Munyori Literary Journal
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FICTION
INTERVIEW
POETRY
Waiting by Novuyo Rosa Tshuma (Zimbabwe)
There is a guy with an unkempt Afro slouching in the corner.
He reminds her of an American Movie she saw once, where
there were these dagga-smoking fellas who called themselves
‘Radicals of the Free Movement’. Didn’t comb their hair. Let
it twist and knot and gather blanket hair and anything else that
was eager to leech onto it. Didn’t seem to have jobs to go to.
Homes to go to. Spitting poetry on the street corner the whole
day, sometimes in the alleys where the police couldn’t see
them. Smoke swaying seductively from the holes of their
noses, through their brains, giving them the intellectual power.
Puff puff puff, throughout the entire movie.
There is a guy with an unkempt Afro slouching in the corner.
He reminds her of an American Movie she saw once, where
there were these dagga-smoking fellas who called themselves
‘Radicals of the Free Movement’. Didn’t comb their hair. Let
it twist and knot and gather blanket hair and anything else that
was eager to leech onto it. Didn’t seem to have jobs to go to.
Homes to go to. Spitting poetry on the street corner the whole
day, sometimes in the alleys where the police couldn’t see
them. Smoke swaying seductively from the holes of their
noses, through their brains, giving them the intellectual power.
Puff puff puff, throughout the entire movie.
The Late Chief M by JKS Makokha (Kenya)
We entered the strange home of memory at exactly
three and a half minutes to midnight. The pattern was
the same. The chief walked ahead. I was always
behind him at the strictly recommended two feet apart
distance. I was also usually armed with the
voluminous scroll of fill-in-the-blank-spaces
government spreadsheet protected by a plastic gunny
sack. While I was on duty, the sack never left my
head at all. Never. In it were other precious national
materials bought with the tax-payer's money.
We entered the strange home of memory at exactly
three and a half minutes to midnight. The pattern was
the same. The chief walked ahead. I was always
behind him at the strictly recommended two feet apart
distance. I was also usually armed with the
voluminous scroll of fill-in-the-blank-spaces
government spreadsheet protected by a plastic gunny
sack. While I was on duty, the sack never left my
head at all. Never. In it were other precious national
materials bought with the tax-payer's money.
Election Day by Christopher Mlalazi (Zimbabwe)
His Excellency threw his head back and cackled in laughter. ‘And
you are now crapping in your pants!’ He clapped his hands
sharply, and cackled again. But there was no laughter in his blood
shot eyes. They glittered wetly. ‘Stop being paranoid.’ He
wagged his finger at Twenty. ‘To use your own words - it is
you who is going to crash out of my elite team if you behave like
an old woman who has just dreamt of her departed ancestors
calling her name. Anyway,’ he spread out his hands in front of
his chest, palms up, his shoulders hunched. ‘Why should you be
frightened of the election results? You are not the leader of this
country.’ He paused for a moment, his eyebrows arched, his
hands still spread out towards Twenty. Then he dropped them on
the arms of the throne and continued. ‘Let me tell you
something for nothing my dear personal advisor. This is not a
children’s game we are playing here. This is not ara-wuru-
wuru- skoko. It is a game of true men. Men who are larger
than life. Did you read comic books when you were young?’
His Excellency threw his head back and cackled in laughter. ‘And
you are now crapping in your pants!’ He clapped his hands
sharply, and cackled again. But there was no laughter in his blood
shot eyes. They glittered wetly. ‘Stop being paranoid.’ He
wagged his finger at Twenty. ‘To use your own words - it is
you who is going to crash out of my elite team if you behave like
an old woman who has just dreamt of her departed ancestors
calling her name. Anyway,’ he spread out his hands in front of
his chest, palms up, his shoulders hunched. ‘Why should you be
frightened of the election results? You are not the leader of this
country.’ He paused for a moment, his eyebrows arched, his
hands still spread out towards Twenty. Then he dropped them on
the arms of the throne and continued. ‘Let me tell you
something for nothing my dear personal advisor. This is not a
children’s game we are playing here. This is not ara-wuru-
wuru- skoko. It is a game of true men. Men who are larger
than life. Did you read comic books when you were young?’
Interview with Deborah Ahenkora (Ghana)
The Baobab Prize is pushing the literary giants of
the next generation into the limelight and producing
classic stories that will be appreciated for many
years. The Baobab Prize 2010 is funded by the
Global Fund for Children, The African Library
Project as well as friends and supporters of the
initiative. We are proud to be associated with Bryn
Mawr College (the alma-mater of Rama and I) that
has believed in this idea from the inception.
The Baobab Prize is pushing the literary giants of
the next generation into the limelight and producing
classic stories that will be appreciated for many
years. The Baobab Prize 2010 is funded by the
Global Fund for Children, The African Library
Project as well as friends and supporters of the
initiative. We are proud to be associated with Bryn
Mawr College (the alma-mater of Rama and I) that
has believed in this idea from the inception.
Short Subject: Stranger by Quinton
Duval (USA)
Open with the young vagabond
coming towards us, a black dot
that gradually forms arms, legs,
a head, then features and colors
emerge, as if distance is fog and
closer is clear air. We can read
his face: he comes from over there,
where the devil is in the driver’s seat.
He doesn’t know that “over there”
is everywhere, that horror
moves faster than any imagination.
Duval (USA)
Open with the young vagabond
coming towards us, a black dot
that gradually forms arms, legs,
a head, then features and colors
emerge, as if distance is fog and
closer is clear air. We can read
his face: he comes from over there,
where the devil is in the driver’s seat.
He doesn’t know that “over there”
is everywhere, that horror
moves faster than any imagination.
Resurrecting a Poppy by Brian Vogl
Seven or eight months ago the sun faded
Snuffed out like dawn in a snow storm
Or a plane ride home
Her dregs laid down its heavy blanket
His weakened eye winced
As a drowsy evening rides West
Seven or eight months ago the sun faded
Snuffed out like dawn in a snow storm
Or a plane ride home
Her dregs laid down its heavy blanket
His weakened eye winced
As a drowsy evening rides West
