“Great poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.” (Weinberger, 1987) Poetry translation is an endeavour of passion, for it may bring cultural enrichment but seldom economic…
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La Mémoire de l’Océan
La nuit est agitée. L’eau se brise sur la falaise ; le sol tremble sous la puissance des pas des danseurs ; l’air vibre sous la voix des chanteurs ; mon sang pulse à chaque coup de tambour. Mon corps n’est plus que…
Sugartown
Grace was not like us: she skipped goat-roasting gatherings when our children got jobs outside Sugartown; when our children were getting circumcised and we erupted in ululations on the surgeon’s final whistle; when one of us gave birth and we…
Teaching Her Father
It was she that taught her father, how to speak. He did not know the language of fathers and daughters. It was she that taught her father, how to be needed. He did not know necessity beyond daily bread. It…
Things the World Didn’t Tell You
Every evening, your father tore a page off the Bible, steeped it in water, and chewed. Every evening, he mumbled the same two-minute prayer before eating the Word of God. He chewed gingerly, steadily, reverently. It may have dropped forewarnings…
Uncle Mike
“Who is your aunty? Shift from here, let me not slap you!” Those were the words Maru, the Form Five dormitory prefect, flung at me when I greeted her with Aunty Maru a couple of weeks into my new life…
Twilight of Crooks (Excerpt)
The white flag floating at City Hall said it all. With the symbol of a mango fruit in the centre of the flag, Tumaranda—the Big Mango City—was juicy, wholesome, and edible for those hungry for plunder. All roads led to…
The Mwalimu Palaver
“What’s in a name?” The often-quoted question rings on in an age of post-enlightenment. When I think of the vision promulgated by the late emeritus Professor Bernard Nsokika Fonlon, echoes of “Shall We Make or Mar” seem to continue to…
Il était temps
« Elle est morte. » Je ferme les yeux un instant. Inspiration, expiration. Je reprends mon souffle. La voix de ma sœur au téléphone me semble si… irréelle. Si lointaine, d’autant plus qu’avant cet appel, ça faisait bien cinq ans que je…
Some Things Are Most Beautiful in the Dark
Image Credit: AtlasbyAtlas Studio, Shutterstock.com 1. Mother pressed the sweltering blade deeper into my left thigh, ignoring my scream this time. The blood was a thin streak of bluish-red. She sighed and wiped it off my thigh with…
