<<>>the middle east is a fiction :: amatoritsero ede :: editorial by the editor-in-chief of the maple literary supplement

"As cliché as it might sound or read that ‘truth is sometimes stranger than fiction’, the series of persistent symbolic and literal political explosions in the Middle East and North Africa, country after dazed country, proves that truism right once again."

<<>>impossible me :: keith davis :: a blog chronicling the experience of one of my nyu film colleagues at the sundance directors lab

"I saw my brother’s small body laid in a casket before me. Simultaneously, but a world away, the Twin Towers were being attacked in New York City. It took years to find our way again as a family. I went back to acting, but I was changed. I wanted to be more than an actor...to share and create more. I thought back to how our intense personal grief set against the backdrop of the nation’s public grief from 9/11 held so much conflict for us. Back then I couldn’t know it, but I was already writing the screenplay in my head. I already had a title: The American People."

<<>>dreams at dawn :: ed. helon habila, tsitsi dangarembga, and madeleine thien :: a collection of stories written by participants in the fidelity bank international creative writing workshop

"I could give in now, and end the drama. We could easily settle on a December date, a noon as cold as Stella is. Clad in one of my old tweed suits, and surrounded by a tiny fraction of the crowd that'd have been present in Lagos, I will cast snow-flecked sand on the remains of my wife and companion of fifty years. (As things stand if I tell Dapo I need him to fly a planeload of our friends over from Lagos--including our Vicar, good old Ayanbadejo, and as many members of his choir as have valid American visas--he will.)

Stella will lie there, the snow tumbling irreverently onto her casket. My eyes will be dry, like my lips. I will not feel the cold. I will focus on the details of everything unfolding around me, like noticing that the grave is a double-chambered one, to confirm my worst fears--that here is my final resting place. Here is where I will become nothing, my sole consolation being that I will lie next to Stella. I will wonder what will become of the graves waiting at my house in Lagos; calculate the dimensions of the swimming pool they will be expanded into." (from The Funeral, by Tolu Ogunlesi)

<<>>in the spirit of mcphineas lata :: lauri kubuitsile :: short story shortlisted for the caine prize

"McPhineas Lata, though thus despised by most husbands, was adored by most wives. His funeral was full of dramatic fainting and howls of grief echoing as far as the Ditlhako Hills. Tears fell by the bucketful and nearly succeeded in creating the village's missing namesake. The husbands stood at the back of the gathering wearing variations on the theme 'stern face' while the minister said his last words. When it was time to pour dirt on the coffin of McPhineas Lata, the husbands rushed past their crying wives and grabbed up the shovels. Some even came prepared with their own to make the work faster. Indeed, no one could remember a burial that had lasted for so short a time. No sooner had the wives heard that first shovelful of soil hit against the wooden coffin, as they were still organizing themselves for their final grand crescendo of wailing, than the soil was seen to be heaped into a great mound over the grave. The men then piled stones on top, of a great number sure to keep McPhineas Lata firmly in his eternal bed. The men stacked the shovels by the grave, slapped the soil off their hands, and led the way back to the village leaving all their McPhineas Lata problems in the cemetery for good. Or so they thought."

(Update: Meet Lauri in this week's issue of Next on Sunday.)

deeply moved by butterfly dreams, a story by ugandan writer beatrice lamwaka (pictured above) shortlisted for the caine prize. read it here. check out the other shortlisters here. --AL.

"Lamunu, we may never tell you this: we buried your tipu, spirit, when word went around that you would not come back to us. The neighbours had begun to tell us that you would never return. Bongomin, who returned after four years of abduction, said he saw your dead body bursting in the burning sun. We never believed you were dead. We also didn’t want your tipu to roam northern Uganda. We didn’t want you to come back and haunt us. Ma never believed for one moment that you were gone. It was her strength that kept us hoping that one day you would return. She said she dreamt that butterflies were telling her to keep strong. The night after the dream there were so many butterflies in the house. We thought she was running mad. We thought you had taken her mind with you."

-- Excerpt from Butterfly Dreams, by Beatrice Lamwaka

i read the Caine Prize-winning stickfighting days by olufemi terry yesterday.

boy. writing is such an interesting thing. we all have such different psyches, so many different energies and urges manifesting within us.

i honestly had to wonder what would possess someone to write a story about street children bludgeoning each other to death with sticks. i am not good with gratuitous violence, even if well written, and was actually quite horrified in the end and wished i had never read it. (and i can't say that about too many stories!) i am not knocking his work, or the prize, i'm just saying. don't take my word for it, though. you can read the story online yourself.

Update: I wanted to add that, upon further digging, I learnt that this story was originally published in Chimurenga Vol.12/13: Dr. Satan's Echo Chamber. Puts it in a little more context, so I now understand that this macabre killing fantasy was compelled by a call for submissions. I still kinda want to gouge my eyes out, but I suppose that's a testament to the strength of the writing.