Diaspora
writers dominating the Caine Prize
By Rob Gaylard
A feature of
this year's Caine Prize collection of stories, A Memory this Size and Other
Stories (Jacana in South Africa, 'amaBooks in Zimbabwe), is the prominence of
what one might call diasporic stories, such as Tope Folarin's prize-winning
story, Miracle. Given the salience of novels like Brian Chikwava's Harare North
and NoViolet Bulawayo's We Need New Names, this seems to reflect an emerging
trend in African writing. (Bulawayo was the 2011 Caine Prize winner.)
A second
feature of the collection is the absence of any stories from South Africa.
Since our writers have clearly not suddenly stopped writing short stories, this
seems surprising, and may be a comment on the process of selection or the
criteria for inclusion in the collection.
There are five
short-listed stories of which four are, rather remarkably, by Nigerian authors
(or authors with a connection to Nigeria). A further 13 stories came out of
this year's Caine Prize workshop, held on the shores of Lake Victoria. Four of
these 13 stories were submitted by Ugandans.
The first story
in the collection is Folarin's Miracle - on the evidence of this story, the
author is clearly Nigerian/American. He tells us, "I'm a writer situated
in the Nigerian disapora, and the Caine Prize means a lot - it feels like I'm
connected to a long tradition of African writers."
It seems
pointless to debate whether someone who was born in America can be described as
an "African" - one infers from the story that the author's
Nigerianness is an important part of his identity, and he falls squarely within
the definition of "African writer" inscribed in the Caine Prize
rules.
The story
explores the issue of faith and belief, and provides a vivid first-person
account of a revivalist service at which a blind prophet performs what are
alleged to be miracles. The story does not confirm that any miracle has taken
place - but it does affirm the ties of family and community, and suggests that
"both (truths and lies) must be cultivated for the community to
survive".
The
congregation consists entirely of Nigerian exiles or sojourners in America, and
the story balances the narrator's scepticism against the repeated affirmation,
"We need miracles".
The American
connection is reinforced by the second story in the collection, Pede Hollist's
Foreign Aid. The story is a deftly narrated, somewhat ironic, cautionary tale
about the folly of the "Been-to" who imagines he can return to his
native land (in this case Sierra Leone), rather like a deus ex machina, putting
right whatever is wrong and making up for his 20-year absence (and neglect of
his family).
As the story
unfolds the scales are lifted from Logan's eyes and he comes to realise the
futility of his efforts. His sister, Ayo, points out, "Out here. We
manage. We do what we have to do". The story could have been subtitled The
Americanisation of Balogan/Logan: it explores the dissonance set up by the
manners and expectations of the returnee, Logan, the "self-made man from
ICU (the Inner City University)", whose "fanny pack" of dollars
rapidly runs out. One quotation will help to illustrate the inventiveness of
the writing:
"Logan was
left severely to himself. He felt powerless, useless like a kaka bailer who
arrives at a large family latrine with only a small tamatis cup, unable to and
incapable of handling the crap that had been generated."
Ironically,
much of the "crap" has been generated through Logan's efforts to
assist his family.
In contrast,
Elnathan John's Bayin Layi, set in a Hausa-speaking and predominantly Muslim
part of Nigeria, plunges us in media res. The narrator is Dantali, one of a
group of homeless boys who sleep under the kuka tree in the town of Bayan Layi.
These boys
"like to boast about the people they have killed". We are introduced
to their seemingly amoral perspective: without the security or guidance of home
or parents, they are easily sucked up into what seems to be standard
election-time violence in Nigeria.
Driven by
desperation or greed, they stop at nothing; in their hands machetes become
lethal weapons. They seem to have internalised the worst aspects of the society
around them. These include ethnic hatred (one boy is killed partly
"because he has the nose of an Igbo boy") and homophobic violence
(another victim is referred to as "a disgusting dau dauda" (or
effeminate homosexual).
The effect of
the plain, unvarnished narrative is chilling: "I am not thinking as we
move on, burning, screaming, cutting, tearing. I don't like the feeling in my
body when this machete cuts flesh so I stick to the fire and take the matchbox
from Banda." At the end our narrator is running "far, far away from
Bayan Layi" - but to what possible future? The references to Allah and the
call of the muezzin form an ironic backdrop to the grim action of the story.
Chinelo
Okparanta's America is, as the title suggests, another of the diasporic stories
in the collection. The action of the story is located in or near Port Harcourt,
in the oil-rich Niger delta region of Nigeria. America features as a kind of
promised land, a longed-for utopia. The narrator is Nnena Etoniru, a high
school science teacher, who hopes to obtain the magic green card that will
allow her to join her lover, Gloria Oke, in the US.
Two central
themes weave through the story: first, there is its restrained, understated
treatment of the narrator's same-sex relationship with Gloria; second, there is
its more overtly foregrounded environmental theme. The delta was once filled
with mangroves: "birds flew and sang in the skies above the mangroves? Now
the mangroves are dead, and there is no birdsong at all. And of course there
are no fish, no shrimp, and no crab to be caught." Young children emerge
from the waters of the creek coated with oil. Oil, in fact, runs like a
leitmotif through the story: the Gulf oil spill creates an ironic link between
America and Nigeria and provides a pretext for Nnena's visit to America (she
hopes to study the methods used to deal with the oil spill and apply them back
home in Nigeria.)
In fact, the
narrator's motives are mixed, and she is more torn than she realises. The story
concludes with a deliberately ambiguous, open-ended folk tale. It skilfully
links seemingly disparate issues, and deepens our understanding of the
attraction of America. Will our aspirant eco-activist join those who have
"(got) lost in America"?
All the stories
were shortlisted for the Caine Prize. The stories in the second part of the
anthology cover a range of topics and encompass a variety of styles. A Memory
This Size by Elnathan John (again) is a simple tale simply told, dealing with
the perennial subject of loss - in this case the loss of a younger brother
through drowning. It explores a recurring dilemma: does one hold on to the memory,
or does one let it go? "So I keep his photos close, and do not fight the
sadness. I let fresh tears drop, 10 years after."
One of the most
entertaining stories in the collection is undoubtedly Stuck, in which Davina
Kawuna breathes new life into an old form, the epistolatory narrative. The
story consists of a series of rather breathless, confessional e-mails about a
"not-yet-affair", written by Nandi to her online "friend",
Connie, whose response, when it finally comes, should be entered into the lists
of famous literary put-downs.
Ecological
concerns resurface in Stanley Kenani's Clapping Hands for a Smiling Crocodile.
Set on the shores of Lake Malawi, it deals with the concerns of a fishing
community whose livelihood is threatened by the operations of an oil company.
In grandfather's words, "to us, fish is everything. If you kill our lake,
we are dead." Do they acquiesce, or do they resist, and what form can this
resistance take? Should one try to appease "a smiling crocodile".
Gender issues
are central to Wazha Lopang's The Strange Dance of the Calabash. It evokes the
stark attitudes towards women and marriage in traditional, patriarchal
Botswanan society, and contains an unexpected twist. The narrator, aged 13, is
apparently being married off to a man she does not know (this isn't the twist).
Hellen Nyana's
short but not-so-simple story, Chief Mourner, also deals with the loss of a
loved one, this time a boyfriend. The narrator finds out about the death of her
boyfriend via Facebook - and it turns out that this is no hoax. Her status is
uncertain - their relationship has not even been made "official" on
Facebook, and she is unsure about mourning etiquette. The story has more than
one surprise to spring, and repays careful reading.
One or two
stories are not really accessible to the general reader, and seem to require a
knowledge of the local context. Fortunately, most of the stories are readable
and entertaining.
The Caine Prize
is now in its 14th year, and is supported by a number of African publishers, including, in South Africa, Jacana and, in Zimbabwe, 'amaBooks. In spite of misgivings about its representativeness,
the collection as a whole lives up to Lizzy Attree's description, in her
introduction: "These are challenging, arresting, provocative stories of a
continent and its descendants captured at a time of burgeoning change."
They deserve to
be widely read. - published in South Africa's Sunday Independent on
December 1, 2013.
A Memory This
Size is available in many outlets in Zimbabwe - in Harare at the Book Cafe,
National Gallery and Avondale Bookshop, in Bulawayo at National Gallery, Induna
Arts, Tendele Crafts, Phenduka Supplies, Indaba Book Cafe and Z&N.