it, because it made him feel human still. “If I have to drown Ma,” I whispered to him, “you’re going to have to move out to the river.” There was only one bath in the Worme house. The Wormes who had died couldn’t survive out of water. Just look at Pa. Or what was left of him.
        “It won’t be so bad,” Matty said, which was a lie. Matty would be in the river, and Ma would live in the bath. And I – I would have to keep grinding up what was left of Pa and sprinkling him into my sandwiches to keep me from turning. I would have to buy Ma sardines with the little bit of money she kept under her mattress, and change her bath water, and watch her be alone and dead.
        “If it happened to Ma,” I said, “Chances are it will happen to me.”
        Even Matty couldn’t lie that much, not right to my face. “Perhaps,” he said. “But Ma is old, it only took her now. You’ve got years to live.”
        Years. A whole lifetime of living in the Worme house, with only my dead ma in the bath tub for company, and being able to spend time with my big brother only when there was no moon and I could pray to the dead Jesus who rose again that no one would see me sneak down to the river.

I took Matty down to the river first. Three months had gone past since we’d talked about killing Ma, and winter was softening a little at the edges. Ma could hardly breathe most of the time, and she’d stopped sending me out to buy her cigs. She’d turned down the last pack I bought, and I kept it now, sealed and new. Like a reminder. “It’s time,” I told him. “There’s no moon tonight, and it’ll be dark enough.” I could wheel Matty down on the trolley, wrapped in his sheet. He could breathe long enough for me to get him to the river, we knew that much. If people heard the midnight rattle of the pram wheels, they would just think it was some homeless guy, looking for junk, rooting through the rubbish bins. No one would come to see what I was doing.
        We waited for the dark to fall and for the stars to light up. When there is no moon, the stars shine much brighter, as though they’re trying to make up for all the time the moon takes from them. When the cat’s away the mice will play, I thought, and pictured the stars as little bright mice leaping here and there, looking for crumbs in the night. It was better than thinking about what we were going to do.
        It was better than thinking about the toenail I found in my sock, and how my pinkie toe had started growing long and thin, and how I could see the bone through the skin, how it bent easily as the quill of a small feather. How spongey the skin on my legs felt.
        I carried Matty, half-dragging him out to the trolley, and when he was firmly wrapped in place, I grabbed the thick plastic twine of the pull, feeling it bite into the softening skin of my palm, and tugged him down the road to the Worme Bridge. Matty went easily into the water, and stretched out, flicking the long bones of his feet. Of his tail. He belonged here. It would take a blind idiot to think he didn’t. And Ma did too.
        “I’ll be back,” I told him. He nodded. He’d promised to do the drowning. It would be easier for him, already there in the river. No sense getting me all wet and I’d already had to do all the heavy work of hauling both of them down to the water.
        Ma didn’t argue with me. Her legs were mostly grown together by now, and her feet were gone. Just a big split tail like a fish’s stuck on all wrong. She’d given up on scraping away at her growing scales sooner than she’d given up on Matty’s, so she was already silvering. Her legs were bare and sexless, but she wore a big loose T-shirt.
        “I’m not about to go around naked like a whore,” she told me. “I’ll go to my death with dignity.”
        She was much heavier than Matty, though at least she was able to help me more. After a bunch of heaving and swearing we got her on to the trolley, and I started the final trek down, the trolley practically racing me so that I had to run to keep up with it and Ma, so that they didn’t career off into the pavement and send Ma rolling downhill like a giant dead tuna.
        I pulled the trolley to a stop near the bank, tearing open the puffy skin on my palms, and hobbled over to Ma to help her down to the water’s edge. My new toe was paining me, crushed up in my shoe. Luckily we’d talked it all through before, the three of us, and Ma went to the water like a woman going to John the Baptist, who was a friend of Jesus and also had to drown him first.
        It didn’t take long, though she thrashed a fair bit while Matty held her under.
During their struggle, I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bridge, my bottom getting soaked through with early dew, and my legs dangling over the edge of the water, as I leaned between the railings and watched. My toe shimmered in the starlight, silvery pale and new. I pressed my knees together hard, and felt the skin give slightly, the blood and veins underneath calling out to each other, moving toward a joining.
        Matty’s head bobbed up, and his needle teeth shone as he smiled.
        “Done?” I asked him. In my pocket, I closed my fingers around the box of cigarettes and pulled it out to slowly unwrap the thin plastic, to fold the silver paper and choose my virgin straw. I tapped it with one fingernail, waiting. A moment later, Ma’s head came up alongside Matty’s. She was staying in the river, there’d be no three days of rebirth for her. It was better this way. Better to let your dead go than to try hang on to them.
        I took the yellow lighter from my pocket and thought about how quickly the Worme house would burn. By the time the fire department came, I’d be gone. They’d have no idea where to find me. I slipped Ma’s cigarette between my lips and closed my eyes. The fire sparked and even through my closed lids I could see the warm redness of it. I breathed in the smoke from my final cigarette. It tasted like acceptance of growing up.
        Drowning would hurt, I knew. But first, I had a house to burn down.

* * * * *

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Author photo credit: Credit Nerine and Thomas Dorman

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JoAnn Alberstat reviews Cobra by Deon Meyer

CobraVerdict: carrot

A streetwise young pickpocket steals the show in Meyer’s recent Benny Griessel novel. The youth may be the key to stopping a wave of shootings that has hit Cape Town. Non-stop action is balanced by fascinating characters, both members of the country’s multi-racial police force and civilians.

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Su’eddie Vershima Agema reviews Born on a Tuesday by Elnathan John

Born on a TuesdayVerdict: carrot

Born on a Tuesday is a book worth reading, and will give useful insights into a people, their cultures and an idea of why certain things are the way they are in a part of Nigeria today. It will help a great deal though to remember that the work is fiction. No matter how closely related to events in history, it is simply a play of the author’s imagination, which should not be taken for the whole truth about the North.

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Karina M Szczurek reviews Boy on the Wire by Alastair Bruce

Boy on the WireVerdict: carrot

Boy, Bruce can write! It is austere writing, but not without a certain lyricism. No words go amiss, all hit the target. At times, the narrative tension becomes relentless, even to a point of frustration. Bruce is a master of creating smokescreens for his readers. In both, Wall of Days and Boy on the Wire, you are never sure what the real story is, or who in the story is real or imagined. The beauty of his novels lies in the intriguing mind games – it is impossible not to want to know what happened. But Boy on the Wire is not a light, entertaining read. The novel is emotionally exhausting. It creeps under your skin.

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‘We’re not scared of Zuma’ – Julius Malema rejects Nkandla settlement

The Coming RevolutionStill an Inconvenient YouthThe World According to Julius Malema

Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) leader Julius Malema has rejected President Jacob Zuma’s settlement offer over taxpayer cash spent on his Nkandla homestead.

“He thinks he can play with us …” Malema told a news briefing in Johannesburg.

“We’re not going to accept any settlement that doesn’t reaffirm the powers of Public Protector‚ that remedial actions are binding.”

Malema said since Zuma had flouted the office of the Public Protector Thuli Madonsela and her powers‚ the institution was no longer respected as before.

“We can’t have a situation where Zuma’s drum majorettes in parliament insult the Public Protector.

“We can’t accept that the Public Protector can be told that she is not God and her remedial actions aren’t binding.”

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Malema lambasted his former political chief‚ saying Zuma was in breach of his office as he did not protect the public purse.

“We’re here because the corrupt President of SA has made an admission that he is corrupt and that he will pay back the money.

“They made a proposed settlement and they expect us to respond.

“In his typical way of trying to control everything and influence judges‚ he took a copy to court. Zuma being Zuma writes to us and copies judges so he can influence them. He wants them to see him as a reasonable man. The judges responded saying that they’re not interested‚ because that is the matter between the parties and won’t get involved.”

South Africa is not going to be another failed African state under the watch of the EFF‚ he proclaimed.

“We’re not scared of anyone. We’re not scared of Zuma and Parliament …

“This man is collapsing the country. We’re not scared of being beaten up. We’re prepared to die for protection of the Constitution.”

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Call for submissions: South African Writers College Short Story Competition 2016

South African Writers College has made a call for submissions for their annual Short Story Competition.

The competition is held to acknowledge excellence in creative writing in the short story form. The contest is open to any emerging writer residing in South Africa and who has had fewer than four stories/articles published in any format (print or digital).

This year’s theme is “The Gift”, but it cannot be the title of the story.

First prize amounts to R10 000, second prize is R5 000 and third prize is R2 000. The top three entries will be published the SA College site and will receive editorial comments on their submitted works.

Stories need to be submitted before 30 April, 2016 and can’t be longer than 2 000 words.

Attach your story as a Word document and send it to:

On the first page of your Word document, include the title, your email address and total numbers of words of your entry. Do not include your name on any page of the story

For further details, visit the SA College website, then start writing!

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Bill Nasson reviews How South Africa Works by Greg Mills and Jeffrey Herbst

How South Africa Works: And Must Do BetterVerdict: carrot

How South Africa Works And Must Do Better is a commendable response to that cry, despite – or perhaps, even because of – its slightly school report-card title. The topics which it covers are large and important, like governance, agriculture, mining, and manufacturing. It is impressively-organised, with crisp, easily-understandable charts and other graphics and well-signposted chapters to guide readers through a dense web of material. It is written in an admirably lucid style, and is largely free of the indigestible jargon which bedevils so much current affairs commentary.

Book Details

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New Short Story Day Africa anthology Water launched – Plus 2016 theme and editing mentorship announced

Short Story Day Africa Prize Winners 2015


Alert! The new Short Story Day Africa anthology, Water, was launched to the press yesterday, with the 2016 theme and a new editing mentorship programme being announced at the event.

SSDA is one of the most important writing initiatives in Africa, fostering a love of reading and writing African fiction by providing a platform for new stories to be written and discovered.

Feast, Famine and PotluckTerra IncognitaWater

Each year, SSDA hosts the Short Story Day Africa Prize, the continent’s most prestigious prize for an original piece of short fiction. The first prize, in 2013, went to Okwiri Oduor fom Kenya for “My Father’s Head”, which was published in the first SSDA anthology Feast, Famine & Potluck and went on to win the 2014 Caine Prize for African Writing. In 2014, Diane Awerbuck’s story “Leatherman” took home the prize and was published in the second SSDA anthology, Terra Incognita.

Cat Hellisen was announced as the winner of the 2015 competition, which called for stories on the theme of “water”. Of Hellisen’s story “The Worme Bridge”, judges Nick Mulgrew and Karina M Szczurek said:

“The Worme Bridge” stood out for us with its brave story and clear, distinctive voice; it’s a wonderfully dark exploration of the water theme. The story works effortlessly to construct an other kind of reality while grounding itself in the real world. The writing is compelling: the reader is drawn into this family and the strangeness that overtakes them. We found this a powerful piece of writing that continues to haunt the reader afterwards.

Keep an eye on Books LIVE tomorrow, as we will be publishing Hellisen’s winning story in our next edition of Fiction Friday.

Second place went to Alex Latimer for “A Fierce Symmetry” and third to Mark Winkler for “Ink”. Read their stories here:

These stories will be published in the third SSDA anthology Water: New Short Fiction from Africa, edited by Szczurek and Mulgrew. At a special event to launch this book in Cape Town yesterday, the organisers announced the theme for the 2016 competition: Migrations.

Mulgrew, who made the announcement, stressed that this is one of the most central themes to the African experience, one that is integral to the essence of being African.

Here’s the theme breakdown in full, as presented by SSDA:

From our ancestors’ first forays through the continent, to the contemporary diaspora spread around the world, people are eternally moving in, out and about the African continent. Not everyone leaves out of their own volition, and not everyone comes with the best intentions: nevertheless, the story of Africa is the story of souls migrating, settling, unsettling, fleeing, seeking, resting, nesting and sharing stories, experiences and myths.

From great animal movements to great treks both physical and spiritual, from the comfort of ancient myth to the desperation of those currently fleeing their homes, Short Story Day Africa is looking for a crop of short fiction that will bring a fresh, urgent perspective to one of our most profound phenomena, and the basis of all our greatest stories.

A formal call for submissions will be made later this year.

Helen MoffettThe 2016 competition will also expand its territory to incorporate a new component, with this year’s editor Helen Moffett facilitating an editorial mentorship to help emerging editors from the African continent hone their skills and establish themselves in the book industry.

The selection process will also be different this year, with the top stories being edited before the judges make a decision. This will close the gap between new and established writers and allow the stories to be judged on the same level.

At the announcement, Moffett explained that this year will see a bigger consciousness of transliteration and editorial support for writers who do not write in their mother tongue, ensuring a fair chance for all entrants. Moffett said that skills transfer and the field of editing are close to her heart, and she hopes that the editorial mentorship will also aid where this is concerned.

Water: New Short Fiction from Africa will be launched to the public officially at The Book Lounge on Tuesday, 8 March. We’ll see you there!

Short Story Day Africa 2015: Water

From left to right: Organisers Tiah Beautement and Rachel Zadok; winners Cat Hellison, Mark Winkler and Alex Latimer; editors Karina Szczurek and Nick Mulgrew


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Helené Prinsloo tweeted live from the Water launch and announcement of the new theme yesterday:


Short Story Day Africa: Water

Rachel Zadok

Karina Szczurek and Nick Mulgrew


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Samantha Gibb reviews From Playground to Prostitute by Elanie Kruger with Jaco Hough-Coetzee

From Playground to ProstituteVerdict: carrot

Words cannot do justice to this book and the nightmarish events it recounts. From Playground to Prostitution is a bile-inducing tale of the horrors of the sex industry, where youths are kidnapped and abused. How Engela survived such treatment is surely a testament to the incredible strength of the human will.

Book Details

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