kagablog

All the contributors to this book come from different parts of the world and different backgrounds. An upcoming biologist, a 15-year old secondary school student, various award-winning poets, and scholars are just a few examples of the diversity this book was created from. This diversity is what makes this book an unforgettable read. The essence of post-colonialism is also very apparent. This book grabs the reader and ignites one’s own desire to wake up and feel what is happening in the world. The concept that issues and concerns are universal and should never be limited to specific continents is what is expressed. All the poets have made impressionable contributions to the memory of Okogbule Wonodi. His work in life itself has been multicultural and diverse.
In the poem “An address to the elders” by Lupenga Mphande, the concept of religious views and the afterlife is shown.
Bury me in the byre
To survey herds return from pasture
Reminisces of my youth,
Bury me standing upright with your spear
So that I meet Chiuta and our ancestors
On my feet, ready to bow or fight,
Bury me in the river to befriend water nymphs
And live with the torrents (8)
The very idea of being prepared to continue the fight, to continue establishing relationships-even with water nymphs-, and to be able to have recollections of one’s life after death is endearing. It shows that not only in life was the fight for basic humanity present, but that even in death one can continue to do their part for the community as a whole. One person dies and many get to reap the benefits from the experience and struggle that the person had to endure. It shows how even in death one still has the ability to teach and learn from wherever they end up. This concept shows the hope and the willingness to be a part of something that everyone takes for granted and to never let that die.
As the book progresses, the poem “Port Harcourt” by Pious Okoro, makes one aware of the effects of the everyday life experienced. The poem embodies past, children, hope, present reality, and the truth that is unbearable. Words as “love,” “lured,” “dreamed,” “milked,” “bitter pills” and “reek” allow the reader to see the shift of emotions that the people are facing.
Walk your streets of old again
Serene-we dared play
Street football as boys
The pride and prized gem
Of a people still asleep
The lie we believed (45)
…………………………..
What pains we must bear
For being the phantom
Of boom bewailed (46)
The devastation is palpable and the idea that everything that they thought they could fight for was falling apart. The hope that was instilled and then taken away shows the desperation for the suffering to end. Pious let’s us see the internal and external exile, talks about the childhood experiences, discusses future hopes, and shows migration.
Despite all the emptiness that was felt, they never stopped believing and never stopped loving. Although many other poems described the love for one’s country, Nnorom Azuonye reveals that insatiable love in “My homeland”.
They lie like bitter, twisted ruins
Battered by wind, age, and rain
Because once in them, they exude
A generosity of spirit, second to none.
Poverty, sickness, and diseases
I do not deny
The tantalizing taste of uziza
The tingling sensation of suya
Are all witnesses to my secret deal
With Africa, my beautiful homeland. (68)
Words as “bleak,” “corruption,” “deceptive,” “awe,” and “allure” all describe what is seen that the eyes cannot behold. Azuonye uses these words to describe the overall physical and emotional devastation. Even though only remnants remain of what once were there, the memories that live in those remnants, no matter how small, are never forgotten. That force to never letting go, no matter what ails them, is vivid.
Songs for Wonodi, as diverse as it is, is just a small piece of what the real situation is. With the magnitude of award-winning poets/accomplished poets/writers such as Tanure Ojaide, Elechi Amadi, Frank Chipasula, Uche Nduka, Timothy Wangusa, Amatoritsero EdeWith, its not hard to see how they have expressed themselves. The collective work that was brought together is inspirational and innovative. Along with all the issues that surround the people, this book enables the reader to get a picture and thought into their head. When reading this book, the possibility that everything being described can be held relevant to everyday life is important. A mutual moral understanding needs to take place. All the reader has to do is absorb it and let oneself feel the message intended. This book allows for that overall feeling to occur. Without feeling, one cannot appreciate the complexity that this book holds true.

I don’t know what drove me to it. I really don’t. I was doing fine, I mean, I had destroyed basically all of my relationships, but still, I had sort of set out to do that, in some way or another. I always do that. Every relationship I’ve ever had, I screwed up, almost like I wanted to. Like a little kid with a microwave and a puppy, and a burning curiosity. Like I killed them, just to see what happened. But that’s only bothered me just after, just for a while. But I’ve always had a sense of humor. Y’know, that’s probably what kept me this long, just being able to laugh. But recently, in the weeks before the… incident, I felt… heavy. Like an elephant reading Tolstoy. Just… heavy. That was my downfall. I’d lost that spark of laughter.

So why did I do it? I honestly can’t say. But it’s kinda like when you’ve had a rough day, y’know the kinda day where everything just goes wrong? Well, it’s like coming home after one of those days and you sit in your comfy chair and you grab the remote to switch on the TV, but it isn’t working and the TV just sits there, and you start pressing harder and harder on the button until you just totally lose it and throw the remote through the tube. It would’ve been less money and pain if you’d just put in new batteries, but you just… lost it. That’s kinda what happened to me, that sort of boiling under the surface until it just spews out because of the pure pressure. Just I did a lot more than ruin a TV. But we’re not here for what I did, we’re here for why I did it. I was at school that day. The day was already kinda melancholy, but then again, most of my days are. I was walking down the corridor with my bag slung over my shoulder, and then something went click. I swear it was almost audible. Some thing went click. They say mental illness takes years to develop, but what about the exact moment? The moment bending goes to breaking? The click moment? That’s what I had. And, at first, I didn’t feel that different. It was like when you’re dodging and ducking to see something, and then you take a step to the left and you can see it perfectly. Just a sudden change of perspective. But then, I started really feeling the change. And I got this sudden urge to bleed. Just… bleed.

I had cut myself before then, but only small cuts. Just to bleed. I followed the insane logic that if I was bleeding on the outside, I don’t bleed on the inside. No, you couldn’t say that I was ever mentally stable. But that day was different. I wanted to bleed like a pig on a chain, to scar myself so badly that no-one would ever talk to me again. Then I could go sit in a corner and quietly die. You have to understand, you have to get this right. I never actually considered suicide, never seriously considered it. But I have wondered what it would feel like.

Like jumping off a mountain. You give a gigantic leap and you start falling. The adrenaline rises up from your stomach. You hit a branch on the way down. And you start spinning and flailing around. Your arm smacks against the rock face and breaks in three places. You can actually hear the bones snapping. But you can’t feel a thing. You look down as the ground rushes up to meet you. And suddenly… I wonder what that would feel like. The last split second when your head is crushed into your torso. D’you think it would hurt? I wonder…

But, I’m getting distracted. That day I came home from school and went to the fridge to grab a Coke. The urge had abated to some extent, but was still there. Just behind my eyes. I grabbed the Coke and sat down on the couch. Suddenly I heard a sound, from the kitchen behind me, and I spun round. Y’see, I’ve never been at ease with anything. Always kinda paranoid. So, anyway, I spun around. It was probably only the cat, but I saw the hammer lying on the kitchen counter. I looked at it for, maybe, ten minutes. I got up and walked to it, never taking my eyes off. I picked it up and held it to the light, as if to see the contours properly. I put my left arm on the counter, with the palm-side pointing to me. And without flinching, I smacked the hammer down on my wrist. I could hear the bones cracking and gnashing. The doctors told me later that I broke it in four places. Then came the pain. I can’t describe the pain. It was… excruciating. Then I thought it was because I hadn’t done it properly, hammers were for nails. I started looking round the kitchen for nails. It was really hard since I couldn’t use my left hand any more. So I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find a single nail. Then I thought, nail can have two meanings. I looked at my fingers. Turned my hand over. Ah! Nails! I started hitting my nails back into my fingers. I hammered until my finger tips were bloody and you could scarcely see the nails still protruding from the flesh. Or, you would’ve seen the nails if it wasn’t for the blood. By the time I got to the little piggy that went to the market, the whole counter was covered in blood. I slid down to the ground after the last little piggy went home. Then I thought, hammers aren’t only for destruction. Doctors use hammers on knees to heal people. I looked at my kneecap. Have you ever heard the sound? It’s a very interesting sound. It’s a kind of cartilagey sound but with the obvious break noises added. All in all it was a sound I quite liked. I wanted to hear more. Smack. Smack. Smack! Haha! It was like a symphony of self-destruction! But then, I couldn’t take the pain anymore. Then I thought, mother always gave us half a pill when we had headaches. I wondered what she would’ve given for this?

I looked around myself for the medicine, but I saw almost only blood. I was so scared of what Mother would’ve said about the mess. I grabbed the dishcloth from the sink and stated wiping up the blood. But the problem was that the dishcloth couldn’t take as much liquid, so I only ended up smearing it around. Mother would be so disappointed. As I was cleaning up, I spotted it. The last nail! It had rolled into one of the cracks between the tiles. I crawled closer. Damn! It was a screw! Well, screws could be useful too… Weren’t people always saying I had a screw loose? Here was my chance to screw it in. Nice and tight. But, of course, I’d need a screwdriver first. I slid myself over to the closet. Wow, blood was an excellent lubricant! But it got kinda sticky. So, I took out the screwdriver. I held the screw against the top of my head and started turning. People were always mocking me for screwing up. Well, now I was screwing decidedly down.

After about five minutes it got kinda sore, plus the blood was starting to run into my eyes and that stung quite badly. It didn’t go that deep, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, of course, but it still hurt quite a lot. Who ever thought a head could bleed that much? It was amazing. Like a crimson waterworks!

It was right then that my mother came in. She started screaming. I tried to tell her that I was sorry about the mess, and that I’d clean it up later. But she didn’t stop screaming. Screaming, screaming, screaming, SCREAMING! I just couldn’t take it anymore. I hurled the hammer at her. It hit her between the eyes with a dull thud. Haha! It sounded like her head was hollow! She collapsed onto the ground and stopped breathing. And I started screaming too. I screamed and screamed until the neighbors burst in. The lady fell faint at the sight of the mess. I started explaining again that I would clean it up, but I was feeling quite faint and the words must have come out all jumbled because she just looked at me. All shocked-like.

Long story short I went to a hospital. For people like… me. It was nice. The food was nice and everything. Just the pills weren’t nice. The pills were awful. They made me feel so sleepy. And we had to take them three times a day. They didn’t taste nice. Can I tell you a secret? I stopped taking them. Haha! But I’m much better now, really. Feeling good these days. Say, can you do me a favor? Pass me that letter opener…

Yes, there’ve been many fairy-tale rehashes. Enough to actually fill a book. ‘Fairy-Tale Rehashes’ by A. P. Erson. But this is not one of those. This is an attempt to set the record straight, to tell the truth and stand up for justice. If I happen to make a buck out of it, hey, that’s fine by me. I said justice; poverty can take a running jump.

We all know the story of Snow White, with the castles and the prince and oh! how romantic. But the simple truth is that the story was later modified because it wasn’t PC enough. But I was there; I can tell you what you ought to know.

Snow White no more lived in a Magical Castle than you or me. No, she lived in a ‘Mystical’ Trailer on the Edge of Forever (or Brakpan as they call it these days). And the only reason that she was so fair-skinned was because she didn’t like the outdoors. Her father was no more than a pimp (thus the velvet capes, and sometimes even a crown) and her mother was a ‘lady of negotiable affection’, who had died early because of a bad man who ‘dint wear no protecshun’. It baffled Snow White how someone else wearing protection could have stopped her mother dying. Yes, she was naive. The motto over the door was not Latin for “Nobility; the path we tread.” and was not very noble at all: ‘If the trailer’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knocking.’ Yes, they were common. As mud.

But this didn’t matter to Snow, no; she believed she was destined for greatness. She believed that Fortune would one day favor her, since she considered herself as very brave, because of the incident with the ink and the three-legged giraffe. Yes, one day, perhaps one day soon Fortune would cast its eye from the apparently extremely brave politicians and lawyers and look upon her. One day. As I said, naive.

So, one day, when her slightly-less-than-good-but-not-exactly-evil step-mother sent her out to buy some bread and a packet of Lucky Strikes, she decided that this might be her One Day and took this as her chance to do something drastic and –in many people’s view- completely unnecessary:

“And don’t you be wanderin’ off wit’ my ciggies! I know there are 20 in a pack. And I can count!” she said like it was something to be proud of.
“Yes, mother.” she insisted on being called mother.
“You skinny-ass hoe, you need to beef up some.” she continued.
“Yes, mother.” came the reply. And out went Snow, putting on 30spf sun-block. Somehow she thought that being really, really, unbelievably pale was a good thing. See what those damn fairy tales are doing to the youth? They should ban the whole lot. Except this one. But I’ve already made the point that this isn’t a fairy tale. Not in the least. At all. Seriously.

Snow wasn’t feeling very generous on her way back to the Trailer, so she sat on the sidewalk and lit up one of her step-mom’s ciggies. Damn that hoe, she thought. Than, just as she was getting worried about the consequences she had so easily overlooked when the monkey needed feeding, a miracle happened.
Well, not a miracle. More like a coincidence. Heck, not even a coincidence, just an occurrence. A group of dwarves came up and asked her to stay with her. There were seven of them. Well, actually, dwarf is a bit of an exaggeration; they were more like traveling mine midgets. They were all wearing FUBU and had gold teeth. These ‘dwarves’ were in ‘da hood’ and obviously no-one was about to mess with them. The picks, hammers and large cache of dynamite might also have had an influence. “Hey, you foxy lady, come ride wit’ us.” said one of them.
“Yeah, baby, c’mon.” said one of the others. Well, Snow didn’t want to stay anywhere near her step-mom, so up she went and got on their cart. Maybe Fortune had finally decided people other than the (obviously very brave and righteous) oil moguls needed some help, she thought.

Snow was very grateful for the ride, but she was feeling uncomfortable. What she didn’t know was that these were miners. And thus worked on the mines. Very lonely mines. With no female companionship. Very lonely mines. So she felt 13 peering eyes on her body all the time. (The one called Leery had lost an eye in an explosives accident. Well, not accident, the one called Boozy was still sorry, but what Leery didn’t know about wouldn’t hurt him. Except for that dynamite. That had had a large possibility of hurting him. But he was drunk, which is like saying that clouds float.)

Anyway, when Snow got to their house, they immediately went into confusion. They babbled amongst themselves for a moment then the one who had introduced himself as The Amazing Zingy (his real name was Nigel) asked her: “So what happens now?” Now, Snow may have been a bit slow, but she was definitely not stupid. Not very stupid at least. And finally the penny dropped.
“Oh… You think I’m a… a wh… a lady of negotiable affection?” She looked down and saw she had accidentally put on her mother’s Zebra-Tiger print jacket instead of her own. “Ah, damn!” she explained.

The midgets than realized they had made a big mistake. Boozy took a long pull on his Autumn Harvest. Leery leered. Happy slit his wrists. Commy looked the situation up in Chairman Mao’s little red book. Than finally Nitro Glycerin-y (no-one knows the story behind that one) said: “Well I guess you could at least do some chores. You can start by cleanin’ up the mess Happy left.”
“Chairman Mao says we should strangle our parents in this situation.” said Commy.
“Hang about, that doesn’t make any sense!” said Badly Dispositional-y.
“Yeah!” said Agreeable-y, the eighth and largely useless dwarf.
“Comrade, he’s Chairman Mao. It doesn’t need to make sense.” said Commy.
“Yeah!” reflected Agreeable-y.
“Well, hup to, Snow, the blood has started to dry on, and that’ll take some scrubbing.” said The Amazing Zingy (Nigel).
This whole maid arrangement worked fine for a month or so, until the issue of minimum wage came up.

“Oh, bother. We can’t pay you. We have to pay for important things. Like drugs and alcohol. We thought you did this for free.” said Leery.
“Yes, well, you obviously didn’t take economics at school. I need to be paid; otherwise I can’t improve my life quality. That’s what technology’s there for.” explained Snow.
“I thought you said economics.” said Leery. He was getting confused.
“What I said doesn’t matter. What matters is that I get paid.” said Snow huffily.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it…”

Long story short: in those days the slave-trade was alive and well, and the midgets thought they might make a pretty penny out such a succulent… well, not exactly succulent… more like tender… or even not-really-ugly… piece of meat. And so it turns out that Prince Charming was a guy from Zimbabwe with cheap sunglasses. Never turns out the way you expect, does it? Oh, well.

“All right, what ‘ave we got ‘ere?” asked Vusi in a thick Jamaican accent. This was strange because Vusi was the aforementioned Zimbabwean. He adjusted his sunnies.
“Well, Vusi, we understand that you will pay us for a slave?” asked Nigel –I mean, The Amazing Zingy.
“Mon, let me just check da merchandise.” he started to prod Snow.
“Get off me you brute!” Snow said as she struggled against her constraints.
“Ai, mon! I like de woman fiery! You gots a deal Nigel!” he said happily.
“Vusi, I told you, it’s The Amazing Zingy now! I want some respect for my authority! I’ve stood too long in the queue at the Department of Home Affairs to be called Nigel,” he said growing agitated, “we lost a lot of good men out there. Four weeks, I tell you! Four agonizing weeks!” he shouted, and grew calm as the wave of nostalgia subsided. “Look, I’m sorry Vusi. Just gimme the cash and I’ll be off.”
“All right mon. Dat’s a deal. But are you sure you’re okay?” he asked sympathetically.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine thanks.” said TAZ as he wiped a tear.
“Hey are you guys ready?” asked Boozy as he emerged from the bushes where he was attending to the considerable call of Nature.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.” said TAZ as he tried to keep the tears in.
“Geez, man, you been crying?” asked Nitro Glycerin-y as he too emerged from the bushes, where he was for no good reason.
“No, man! I’m no baby!” said TAZ briskly.
“All right then, let’s be off!” said Leery as he too emerged from the bushes, where he liked to spend his ‘quiet time’.
“Hey, what are all you guys doin’ here?” asked TAZ, now starting to feel that something very strange was going on.
“Hmph, I dunno!” said Nitro Glycerin-y.
And so the dwarves rode away with a big suitcase of money and one very suspicious dwarf.

Over the next few weeks The Amazing Zingy’s suspicions were unfounded, as no other strange events had happened. That night they all sat down to watch Brakpan’s Funniest Trailer Videos. When the announcer said there was a tape of a fully-grown slave-trader crying, TAZ became very angry.

The murders were never solved, but I feel that that does not matter in the Story, so I shall not go into detail.

So, there the whole story is. Without an assortment of graphic murder attempts by the step-mother, who was much less sly than the one in the story, and usually involved the first blunt instrument at hand, and once a plank with a bunch of rusty nails. But Snow had already gotten her Tetanus shot that year, so she only spent about a week in the hospital (without sick pay).

So Snow White lived not very happily ever after with a man named Vusi.

Free State Black Literature is now established and acknowledged world-wide. It is also generally accepted that the main catalyst behind this resurgence is Omoseye Bolaji, a prolific author, and journalist who has inspired many others to write. Here, HiFive’s Jerry Seekoei caught up with him for an illuminating session on the world of writing…

You’ve got a fair amount of recognition as a writer – many books published, reviews, published studies discussing your work…I was quite staggered to see how many references you have on the internet. Your recent awards too have also been well publicized. How does it all feel?

BOLAJI: I have a feeling I’ve heard this question before! (laughter). At the end of the day life goes on, really. From a simplistic point of view I believe that what really pleases a writer most is when a reader comments favourably on one’s works. The other day I met a stranger who just came to me and said: “Mr. Bolaji, I read the Sesotho translation of your play (The subtle transgressor), I could not put it down for a second. It was superb. I give it ten over ten!”

Some other observers also believe that you are lucky to have some people (writers/critics) impressed with your work. Mr. (Pule) Lechesa for example has been described as your “disciple”. Others like Petro Schonfeld and Prof Pretorius also love your work…

BOLAJI: I suppose some people would always be particularly enamoured with one’s works. Some of these people will now go out of their way to ensure that such works are even more publicized or analysed …a very pertinent example is Flora Weit Wild who over the years has done wonders in promoting Dambudzo Marechera’s literary works. It appears she has published more books - studies - on him than he (Marechera) ever wrote! However there are many others who have also promoted my work and written a lot about it…people like the late Pule Lebuso, Flaxman Qoopane, Charmaine Kolwane, Urbain Tila…my thanks to all of them.

Do you have favourites among your published works?

BOLAJI: Really I have said it before, that I am not one of those writers who go on and on reading and re-reading whatever they have published. I believe that a writer should move on after every “literary project”, as it were. Ideally whilst working on a particular book, there should be some excitement about it, but when it’s made available to the public there is no need to cling to the works with exceeding élan! Yes, inevitably there would be some mistakes in the books which the critics would gleefully point out. That is their province. I remember that a certain critic claimed to have detected “hundreds” of mistakes in Wole Soyinka’s The man died. But this did not stop the book being celebrated the world over.

Some other “critics” also claim that throughout all your books you hardly have anything bad or negative to say about whites

BOLAJI: There is no need being confrontational just for the sake of theatrics, or playing to the gallery, or whatever. I did not grow up under apartheid – actually my first years were spent in London (England) and I had a wonderful white Nanny who took care of me. White people have helped me a lot over the years in furthering my writing career. I have a number of very good white friends. I suppose many whites would be “bad” in the same way many blacks would be “bad” too. Recently a top footballer announced that racist jibes against him never worried him “it’s done by a minority and they just need to be enlightened” he said.

There is plenty of ignorance in respect of writers. Are writers “famous” even to themselves or in particular areas?

BOLAJI: We can all be quite ignorant when it comes to literature. As Lechesa pointed out in his book, The evolution of Free State Black Literature when Toni Morrison won the Nobel Award for literature a fellow American commented “Who is he?” As we might know Toni Morrison is actually a very famous black female American writer. What usually happens is that we all have our favourite writers. I have met many writers locally who hardly know icons like Es’kia Mphahlele or Gomolemo Moake or Njabulo Ndebele…such people usually know a lot about Ngugi, Achebe; by the same token most know little or nothing about Wole Soyinka who was the first African to win the Nobel Award. I myself only recently got to read some of the books written by Aryan Kaganof – a very funny, blunt, candid writer. It helps when those who love books – or budding writers – have been introduced to certain writers at school.

So perhaps you mean that we can sort of “specialize” as regards our knowledge or interest in writers/literature?

There are so many writers all over these days that we can be forgiven for some ignorance. Again it’s like football, soccer in a way – you get fanatical supporters of a team, e.g Bloemfontein Celtic supporters here who know EVERYTHING about the team on a daily basis. Many of them will tell you they know little or nothing about international football. Yet you get other football lovers locally who know very little about local teams but can give you daily news on Manchester United, Barcelona, Real Madrid etc! Hence there are writers who know a lot about literature locally, a fair number of them might also have some general knowledge of writers nationally – the Zakes Mdas, Ndebeles, Mzamanes, Tlalis, Ngcobos etc. Then there are some who read only certain Eurocentric writers – others like Caribbean authors…another ilk are those who read only particular type of books, maybe romance, historical, biographies

Or mystery/detective fiction…

Yes. I have a soft spot for that! There are readers who read only the Dick Francis’, Agatha Christies, Sidney Sheldons; and the African works in this wise. You know, there are African writers who also write such (mystery) books; like Kalu Okpi, Victor Thorpe, Bolaji! (laughter all around)

Reproduced here courtesy of HiFive magazine

-For Franz Kafka

I am a prisoner in a cold cell. The prison I am kept in has long been decrepit and poor, and I have no more neighbours to keep me company, but I did have some companions –they may even be called friends, in some circumstances- in the old days when the prison was a shining bastion of reformation. And, like all people confined for long enough in one place, we shared stories and myths. I cannot, at the moment recall any of them, except one.

The myth is that if one is cooped up too long in the stagnation of prison air, one’s lungs grow accustomed to it, and then if one should be freed or escape, one’s lungs would immediately seize up because of the freshness of the air and one would die. This is the one story that stuck with me through my long imprisonment. I have forgotten many many things; my name, for one, but in the end that is not important to me as the guards would simply call me by my number, not my name, and since the guards have long since disappeared, I have also forgotten my number. I have also forgotten for what crime I was imprisoned in the first place. I was never in any doubt that I deserved my sentence; I’m just no longer sure why I received that sentence, or even exactly what the sentence was. I’m sure it’s a dreadfully long time. How could it not be? I’ve been here for a dreadfully long time. Surely the fact justifies itself? I have been here for a long time, it follows logically that I have to be here for a long time.

As I have mentioned before, the prison is no longer what it was when I came here. There are no longer showers or food or company or guards. They have all left a long time ago, and I am alone in the prison. Yet, I never dare to venture beyond the hall of my cell, and rarely even beyond my cell. All the doors are open, yet I fear the freshness of the air beyond it. And besides, I don’t feel like I’ve completely served out my sentence. I should know when I am finished.

Yet, even if someone from the ministry came and said my sentence was served and I was free to go, I’m not entirely sure I would leave. I would be absolutely paralyzed by the fear of the air, and they would not be able to shift me, and finally, after exerting themselves to some extent they would wipe their hands and foreheads, spit on me and walk away saying that I did not deserve to be let free. And perhaps I don’t, if fear of leaving paralyzed me so.

Or perhaps the ministry man would not be a ministry man after all, but rather a sneaky revolutionary who would try to get me to leave on purpose so the air would kill me, and thus prove his movement’s point to the government. And he would not shed a single tear for me, for how much greater is his cause than the life of one invalid?

Or perhaps the ministry man is a ministry man, and he has been sent to oversee my execution. And he would come and before the execution he and the guards would stand and talk and decide to have a laugh at my expense. They would decide that they would give me false hope just before shattering it again and killing me with what sustained them.

As I sit here, this has happened many times, but every time the people would come to get me I would throw them with rocks and shout until they ran away and I am left in my isolation. No, I will never trust them! I will sit just here and serve my sentence out quietly, until I’m quite sure I’m done.

{an extract from the novel in progress - ‘The Heartstring Noodle Bar’}

I suddenly remembered that it was in fact Genevieve’s birthday today. A small sinking sensation came over me as I hastily shuffled through my correspondence box. She had sent me an invitation last week and I had shelved it along with a donation plea to aid some species of near extinct butterfly. So it was after much rummaging that I finally came across the rather grotesque invitation. The invitation was written painstakingly in blood, no doubt Genevieve’s own, and scrawled along the inside of a human femur. I was aware of the fact that she had recently acquired several dozen human skeletons from a now defunct medical museum in the seedy side of town. I admit, I had become curious as to how she would choose to express herself through the medium of bone. Admittedly, the idea of birthday invitations simply did not present itself to me. Perhaps I just did not the comprehend the ‘goddess-given artistic drives’, as Genevieve and her circle of Night Maries put it. I examined the femur for the time and address of the party. I was obligated to go and it just wouldn’t do to not make an effort. I thought that If I hurried I might be able to make it to the dregs of the celebration, hang around long enough to wish Genevieve, either personally or via one of her Night Maries. I began to scrabble mentally through the contents of the room for some manner of gift whilst scanning the blood scrawls for information. I finally registered that the party was in fact only scheduled to begin at four am and was located at some venue in an old and disused railway terminal somewhere on the outskirts of town. I looked at the clock and realised that if I hurried, I might make it on time after all. I telephoned a reliable taxi service and pulled on a partially crumpled, grey and salmon pink zoot suit. I discovered that the only gift which I could produce on such short notice, which was even vaguely appropriate, was a large penyata the same size and dimensions of a young boy. The head was a caricatured skull and the entire thing was crafted out of bone-white sugar candy mixed with flour. The mixture had by now become quite stale and had warped vaguely, probably due to a prolonged exposure to sea air. Ominous rattling sounded from within its depths, denoting secrets yet undivulged. I had been trying to get rid of it for weeks but even the seagulls wouldn’t go near it. Here at last was an opportunity to kill two birds with one very ugly piece of candy. I pulled on a white fedora, my best dancing shoes and a pair of spats. Hans, my cigarette-smoking iguana jiggled from his perch, slid across the desk and hopped nimbly onto my shoulder. I scooped up the candy penyata boy and Han’s cigarettes in one deft movement, turning off all the lights on my way out. Outside the wind threatened to take my hat. Hans tucked his triangular head into the folds of his neck fan like a budgie, and together we struggled up the long sandy drive .The dunes rolled away on either side in the pale moonlight, and we eventually emerged onto the side of the highway. Flocks of tumbleweed chased each other like gazelles across the receding strip of grey tarmac and the night smelled inexplicably of nougat. I did not have long to wait before I saw the faint glare of headlights intensifying across the lunar wastes. I was however surprised to see a small white milk truck emerging from the murk. It chugged up the highway like a little extracted tooth and stopped infront of me. The back of the small truck was open, in the manner of a golf-cart, and laden with many gleaming bottles of milk. The driver was a skinny young man in a cowprint uniform and a matching skullcap. There were no doors and the roof was stretched canvas. A frolicking little red cow had been painted along the bonnet. I noticed that driver wore enormous goggles to protect his eyes from the wind, for there were no doors in the milk truck’s cabin.

“Did you ring for a taxi sir?” he called to me over the wind.
“I did indeed,” I answered, approaching the flimsy vehicle.
“Well, climb in then sir!” he smiled professionally.
“But you seem to be in the process of delivering dairy products.” I protested.
“Yes, well unfortunately there’s been some trouble in the city and the taxi service has been experiencing difficulty in reaching some of it’s more distant customers.”
“I see,” I said in a perplexed fashion.
“They call us milk boys when there’s a problem in the early hours sir, you see, we know the roads us milk boys, oh yes we do. And we don’t have much to do on these long stretches between suburbs. Plain Jane wilderness from the milk factory to town sir, one or two farms but that’s it really. We’ve all had trouble since the new regime sir, and we all have to do our little bit. We all have to work together so to speak, to keep the engines running smoothly, so to speak. The taxi services, very modestly you understand, planned for every possible contingency. They, in their wisdom understood that a little extra business couldn’t hurt the milk trade, and well, they offered us milk boys the option of moonlighting for them sir, so to speak. Ironic that isn’t it sir, moonlighting!”
He laughed, turning his huge goggles moonward.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I suppose it is ironic.”
“I mean, you certainly wouldn’t see one of us milk boys ferrying around customers in the day now would you? All night working at the factory, making sure that the milk is just so, that the cows are happy and all of that, getting the milk to the general population in time for cornflakes..This little window between loading and pre-dawn, well its all the moonlighting time we have to offer! And you won’t find much else besides the moon at this time of night now will you sir?”
“No, of course not.”
“I mean the day! Come on sir! that’s for postmen and garbage trucks! And who would take electricity bills and rubbish over a nice, wholesome glass of milk?”

I realised that I was beginning to grow rather annoyed with the milkman’s rather smug attitude. Certainly, there was no way he could know that I myself had something of a pathological fear of cows and their ridiculous white secretions. As a child I used to cry at the sight of an ice cream. I was not precisely sure what it was that vexed me about the issue. Perhaps it was the knowledge that here was an entire industry based around the glandular secretions of a captive animal.

“Listen,” I said in a firm tone. “I have an important engagement and I’m in something of a hurry.”
The milkman once again smiled in a professional sort of way.
“Of course you are sir, step right in.”
He indicated the white passenger seat beside him and I clambered up into it. I placed the candy penyata boy between us, in the manner of an extra passenger. Within no time at all, we were both watching the highway drone past under the wash of the headlights. The pace was unbearably slow, but regular. Tumbleweed flickered past at odd intervals, overexposing in the harsh white glare, and then vanishing into the darkness. I turned my collar up against the maniacal draughts which flooded the cramped and door-less interior, pulling my hat down as far as it would go. The noise of the engine was deafening. I struggled to light a cigarette for Hans and then gave up after several attempts.

“Would you like the air-conditioner off sir?” the milkman shouted in a polite sort of way.
I stared into the enormous circular goggles, searching for any sign of a joke. Seeing none I simply shook my head with a feeling of despair. He nodded sprightly and then with a swift motion turned on the radio. I did not notice before but the milk truck had several large cone shaped loudspeakers attached to it’s roof, and it was through these that the radio blared. At first the sound was indistinguishable from the general noise of the wind and the engine. Then the milkman cranked up the volume to a piercing level and the blare of a badly recorded trumpet fanfare echoed across the pale and lonely dunes around us. I imagined what we must look like from the side of the road and cringed in embarrassment. A tiny pool of intrusive whiteness, in hideous contrast to the moonwashed beachscapes. A rudeness of light and sound, crawling slowly toward the urban anthills looming along the horizon. My irritation must have reached some sort of crescendo because I blurted out:
“And just what is it that makes you think the cows are happy!”

The milkman gave a jittery start and regarded me with a nerve racked expression. Within seconds, the air of positive professionalism had reasserted itself.
“Oh I know it sir,” he smiled. “And many regard me as something of a professional in these matters.”

Their was a faint undertone of dictatorial arrogance in the milkman’s otherwise cheery demeanour and I took it as a sign to let the matter lie. I returned to the difficult task of lighting a cigarette against the wind. I finally succeeded and watched as Hans fought for purchase in the buffeting gusts, his eyes slitted against the slipstream. He inhaled and I felt his claws poke around my shoulder in satisfaction. At that precise moment, the insane marching band din was cut short by a public announcement.

“Citizens of the New Republic!” boomed the voice of an authoritarian woman. “This is a civic address! As many of you already know, there was a fire-fighter’s strike in the Spanish quarter of our city earlier today. The fire-fighters had set several large advertisement billboards alight to protest the imminent inauguration of our beloved leader, General Alcazar. The military has been fighting all day to contain the blaze, but to no avail. The fire has already spread to the municipal library, and thousands of books are burning even as we speak!”

“Those vexatious fire-fighters,” the milkman grumbled. “Always making trouble.”
“Until your cat is stuck up a tree,” I muttered.
The announcement continued, booming out across the deserted beaches and over the empty highway like muted thunder.
“There have always been factions who say that the military are the ones who wanted to burn these books, but now it is plain to see who the real book burners are!”
“I myself had a library card,” the milkman added with outrage.

I simply ignored him. The woman’s voice conjured up images of head mistresses in gloomy boarding schools. I could almost picture the woman speaking as one of those commanding teacher archetypes with thick ankles and flat soled shoes. Her hair would be pulled into a cruel grey bun and she would be wearing a creaseless prison warder skirt. Blinding spectacles would be perched upon her bony nose as she peered down over the cowering population like some enormous bird of prey.

“We the military, want you the population to know that we will do our utmost to protect your books! We are here for you in your hour of need. That is why we must raise the penalty for striking to death! We cannot allow our advertising to be pillaged and our libraries to be burned. So feel safe in your beds tonight citizens, the iron eye of the army is watching! Thank you for your attention.”

The announcement abruptly ended and an old bossanova track fuzzed in, filling the night with lilting guitar melodies and the gentle code of marracas. We drove on for a while without saying anything to each other. I became engrossed in the strange intonations of a spiralling oboe as it crackled out into the darkness. I was about to ask the time when I noticed a faint glow up ahead. The light was emanating from somewhere in the fields, large patchwork fields which had just appeared to the left of the highway. And as the glow grew steadily stronger, I realised that we had entered a farming area. The truck trundled closer to the flickering source of illumination and I became aware of some sort of commotion up ahead.

“Now I wonder what that could be?” the milkman yelled thoughtfully.
The glow, which had by now had revealed itself to be a towering blaze, was coming from a large cornfield. An enormous man-shaped effigy had been erected in the centre of the field, and it stood with its arms akimbo, utterly consumed by fire. I realised that soldiers were blocking the road and a dizzy feeling of panic set in. I noticed a small crowd of people and some vehicles huddled together at the edge of the field. Their long wavering shadows danced across the road as the fire coiled and spat before them. I looked over to the milkman and saw that, although he was still smiling, a faint glisten of perspiration had begun to oil around his upper lip. A jeep had been parked in the centre of the highway and three soldiers in olive uniforms were waving for us to pull over. As the milkman slowed I began to recognise the field. I remembered it’s profile from a series of photographs in the small press. I then recalled that it was in this precise field that the first scarecrows, whose features mimicked several well known abductees, were discovered. An ominous feeling fell upon me as the soldiers approached in the headlights. They were wearing livid green helmets and carried automatic rifles around like cricket bats. Behind them was a large van which I took to be some form of news vehicle. An enormous satellite dish rotated slowly on its roof, beeping quietly below the clamour of voices and the whooshing roar of the fire. I glimpsed other figures, in different uniforms, lined against a fence in the manner of prisoners. Three or four other silhouettes were moving before the blaze, carrying equipment and trays of hot beverages. A skinny teenage girl with peroxided hair and white jeans was sitting under a portable spotlight, filing her bubblegum coloured nails. The truck came to a halt and the milkman turned off the engine. For some reason he forgot to turn off the radio, and the soothing oboe solo continued to klaxon out of the loudspeakers above our heads. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his hands had begun to shake uncontrollably at the sight of the guns.

“So, ” said the first soldier, eyeing the skull-faced candy penyata boy with utter contempt. “You’ve come to burn another effigy of our beloved General Alcazar.”
“Get out of the golf cart you cowardly dogs!” yelled another, cocking his rifle.
The milkman began to stammer some form of explanation as we climbed cautiously out onto the cold tarmac. The third soldier had gone around the back and was tapping the frosty bottles with the handle of his bayonet.

“What’s this then?” he asked the milkman suspiciously.
“It’s full cream, pasteurised…” he squeaked. “Low fat is just underneath the..”
“Paint you say!” the third soldier shouted insanely.
“M…milk,” the milkman stuttered.
“Never heard of it,” the second soldier hissed suspiciously.
The milkman looked around helplessly, his enormous goggles finally rested on me and I was reminded of some sort of cartoon insect I had seen on television once.
“And what are you doing with that cockroach on your shoulder?” the first soldier asked me belligerently.
“Hans is an iguana,” I stated calmly.
Hans stared, unimpressed, at the trio of gun-toting maniacs, the cigarette hanging nonchalantly off his lower lip.
“Why is it so green!” the third soldier shouted, coming up behind me.
I was about to answer when the second soldier smashed a bottle of milk on the road. The milkman jumped at this, staring at the spread milk as though it were blood.
“There’s no use crying over spilled…” I could hear him whimper.
He was whispering the phrase over and over like some form of prayer.
The first soldier cut him short with a brutal slap.
“We’ll set the mood here!” he bellowed at the cowering milkman.
The second soldier had squatted down on his haunches and was drawing milk patterns along the tar with his index finger.
“They were going to use this paint to cover the walls of parliament with their subversive slogans,” he muttered indignantly.
I suddenly felt the cold steel eye of the third soldier’s rifle barrel against my ear.
“Right then you filthy rebel agitators,” the soldier gnashed from just behind my head. “March!”

They led us away from the milk truck and toward the fence of prisoners. As we approached, the heat grew steadily more intense. In the distance, across the field, vortices of livid sparks were spewing from the effigy’s head at an alarming rate. The monolithic columns of pungent smoke caught in the heavy coastal breezes and whipwhirled over our heads and out to sea. I looked down to see that the uniformed figures against the fence were in fact ragged fire fighters. Their faces and hands were sooty and occasionally bloodied. They looked completely exhausted and were drooped over the wire mesh in exhaggerated postures of fatigue. Behind the van I could see the busy figures of technicians, sorting coloured leads and boxes of hardware. The teenage girl in the spotlight glanced up at us as we passed and then returned to her nails. Everything was bathed in the surreal, shifting glow of the inferno. On the other side of the highway, shadows danced wildly across the dunes. A man with a clipboard and spectacles stood, calmly surveying the chaos. It was to him that we were unceremoniously led. He noticed our approach and turned to face us. I noticed that he was wearing a dark trenchcoat and a cap not dissimilar to Federico’s. A small sheet of paper had been pinned to his back and there was no sign that he was aware of it. The paper had the word ‘LIEUTENANT’ typed neatly onto its surface. It fluttered a little in the wind.

“What’s this then?” he asked the soldiers.
“Agitators sir,” the first soldier said. “We found them running a golf cart full of paint out to the city”
“Paint you say?” the lieutenant frowned.
“Yes sir,” growled the second soldier. “They were planning to deface all the statues in the park.”
“Well that’s rather serious,” the lieutenant said after a pause.

I realised that part of me was still listening to the strange cadence and intonation of the oboe soloist in the bossanova track. The music continued to blare off the milk truck at an abominable volume, diffusing strangely in the wind and heat. Somehow the oboe player was managing to obstinately ignore the restrictions of the western scale and was now introducing a faintly Arabic flavour into an otherwise conventional melody structure.

“I am but a simple milk boy sir…” the milkman began to protest to the coated figure of the lieutenant.
The first soldier rammed the butt of his rifle against the milkman’s face with a sickening crunch. I saw the milk man totter and then raise his head in a dazed fashion. A line of blood had left his nose and one of the enormous goggle lenses was now webbed by a series of hairline cracks. He smeared at his bloodied face with white latex gloves while the soldier scowled down at him. The lieutenant ,who didn’t seem a bad sort at all, became somewhat offended by this display of violence and went back to his calm surveillance of the scene. It was at this moment that the femur chose to drop from my sleeve. I felt all the eyes in our party snap to it at once. The lieutenant even leaped two or three paces back.

“What in the name of God is that?” he spluttered, recovering his composure somewhat.
“It’s a human thigh bone!” the second soldier screamed.
“And it’s covered in blood,” the first soldier grumbled.
All at once, I felt the three rifles raise and level themselves at my head.
“What are you doing with a thigh bone up your sleeve?” the lieutenant asked me coldly.
I cleared my throat, trying to maintain a sense of calm in an otherwise uncontrollable situation.
“Its a birthday invitation,” I explained calmly.

They all stared at me with something like incredulity. The lieutenant even blinked once or twice. I looked around, weighing my options. I noticed that some of the fire fighters were now looking in our direction and whispering amongst themselves. The technicians however, were still working in an ant-like state of industrious obliviousness. The peroxided teenager, in contrast to their insectile disinterest, was utterly engrossed in our exchange. She blew slow bubblegum bubbles, listening as the events developed, flicking her nails to dry them. A technician came out of the shadows, heading for her pool of light. He handed her a steaming beverage in a Styrofoam cup, which she sipped at carefully, avoiding any damage to her pristine make-up

“Do you mean to say that this is…Art?” the lieutenant asked with a sincerely disturbed expression.
“Well, I suppose…for want of a better word, yes.” I nodded half-heartedly, unsure of my ground.
A vast range of inexpressible emotions, some bordering on psychotic anguish, some close to a sort of religious fear, seemed to surface across the lieutenant’s spectacled face in the space of a moment.
“Shoot them,” the lieutenant said suddenly. “Shoot them all.”

The soldiers grabbed us and began shoving us forcefully in the direction of the fire fighters. We had gone about three paces when something in the milkman snapped. He turned and screamed up at the lieutenant.
“You people force our freedom from us and then you milk us dry! You take away our children and then take the food that was intended for them! You stuff your faces with our lives and then demand more! More! More! All you do is imprison us and then herd us in huge numbers to the slaughterhouses! And for what! For what! Abuse! Greed! Ignorance! You take our children and milk us mercilessly! You..”

At that point a howling siren echoed from somewhere just behind the van. The milkman stopped in confusion as the soldiers all snapped to attention. Even the lieutenant turned to face the sound, straightening his arm into a salute. The girl, I noticed, had jumped up suddenly, spilling her coffee onto the ground. She spat out her gum and had begun to feverishly adjust her hair. Tacky charm bracelets glinted at her thin wrists. I noticed for the first time that there was a white limousine parked amongst the nondescript vehicles. I wondered how I had failed to notice such an ostentatious sight amidst the other, more functional vehicles. I watched as a door opened slowly in its side. A shining jackboot emerged. The jackboot was followed by the considerable bulk of Federico’s father, General Alonzo Lazarr Alcazar. An invincible stillness seemed to radiate from his impeccable uniform and resonate in the eyes of all those present. Raging fire glinted off the hundreds of medals pinned to his enormous breast. Sunglasses obscured his eyes and he twirled a cigarillo in his white magician’s gloves. A riding crop was tucked neatly beneath his arm, a brace of six shooters glittering at his enormous paunch. I watched as a vaguely skeletal soldier exited the front passenger door to attend to the General. The pair began to stroll casually down towards us, the General’s medals clinking loudly with each step. The skeletal soldier followed closely behind, his head skulking to and fro, observing and recording all. They stopped when they had reached the girl. The General however seemed to ignore her completely. He stared out at the flaming image of himself with an air of galactic indifference. The skeletal soldier, on the other hand, engaged the attention of the girl, passing a sheet of paper to her and pointing out several details along its surface. They remained in conference for several moments, the girl nodding frequently and occasionally checking her make-up in a small compact. After a while, they appeared to reach some form of decision. The girl picked up a small green flag and waved it over her head for all to see. The technicians, upon the girl’s signal swarmed down on the space around her, spilling screwdrivers, headphones and doughnuts as they ran. They began setting up elaborate banks of sound equipment and dragging cables everywhere. A microphone was suspended before the girl. Within seconds a make-shift studio had been constructed. Two gaffers ran leads down to a small control desk and a sound man gave a thumbs up. The girl produced a red flag and the sound man counted her in. I was surprised to hear the distant oboe solo cut short. The girl raised her arms in the manner of a cheerleader and spoke into the enormous chrome microphone.

“Citizens of the New Republic!” she intoned in her schoolmistress voice.
I could hear her words echoing in from the milk truck’s loudspeakers. The broadcast carried with it a delay which clashed with her real voice. The effect was rather disorientating, as the words began to phase into each other, creating a sonic mush which was altogether unpleasant.

“This is a civic address!” she continued in her all-powerful voice. “We the military have recently discovered the whereabouts of many of the book-burning, fire fighter rebels. They have been engaged in further acts of vandalism, including the destruction of much of our city’s farmland. Crops have been ruined and religious effigies burned. We are pleased to announce that the criminals have been executed and burned along with their ultimately futile acts of resistance. Our beloved leader General Alcazar has decreed that a curfew be placed on the city, active immediately! All citizens are instructed to return to their homes and remain there until dawn. The curfew will last from Ten pm to Six am as of tomorrow and will remain in effect till the rest of these heinous criminals can be brought to justice. Thank you for your attention.”

The girl held her arms up, dropping them only when the sound man had raised his green flag. The technicians descended like vultures, stripping the equipment in seconds as the girl produced a glossy magazine. She sat chewing gum and flicking through the shiny pages, oblivious to the hardware which was being ferried around her. The soldiers remained frozen as the General and his aide walked slowly down toward us. The milkman had by now collapsed into a trembling, sobbing wreck and I could see a number of the fire fighters crossing themselves in preparation for death. The General approached us, and ignoring the soldiers, placed his arm around my shoulders. He led me slowly toward the fence.

“How are you////” he enquired in a rich and fluid baritone. “We have not seen you around the house in a many months.”
“I’ve been depressed,” I answered truthfully.
“Yes, yes, ” the General nodded slowly. “The artistic temperament, I know it well. I once entertained notions of a life spent in pursuit of the finer things.”
He took a thoughtful puff on his cigarillo and I smelled the pleasant aroma of roasting cherries above choking smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies. We drifted nearer to the towering, burning likeness of the General.

“I had always wanted that life for Federico you see. It was after all, why I had him sent to Paris to experience the Arts and the more etheric channels of the soul. Unfortunately Federico is a boy after his father’s heart.”

The General gave a small chuckle at this. Our stroll had taken us close to the fire fighters now and I could see the fear and hatred in their grimy faces.
“It pained me to watch Federico enlist in the army,” The General frowned. “For in truth, I had always wished for him to grow into someone more like yourself. Perhaps you do not know it, but I have always valued your friendship with my son. My wife and I have followed your successes with great pride over the years. Why only last week I had a guitarist spared from the interrogation rooms because his recordings put me in mind of your artistic achievements.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this praise, so I maintained a respectful silence.
“Ah! The vagaries of chance,” he said wistfully.
I nodded as we came to a halt, close to the fence. The heat was blistering this close to the burning effigy. I could feel my hair begin to singe. The General, however, seemed impervious to the onslaught and stared thoughtfully into the inferno. At some point, part of the effigy’s head detatched and crashed to the field below with a scream of igniting material. Sparks detonated violently over the corn and flayed about in the air like hellish fireflies. I could smell the unexpected perfume of the roasting corn and it began to make my mouth water. I realised that I hadn’t eaten anything for hours. I looked over to the fire fighters and saw that they were staring at the General with an unbearable tension.

“General Alcazar,” I said, turning to face him. “Would it be somehow possible to spare these fire fighters?”
“Ah ///,” the General said, slapping me on the back with a hand of iron. “I applaud your noble intentions and your sensitivity to your fellow man, but unfortunately these men will shortly have to face a firing squad.”
“I see,” I replied, thinking for a moment. “Would it then be possible to fire over their heads?”
The General slowly raised his cigarillo to his lips and inhaled deeply. He breathed out a slow cloud.
“Fire over their heads you say,” he said, evidently mulling the proposal over with great seriousness.
“Yes General, over their heads.”
“Poetry,” he grumbled with satisfaction. “Sheer poetry.”

He signalled for his aide, who had remained, loitering respectfully with the soldiers. The skeletal soldier ran up to us in long loping strides and bent as the General beckoned for his ear. Some vague mumblings passed between them before the aide returned to the soldiers. I watched, shielding my face from the heat as the soldiers lined the fire fighters up against the fence. The fire fighters responded sluggishly, as though already resigned to their fate. The aide then whispered instructions to the lieutenant. The lieutenant nodded curtly and yelled a command. The soldiers trotted in formation and stood smartly to attention some meters before the condemned men. The lieutenant then shouted another command and the soldiers raised their rifles. The command was repeated and the rifles were raised another fourty five degrees until they were trained, rather ironically, at the effigy’s disintegrating head. The fire-fighter’s were looking at each other in a frenzy of confusion. The lieutenant gave a sharp shout and the soldiers fired a salvo. The fire fighters all jumped as the volley passed over their heads, striking the effigy’s head and shredding it into an explosion of burning debris. The wind caught this flaming shrapnel and scattered it toward the hills in a rather spectacular, though unintentional pyrotechnic display.

“Sheer poetry,” the General repeated, gazing at the flying remnants.
He turned to me once more.
“You have done well here tonight ////,” he stated. “You have demonstrated, in very practical terms how Art can be beneficial to the common man.”
I blinked frantically, shielding my face against the raging heat.
“I know that you think my life to be a life devoid of such poetry,” he murmured, tossing his cigarillo into the field. “But I can assure you that this is not the case.”
I could feel Hans trying to crawl into my jacket to escape the scorching air.
“The artist offers his crumbs of poetry to the overwhelming mediocrity of the masses,” he said with great conviction. “Whereas the task of the dictator is to make poetry of that mediocrity itself.”

By now the heat was so oppressive that I found myself curling up into a little ball in the grass, pushing my head deep into the stalks to protect my raw skin. I eventually opened my eyes to see the General striding back to his limousine. I pulled myself away from the fence and staggered to the cooler shadows as the soldiers released the condemned men. I watched the fire fighters all run to the General and fall at his feet, weeping and offering their heartfelt thanks at his unexpected display of mercy. Already the aide was instructing the technicians to measure the prostrated fire fighters for olive uniforms. The peroxide girl was walking amongst their kneeling forms, smiling with glossy lips and distributing bright green helmets. A fresh stock of rifles was being unlatched. I walked down the hill, retrieved the femur and assisted the injured milkman back to his truck. He wordlessly accepted my help and we drove off down the highway.

We invite all unpublished and well-established authors to submit their original work. Original work in English and any of the indigenous African languages, including (Swahili, Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Tswana, Swati, Vend, Tsonga, Ndebele, Yoruba, Hausa, Ibo, Kiswahili, Gikuyu, Amharic,Tigrinya, Tigre, Arabic, etc), will be considered. Please include translations in English).

Fiction: Submit one short story (Entry may have any theme or subject but should not exceed 800 words. Stories must be original and should not have been previously published anywhere. Handwritten entries will not be accepted. Submit short story entry with a bio and contact details.

Poetry: submit between 4-6 poems (Poems to fit a full page of the anthology). Submit poems with a bio (45 words) and contact details. Deadline: All submissions must be received no later than July 25, 2008.
All submissions must be emailed to: (Mphande.1@osu.edu) & (doke_29@yahoo.com)

Paste submission into the body of the email. No word attachments please. Entrants must be residents of any country in Africa, those born on the continent but currently reside outside the continent, etc), and naturalized citizens of any country on the continent. We encourage entries from West Africa, East Africa, Saharan Africa, and Africa south of the continent (especially Burundi, Malawi, Lesotho, Swaziland, Botswana, Angola, Zambia, South Africa, Tanzania, Uganda & Zimbabwe), especially women. Compensation: Contributors will receive a copy of the anthology upon publication. All contributors retain copyrights of their material/work. A major US publisher will publish this anthology in the fall of 2009, and a distinguished African writer/scholar of high standing will write the foreword to the book.

Today I actually remember being in school. So many days have been a blur lately, but this afternoon stood out. We were learning about the body in biology. When the teacher asked about the kidneys and their function, I actually put up my hand. Finally something I knew.

I said that they’re bean shaped organs the size of my fist. There are two of them, that they’re reddish brown and they’re located in my upper abdomen. Their function is to filter waste, fluids and extra salt out of my blood. My teacher was impressed with me, for once.
Then she asked me, and the class, what happens when kidney’s fail.
I stared at her blankly, like I didn’t know, except that I guess I did.
You die, she said, harshly, then moved on to the pancreas.
I guess it’s hearing it from someone completely objective, someone who’s just stating the facts.
Someone who doesn’t know it’s you.
It was like a reminder, a loud alarm clock that my organs are rotting. My kidneys are failing.
It feels like I’m being kicked hard and fast by someone wearing soccer cleats.
It makes me feel like I’m not in control of my own body. I have to watch as it ejects food and swells up like a balloon. My eyes get puffy and I feel my body temperature drop by like a million degrees. Everyone I know is worried about me which just makes me feel guilty. They keep telling me I’m going to dehydrate, which would be crazy because it’s the middle of winter.
It’s been raining a lot, and sometimes I wish I could lie down outside, on the pavement, with my mouth open, drinking it all. I wish getting better were that easy.
The doctors have made it clear to my mom that I need more dialysis. I’ve had this condition since I was eight but it got a lot more serious this year. The thing I know for sure is, we can’t afford it, even as my mom denies it. She shouldn’t, I’m too old, I know the truth. I got no more ubuqwebe, my mother yelled at no one in particular this morning. She had no more jewelry left to hawk. We’re officially skepselas, the poor folk.
Not that we were ever exactly fat cats, but we managed, before. My mom made more money, she had a boyfriend who lived with us who helped out. My half brother, who’s older, helped. Now it’s just the two of us. Now we have to do embarrassing things, like show up at the hospital and beg . Half the hospitals around here won’t even look at you if you don’t have a gun shot wound, if you’re not dying on the spot. “You should jola one of the doctors, mom”, I joke as we sit in the taxi on our way to the hospital. You’re still good looking, you could make it happen. Uyabeda, she spat at me, disgusted. You’re talking garbage. What, you think I’m a magosha now? It’s the first time I’ve seen her look really angry in months. It kind of felt good, almost normal.
It’s raining as we get out of the two Rand taxi, a Zola Budd, as they say around here, a Toyota, which is missing its windows and its license plate.
It was a four -four, where you sit with 4 people next to you on each side, and the kid sitting next to me, who was probably five with sticky hands kept grabbing at my hair. I had to control the urge to bite her. It’s 9:30 at night, 45 minutes after my mom got off work, at the nearest one fifteen minutes from our flat. It’s Hillbrow Hospital, the H Hosi, as they call it around here. We walk past a park and a school, plus a bunch of day care centers. I guess all the teenage mothers and gang members have to put their kids somewhere. My mom thinks this side of Hillbrow is a lot safer than where we live but I’m not so sure. I was kicking one of those small coke cans as we were walked in and I nearly stepped on a syringe. It could’ve gone right through my shoe so I kept my mouth shut. She’s got enough shit to worry about as it is.
We live in Highpoint, which actually is a physically high point, on a hill, right in the middle. If the Tsotsis that hang out outside our building smoking all the time are right, our area is the number one place for drug deals in the country. They call it Heroin Heights, but what I’ve seen a lot of is crack and coke.
The streets are lined with one star hotels, street meat vendors and real magoshas getting ready to hlahla any guy stupid enough to pay them. Our apartment is on Claim st, near Kotze, across the road from the infamous Protea Hotel. It’s legendary for the amount of jijis, underage girls, that are there all the time. I can see them without squinting from my window. Sometimes there are moms, like in their forties even. I can see it in the lines in their faces, that dead look in their eyes. They wish they were dead, I can tell. They stand outside, smoking dagga, staring vacantly into the street. At night they’re way younger. Some of them look my age. They all wear the same gold or purple eye shadow, red lipstick and black fishnets, or torn tights. When their legs are bare you can see bruises and sometimes scratches. When they bend over, you can see everything. No underwear, nothing. Every night when I go to bed my room is bathed in orange and green neon from the hotel sign. One of my mom’s friends once offered to make me some curtains, my mom keeps saying I should put up some towels, but I always say no. Orange and green are my favorite colors.
My mom is taking control of the situation now. My legs feel like they’re going to buckle at any second. She’s got this hard look in her eyes, this street look I’ve seen her use with the guy who drives the banana- kaar through our street. He comes by once a week, exchanging our used bottles for bags of popcorn and chips. We spend hours scrounging for stuff, swiping liquor bottles from our neighbors garbage. Then he tries to stiff us, tries to give us half or less of the amount he owes us. Then my mom goes from being friendly and polite, a mam’gobozi, who gossips with them, to
their worst enemy. There’s this moment of disbelief, this palpable look of shock on their faces, before they just give up and give her what she wants. My ouledi is badass.
My eyes begin to well up and I wonder if she notices. A while ago I learned how to cry in public without anyone noticing. I don’t change my facial expression and I let the tears fall individually. I think being quiet is the best way to get away with anything. A couple years ago, at school, I got bullied by some other kids. I once got pushed in front of a door and everyone laughed as it slammed in my face. My lip was swollen and the skin above my nose and under my eyes bulged into hard red bumps. I sat crouching behind it, bleary eyed and blubbering in pain. No one came near me. Guys walked right past me, and this girl that I thought was cool and wanted to be friends with saw me, laughed and kept walking. No one said a word to me. I haven’t
been able to cry in public since.
My mom knows me better than anyone. I cry in front of her all the time. She’s knows I’m about to break down, she can tell, so she steers past the front desk in the emergency room. She finds a single empty chair and I sink into it. It’s made of worn blue leather, and has stuffing coming out of its right arm. There’s a table full of dog eared magazines beside me. I leaf through an old issue of Time, feel disgusted, put it down. They never write about us. They never talk about the people who really struggle, the people in the townships. She leans up against the side of my chair. There’s nowhere for her to sit.
My mom works harder than anyone I know. The best word for it is phithezela-hectic. She cleans houses six days a week. When I get up in the morning she’s already gone, and when I get home she’s still not back yet. She’s hardly ever around, so she can’t take of me when I’m sick. She strokes my hair now. I used to wear it in tight thin braids to make it feel like I had extensions. I felt so weird about having hair that was red and soft to the touch that grows at such a tremendous rate. I thought about cutting it all off at one point and wearing hats and berets like my mom. She never had extensions. I guess I’ve gotten used to it now.
I don’t want her to feel bad about anything. I understand that she needs to work. It could be a lot worse, I say. We could be out on the street. She shakes her head and looks away. Aiiii, she mutters shaking her head. We nearly there, hey. We haven’t had any electricity for three days now. It’s fine during the day, but at night I have to use a torch just to get to the bathroom. I can’t see to do my homework or read, I can’t listen to music and I have a boyfriend and he can’t even call me. She starts filling out the hospital forms for me. She writes out my date of birth and then my age. I’m going to be seventeen next week. It’ll be at least a couple of hours before anyone can see us. I close my eyes. I wish I had something to knock me out. I open my eyes and find my mom filling out her section. Occupation: housekeeper. Nanny. Professional taker of other people’s shit. She gets down on her hands and knees and scrubs their floors for less than a thousand Rand a month. She makes them huge meals with fancy food, and we’re subsisting on fruit loops with milk that’s past its expiry date. Their food would probably make me sick, but the whole thing makes me sick to be honest. They treat her like a sbotho, like a worthless person that they can replace at any time. Which I guess they can. My mom has a grade five education. When I graduate from high school, it’ll be a big deal to her. When I look around me sometimes, at the neighborhood, when I think about my chances, my chances of making anything of my life, I get incredibly depressed. I don’t know what I want to be, or what I want to do except make a lot of money. Enough to buy us a house. Enough to get my mom some nice new things.
Enough for decent food, no more of this township crap. I keep telling my mom that if I eat any more achaar, which is township salad, oily, made of mangoes, that I’ll be sika for the rest of my life. I keep telling her my kidney problems come from eating too much achaar, or chicken dust which is meat, any meat, it could be pigeon for all we know, sold to us by street vendors. Sometimes she laughs, but usually she snaps and tells me I’m being a chizzboy, a spoiled brat.
I like to fantasize about dropping out of school and being a singer or a rapper.
I love kwaito, township hip hop, and African singers. My mom has all the albums, from Miriam Makeba to Brenda Fassie to Bongo Maffin and Mandoza. Kwaito adds color when everything is grey and white- the buildings, the crap burger joints, the wet laundry that hangs out of people’s windows, showing off our underwear, reminding the world that we’re working class, the gun shots at night. It’s too bad that my father was white. I’m a Dushi, a mixed race kid. I’d never be accepted if I wanted to make music like that. As it is, the kids I know from around here call me Coconut- a person who’s brown, kind of black on the outside but totally white on the inside. They hate that I don’t go with them to one of the shit schools in town. I go to an almost all white school in Edenvale that takes me forever to get to. My name is real name is Colleen, which they call me at school, but in Hillbrow everybody calls me Coco. It’s ok. It doesn’t bother me anymore.
A nurse comes to call into another waiting area. She and mom chat. She asks my mom if I have Magama Amathathu, if I have AIDS. She says it because I’m thin, because I haven’t been keeping anything down. I’m about to snap, I’m about to say no lady, not AIDS, just HIV.
It’s the kind of joke my mom wouldn’t find funny. She doesn’t want a phalafala, she tells me, sharply poking me in the leg. It’s true, I know. The last thing we need is a fiasco.
Sometimes when I think about being sika, I think about how many years I’ve had these health problems, I think about how little we have money wise, how my mom has to phanda, to make ends meet, I get so angry. I understand why people deal drugs, why people rob houses, why stupid people get shot. Everyone just wants to get out. Everyone is desperate to get out of this place as soon as they can. And there are so many of us.
My boyfriend is from Zimbabwe. His name is Munya. He’s one of the refugees who hopped the fence, walked and crawled and climbed and possibly killed to get into this country.
He’s eight years older than me. He’s six feet tall, and thin. I can feel his hip bones and his rib bones when I touch him. He’s gentle all the time, at least with me. He’s different than most of the guys I’ve ever met.
If my mom thinks anything bad about him, she doesn’t say it. She knows he’s older, but she thinks he’s twenty five, not twenty eight. She was happy when he got a job in computers, and when he got fired last month, I didn’t tell her. She doesn’t need more to worry about; when he takes me out, she doesn’t need to know where he gets his money. It’s hard to meet a guy around here who doesn’t deal drugs. Munya doesn’t gufa- he doesn’t smoke crack or do coke.
He just deals it, because it moves a lot faster than weed and he makes so much money that if he gets caught he’ll be able to pay his bail. It’s not so bad when you think about it. He doesn’t see Magoshas or have phamakote, which is what they also call AIDS. We have sex, and most of the time we use condoms. It’s hard to remember all the time. When passion grabs you, it grabs you, it’s something intangible, a force that you can’t control. It’s a feeling I’ve always wanted to feel, so if it seizes me I try not to say no. Sometimes when I remember it’s too late. We’re nowhere near a place where we can get some. It would kill the moment, the feeling, the urgency. Sex helps the world goes black, it makes me forget that I’m sick, that I could die, that we have no money, that I might make nothing of my life. There’s a gnawing fear in me that I’m not as good as my classmates; that I can try and struggle and still not end up like them; with two parents, in a nice house, with a nice husband and family, with money, with security.
I can’t tell my mom that I’m having sex. She’ll think that I malunde- that I sleep around. She’ll be scared of me getting pregnant, even though we’re careful most of the time. Most of all, she’ll be scared I’ll never be a makoti, a bride. She’s scared I’ll end up tainted, used and thrown away like her. My mom has never been married. She wants everything to be better for me that it was for her. Sometimes it feels like too much to promise her. Sometimes it feels like too much pressure.
When we get called to the doctor’s rooms, finally, we’re told that we have to pay. The doctor explains to my mom that we have to, that not treating it can be fatal. We panic and talk, pace the passageway, and think. I suggest calling Munya for the money and my mom relents.
She still thinks he’s a stand up guy with a real job, instead of a lova, an unemployed guy who deals drugs and knows all the lyrics on Brenda Fassie’s Memeza album.
Sometimes when Munya is high, and bored, he sculpts things. He sculpts faces from pieces of wood, whole bodies from sticks that are lying around. He has an artist’s soul. Maybe that’s why my mom doesn’t fear him.
She sees his good side too.
It’s his drug money that pays for the dialysis. When he doesn’t have enough he and his friends break into houses. They say they never hurt anyone, just scare them until the job is done.
There’s something exciting about it, about taking life into your own hands, but there’s something scary about it too. When I think about my mom, going to work in a five year old uniform missing its middle button, with a rag tied around her head, stealing sugar from their pantry because she’s afraid to ask for some for tea, going without a lunch so I can eat one- I feel so sad and angry and guilty, guilty for not doing more.
Tomorrow night when he asks me to go with him and his friends to housebreak I think I’ll go with. I want to see what it’s like.
Sometimes it doesn’t seem like I have a choice, or much of a chance anyway of doing anything else. I mean, there’s the future that everyone’s always talking about for me, and then there’s the truth, the one I see everyday. The buildings, the drugs, the pocket knife I wear in the sock of my school shoes. I might do my best and never get out of here, or get away from it anyway.
I have to see what it’s like. I have to try it once, just to know.
I have to figure out if something, anything, makes me feel less angry.

.

check out bo cavefors’ blog here

almost totally villified and suppressed by the swedish establishment, cavefors’ 11 books desperately need to find a wider audience in english translation.

A short story by Neo Mvubu

I can still remember the day I was swept away by my love and lust for splendor and life. It was 1993, November 31st and the schools had just closed. I can still recall my mother going through financial troubles. Well that’s an incredible woman I tell you, she raised me and my 5 brothers and sisters in a 4 roomed house while my father disappeared in the mines in Johannesburg . My mother, she took in even the poorest of them all into our home, considered the mother of the streets, she practically raised every struggling being she could get hold of. Well, I for one did not understand how she could do that out of her meager domestic earnings, but she did. She said to me that it is through the love of Jesus that she does what she does; now I understand. My mother worked as a domestic worker, a profession I was ashamed of, I wanted the life, she used to talk about it, I did not understand and so did what I had to do.

When I was 18 years old, yes that was the year that I finished my schooling in, the best and somewhat the year that would change my life forever. The day we fetched our results was the day two white men approached me. They told me of an opportunity they were offering to young girls from underprivileged schools and homes. During the whole process, they said they would pay for me to study further and offer me a job while I’m there. (I shall not mention the name of the country here). They called my destination “the best place in the whole world,” They gave me money right there, I had never held so much money in my life and I knew my mother would disapprove so I had to make a plan.

I did not even have a passport, it took a month for me to get it, the week before the departure I decided to write a letter to my mom and here it goes:

To mama
I am a grown woman with responsibilities, I want the best for you mama, that’s why I left. By the time you read this letter I will be on a plane to London , I hope you understand the reason why I decided to leave. I want to get you pounds mama, so that you and my siblings could live a better life, it’s because of my love for you that I did this. I will write to you as much as I can and send money also. They said I could work as a nanny and earn more in a week than there in a month. Hope you understand and send my love to all my brothers and sisters and remember that I will always love you.
Yours in trust
Karabo

Here I am now, holding 2 plane tickets, I didn’t mention this - but they asked me to bring along a friend and so I did, her name is Thuto. She is struggling and has no parents at all, I had to bring her along, I wanted to give her the best experience of her life. We were so excited, the first time on a plane and out of the country for that matter! We were rather excited as we knew we were traveling to the land of milk and honey!

On our arrival, a van came and took us to this beautiful house, a mansion; it had a pool, beautiful gardens and the number of rooms I had ever seen. We were convinced we would be living the life, the life my mother always dreamed about. When we were very young, she would make up stories for us and say how wonderful she would feel if one of her children could reach that dream. They fed us more than we could chew, I had never seen so much food for one family in my life, and they laid it all on a big table and for us. When I saw it I thought of my mother and how I wished she was there with me enjoying the luxuries. Little did I know of what was to come that very night?
We were firstly introduced to “Mr. and Mrs. Dane”; they moved us from where we were and took us to another place not as tasteful as the first but better than my mother’s house. We slept for the night but heard strange men talking; it was as if a plot was made but my friend Thuto told me to relax. Mrs Dane came in and gave us clothes to wear, a lot of them, they were beautiful and stylish. I felt like a queen and changed them over and over to see how they would fit me. Thuto also did the same and further declared that there was nothing to worry about so I agreed and we ended up falling asleep right there with those clothes on.

11 o’clock on the dot, they woke us up, shoved us and told us it was time for work, I thought what type of work we would be doing at that time of day. I was surprised and kept asking questions, telling me to shut up, they hit me hard, harder than I have ever been hit, it was the first time I realized that these people really meant business. Thuto and me were taken into separate rooms but she came out bruised and depressed, I did not understand why she was the way she was. With me the clients I had to serve drinks did not pitch, they said that they did not make it and sent me back, no problem at all. With Thuto it was an absolutely different scenario, she walked in quiet and depressed as if isolated from her body, as if no life in her. I asked her what had happened but she would not talk. I could not understand how a vibrant person like her could fall like that, I even shouted at her for being ungrateful.

The following day, the same thing happened but this time they only took me in, they asked me to get dressed but I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t let them do to me what they had done to Thuto. So they took me as I was and there he was; a fat old white middle aged man, he was waiting for me. From that very moment I knew what my life would be like, I fought him, I really tried, he was too strong, and he ripped off my clothes. I didn’t want to but he pressed me down. I can still remember his sweat and how he pressed down my face onto the bed. I couldn’t move, I was just in so much pain, to a point where all my energy was depleted. The whole night I tell you shoving and pushing and tossing me, I felt dead inside. Even when he saw the blood he continued, he didn’t even try to stop, he felt nothing for me another human being. He just smiled at my misery.

I was then carried to the door of my room and they left me there locking the door behind me. Thuto saw me lying on the ground and carried me up, took me into the shower and washed me clean, she understood, no judgment at all, how could I have been so foolish. I was a virgin when I got there, he broke it, my virginity, I was only 18 but he didn’t see a human being all he saw was a…a receptacle for lust? That’s how I felt, hideous. Continually they raped us 92 days to be specific, I became so numb to the sex that I couldn’t breath, they took away my womanhood. I could not understand why they hated us so much.

I would think of my brother when they called me and how me and my brothers would laugh and play around our neighborhood, I would actually smile at how wonderful it was back home when I was with my family. I guess that gave me hope, hope that someone would find us but it took 3 months. For you it may seem few but for me it felt like years. The police finally waded in but it was 3 months too late for other girls, I never even knew there were other girls until right at the end. Some passed away from diseases, others from pain and others from heartache, it was a painful experience.
To think I had come all the way from South Africa from my family and friends is unbearable and the worst part, the fact that I brought along my friend hurt me even more. I felt horrible because she has gone through so much and I had to make it worse. She had no parents and got raped over and over, that was even worse.
We were finally taken to our homes after a lot of counseling and police interrogation, they took all those girls who also survived back home but we were still hurting and the money and job they promised us, never existed, and as for Mr. and Mrs. Dane, they were the pivots of that operation and got life imprisonment.

We got home finally and when I thought my mother would be upset she held me tight into her arms, took in Thuto also and made us a home cooked meal. I cried and apologized for putting her through that, I also apologized to my friend; they forgave me, that even made me cry more. Their love and understanding overwhelmed me and the worst thing of all is I could not forgive myself, it took some time but I was able to do it.

Now I am 25 years old and I have dealt with the demons of my past, I couldn’t be stronger and more resilient today. Our experiences are what shape us. Today we are heading an organization right here in South Africa for Human Trafficking especially to empower women and men in disadvantaged communities. It is through the Love of God that I live this day courageously.

`I don’t understand you,’ said Alice. `It’s dreadfully confusing!’

`That’s the effect of living backwards,’ the Queen said kindly: `it always makes one a little giddy at first –

`Living backwards!’ Alice repeated in great astonishment. `I never heard of such a thing!’

` — but there’s one great advantage in it, that one’s memory works both ways.’

`I’m sure MINE only works one way.’ Alice remarked. `I can’t remember things before they happen.’

`It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,’ the Queen remarked.

`What sort of things do YOU remember best?’ Alice ventured to ask.

`Oh, things that happened the week after next,’ the Queen replied in a careless tone. `For instance, now,’ she went on, sticking a large piece of plaster on her finger as she spoke, `there’s the King’s Messenger. He’s in prison now, being punished: and the trial doesn’t even begin till next Wednesday: and of course the crime comes last of all.’

`Suppose he never commits the crime?’ said Alice.

`That would be all the better wouldn’t it?’ the Queen said, as she bound the plaster round her finger with a bit of ribbon.

Alice felt there was no denying THAT. `Of course it would be all the better,’ she said: `but it wouldn’t be all the better his being punished.’

`You’re wrong THERE, at any rate,’ said the Queen: `were YOU ever punished?’

`Only for faults,’ said Alice.

`And you were all the better for it, I know!’ the Queen said triumphantly.

`Yes, but then I HAD done the things I was punished for,’ said Alice: `that makes all the difference.’

`But if you HADN’T done them,’ the Queen said, `that would have been better still; better, and better, and better!’ Her voice went higher with each `better,’ till it got quite to a squeak at last.

Alice was just beginning to say `There’s a mistake somewhere-,’ ** when the Queen began screaming so loud that she had to leave the sentence unfinished. `Oh, oh, oh!’ shouted the Queen, shaking her hand about as if she wanted to shake it off. `My finger’s bleeding! Oh, oh, oh, oh!’

Her screams were so exactly like the whistle of a steam-engine, that Alice had to hold both her hands over her ears.

`What IS the matter?’ she said, as soon as there was a chance of making herself heard. `Have you pricked your finger?’

`I haven’t pricked it YET,’ the Queen said, `but I soon shall - - oh, oh, oh!’

`When do you expect to do it?’ Alice asked, feeling very much inclined to laugh.

`When I fasten my shawl again,’ the poor Queen groaned out: `the brooch will come undone directly. Oh, oh!’ As she said the words the brooch flew open, and the Queen clutched wildly at it, and tried to clasp it again.

`Take care!’ cried Alice. `You’re holding it all crooked!’ And she caught at the brooch; but it was too late: the pin had slipped, and the Queen had pricked her finger.

`That accounts for the bleeding, you see,’ she said to Alice with a smile. `Now you understand the way things happen here.’

`But why don’t you scream now?’ Alice asked, holding her hands ready to put over her ears again.

`Why, I’ve done all the screaming already,’ said the Queen. `What would be the good of having it all over again?’

By this time it was getting light. `The crow must have flown away, I think,’ said Alice: `I’m so glad it’s gone. I thought it was the night coming on.’

`I wish _I_ could manage to be glad!’ the Queen said. `Only I never can remember the rule. You must be very happy, living in this wood, and being glad whenever you like!’

`Only it is so VERY lonely here!’ Alice said in a melancholy voice; and at the thought of her loneliness two large tears came rolling down her cheeks.

`Oh, don’t go on like that!’ cried the poor Queen, wringing her hands in despair. `Consider what a great girl you are. Consider what a long way you’ve come to-day. Consider what o’clock it is. Consider anything, only don’t cry!’

Dans son troisième roman le musicien, performer et vidéaste Jean-Luis Costes revient au chemin de l’édition autofinancée. C’est le même chemin de ses anciens films et enregistrements audio et cette fois de son nouveau roman «Un bunker en banlieue ». Sa maison «Eretic » (écrit en anglais) était la première société d’import VHS des films mythiques de Nick Zedd et de Richard Kern dans les années 80-90, en provenance des Etats Unis. Maintenant, après plusieurs années d’absence, cette ancienne société à lui est devenue une petite maison d’édition et ce roman est sa deuxième référence bibliographique. En étant émotionnellement liés, grâce à ses imports, avec cette ancienne société (renouvelée aujourd’hui), nous avons voulu honorer avec cet article sa rentrée dans le monde de la culture.

Ce roman écrit en argot «ne ressemble en aucun d’autre. Ce sont les derniers soubresauts d’un homme blessé devenu bête sauvage » (écrit par Sophie Diaz, sur la couverture verso de Jean-Louis Costes «Un bunker en banlieue », éditions Eretic, Saint Denis, pp.264, 2008). Nos anciens articles sur Jean-Louis Costes sont toujours en ligne sur son ancien site depuis 1998. Dix ans après, nous sommes restés des fans inconditionnels de Costes et nous avons suivi pendant ces 10 ans la plupart de ses performances parisiennes.

Écrit en première personne, ce roman est différent du précèdent «Grand-père » (sorti par une grande maison d’édition) qui racontait en troisième personne les mésaventures du papy Costes, immigré et ouvrier, pas très fort en français. Durant une semaine (entre le 7 et le 14 septembre), un jeune homme s’enferme chez lui en banlieue et affronte ses visions et hallucinations remplies de haine contre ses concitoyens «Promis, juré. Demain, je massacre cette putain de cité, op.cit., page 88 ». Pourquoi ces dates (7-14 septembre)? Parce que le 11 septembre qui est au centre est une date symbolique afin de connoter cette fois un nouveau terrorisme, celui de l’état contre les individus. Mais le protagoniste s’enferme et commence sa descente aux enfers pour quelle raison ? Pour pratiquer une sorte de «vengeance » vis à vis de la société méchante ou pour concurrencer le matraquage info du 11 septembre ? Tout le roman serait un monologue intérieur rempli de «haine douce » et d’autres ambiguïtés justifiées par le manque d’équilibre du personnage. Les phrases sans connexion directe, qui sautent «du coq à l’âne », sont les moyens d’une défense faible à l’agressivité extérieure. Le protagoniste se livre à son interprétation hystérique puisqu’il sent sa fin proche. Les phrases incohérentes sont parfois machistes, le langage typique de la banlieue (par exemple «Ce qui les branche en vrai, ces salopes, c’est voir tous les mecs bander pour leur moule »,op.cit. p.52) et parfois le contraire, c’est à dire homosexuelles (par exemple « C’est moi Momo, ton pote. Souviens-toi quand on s’enculait dans les chiottes du collège* » op.cit. p.140). Le soliloque primitif continue avec d’autres incohérences maladives, la marque d’un personnage frustré psychologiquement. Ainsi l’Internationale communiste serait un motif privilégié, qui revient constamment tout au long du roman, avec l’allocution nationaliste contraire «Rwanda » qui fait citation au génocide de 1994.

Nous n’allons pas vous révéler la fin mais nous allons seulement vous dire qu’elle est originale et inattendue. C’est un suicide ou un assassinat perpétré à la fin et si le deuxième, commis par qui ? Le protagoniste serait soupçonné de crimes pédophiles à cause surtout de la disparition étrange de sa fille Louise, âgée de 2 ans. Il y aura un interrogatoire policier contre lui ou il trouvera la voie pour s’échapper aux policiers ? C’est à vous de lire la fin.

Après avoir gagné dans sa vraie vie deux procès grâce à la justesse (et justice) des tribunaux français, Costes parvient encore une fois à gagner le titre d’artiste accompli et radical.

Dionysos ANDRONIS