Summoning the Rains: Third FEMRITE Regional Residency for African Women Writers

By Femrite Publications

One of the greatest challenges faced by African women writers is finding the time and the space to write. In November 2011 the third FEMRITE African Women Writers Residency alleviated this challenge for 15 women writers from 11 different countries across the continent. The writers from Kenya, Uganda, Malawi, Zimbabwe, Namibia, Tunisia, Ghana, Nigeria, South Africa, Cameroon, and Botswana gathered in Kampala, Uganda for two weeks. This anthology is the product of the writing developed before and during the residency. The short stories included are told from different perspectives, with varied voices, some experienced, others less so, but all told with freshness and honesty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Femrite Publications
• Release date: Nov 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9789970700264

Book preview

Summoning

the Rains

Summoning the Rains is an important book that everyone should read. This is a deft, witty, stylish anthology by the exciting new generation of women from all over Africa, writing about rapid change and the unchanging: love, violence, burning ambition, endurance. Maggie Gee, Author of The White Family (2002), shortlisted for the Orange Prize in 2005

Lovely and fascinating stories by Africa’s emerging female voices. This collection proves that the continent’s literary legacy is in good hands. Lauri Kubuitsile, Finalist for Caine Prize 2012

This is a rich tapestry of stories that transport you into worlds that are at once fantastic and real, stories that seamlessly blend the visceral and the intellectual. Many of them will hold you in thrall from start to finish, because of the exquisite telling and imagining, as well as the surprises that seem to lurk around every corner. Julius Ocwinyo, author of Fate of the Banished and Footprints of the Outsider

Summoning

the Rains

3rd FEMRITE

Regional Residency for African Women Writers

FEMRITE PUBLICATIONS LIMITED

FEMRITE PUBLICATIONS LIMITED

P.O. Box 705, Kampala

Tel: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

www.femriteug.org

Copyright © FEMRITE - Uganda Women Writers Association 2012

First Published 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission of the publisher or the contributors who hold copyright to their individual stories.

ISBN 9789970700257

Cover illustration by Bonnetvanture Asiimwe

[e-mail]

Text designed by Ronald Ssali

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Printed by:

Good News Printing Press Ltd.

P.O. Box 21228 Kampala, Uganda

Tel: [phone]

E-mail: [e-mail]

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

1. In the Shadow of God

Gothataone Moeng

2. The Absorber

Onyinye Ihezukwu

3. Walking the Familiar Path

Nakisanze Segawa

4. Flesh to Flesh

Tanya Sam Chan

5. In the Shadow of the Blue Bus

Isabella Morris

6. Inside the Rosebud

Jocelyn Bananuka Ekochu

7. Cold Feet on a Sunny Day

Susan Munywoki

8. Mother of the Beast

Sylvia Schlettwein

9. Nine Lives

Rosey Sembatya

10. Seeing Gray

Monique Eleanor Kwachu

11. Small Poles

Nana Nyarko Boateng

12. The Knife Pleat Skirt

Rhoda Zulu

13. A Son for Zondo

Mary Muzyece Sililo

14. Mother Bird’s Eggs

Juliet Kushaba

15. Beauty

Mamle Kabu

16. My Big Toe

Aujo Lillian Akampurira

17. I have Sinned

Tendai Tshakisani Makavani

18. Let it be an Angel

Hilda Twongyeirwe

19. States of Matter

Wame Molefhe

20. Bonding Ceremony

Beatrice Lamwaka

Acknowledgements

The stories in this anthology are so varied in terms of theme, thought and intensity that boxing them under a title and cover that fits all, felt like pushing a long-horned cow into the boot of a small car! Not that I have ever pushed a cow into a boot but I can imagine the task. The variety will ensure that every reader finds something intriguing, something to ponder on and enjoy, or something to laugh about; thanks to the ingenuity of the authors.

This work is a result FEMRITE’s 3rd Regional Women Writers Residency hosted in Uganda. Participants came from eleven countries. Nana Boateng; Ghana, Onyinye Ihezukwu; Nigeria, Monique Kwachu; Cameroon, Tendai Makavani; Zimbabwe, Suzan Munyoki; Kenya, Gothataone Moeng; Botswana, Rhoda Zulu; Malawi, Asma Nairi; Tunisia, Tanya Chan Sam; South Africa, Sylvia Schlettwein; Namibia and Beatrice Lamwaka, Jocelyn Ekochu, Rosey Sembatya, Nakisanze Segawa and Juliet Kushaba; Uganda. FEMRITE is grateful to these participants for dedicating their time to a programme aimed at strengthening the African writing sisterhood.

FEMRITE appreciates the development partners that have supported the organisation in enhancing women’s literary abilities across the continent. The November 2011 residency was supported by Stitchting DEON Foundation, Art Moves Africa, and the Royal Danish Embassy in Uganda. We appreciate their invaluable moral and financial support. Indeed, many African readers cannot harness their passion for reading if they do not identify with existing literature. This anthology has provided African women the opportunity to contribute to African’s literary heritage and to offer readers stories they can identify with.

As has been the custom, a few stories came from writers who were not at the residency. Thumbs up to Isabella Morris; South Africa, Lillian Aujo; Uganda, Mamle Kabu; Ghana and Wame Molefhe; Botswana, who submitted stories for this anthology. Mamle and Wame were at the second residency that was held in Jinja.

FEMRITE is very grateful to the residency facilitators, Ellen Banda - Aaku (winner of the Penguin Prize for Africa 2010) and Doreen Baingana (winner of the Commonwealth Foundation first Best Book Award 2006). They were awesome!

Eureka Place, the cosy hotel that hosted the event, is much appreciated too. It offered great hospitality and inspiration for the women to write.

It is hoped that reading communities and all FEMRITE supporters and fans will join hands to celebrate yet another anthology of African women writers!

Hilda Twongyeirwe

February 2012

Foreword

One of the greatest challenges we face as African women writers is finding the time and the space to write. In November 2011 the third FEMRITE African Women Writers Residency alleviated this challenge for 15 women writers from 11 different countries across the continent.

The writers from Kenya, Uganda, Malawi, Zimbabwe, Namibia, Tunisia, Ghana, Nigeria, South Africa, Cameroon, and Botswana gathered in Kampala, Uganda for two weeks. (Unfortunately, our first ever participant from North Africa—Tunisia—had to leave because of a personal emergency.) Together we wrote, and we shared our work, our ideas and our experiences. We discussed our writing projects and challenged one another in an effort to develop our writing skills and our stories. We are continuing this discussion on facebook and have formed a community of support.

This anthology is the product of the writing developed before and during the residency. These short stories are told from different perspectives, with varied voices, some experienced, others less so, but all told with freshness and honesty. They may not be real, but they are true, as has been said of good fiction.

Traditionally, many African women were groomed to be submissive; to lower their eyes, their heads, their voices. Our many mothers before us were expected to maintain harmony, to camouflage and contain matters that were potentially disruptive to the family or the community. In fulfilling this role as peacemakers, women often kept quiet. Hence, when African women first started to speak and write about issues they had incubated for years, they were labelled anti-tradition, rebellious. But still, they broke their silence.

Those days are behind us. As African women writers today, we are not speaking out as victims, we are discovering and embracing who we are, and by exploring difficult themes we are questioning ourselves. We are sharing our stories proudly.

The evaluation and varied expression of who we are as African women of all colours, religions, classes, ages, influences and interests is evident in the stories in this anthology. The themes are universal, the characters come alive, and the writing is evocative. Most of us know a woman who believes that she is better off in an abusive relationship than in no relationship at all, as does Ezine who in The Absorber, justifies her relationship with her abusive husband. And how often is incest committed against a child whilst adults - often women - look the other way, as they do in, Walking the Familiar Path. In another story, a mother is distraught when she discovers her daughter is a sex worker. And then there is the bride who has second thoughts as she walks down the aisle on her father’s arm. These are but a taste of the themes explored in this collection. Summoning the Rains is a valuable contribution to the growing library of contemporary literature by African women.

Finally, as workshop facilitators, we acknowledge the graciousness and willingness of the participants to contribute and be fully involved in the residency activities. We too learnt a lot about writing and the writing life, made new friends and returned to our own writing with renewed vigour.

And so here we present our voices and cheer, as our Nigerian sister taught us:

Bosa! Bosa! Bosa!

Ellen Banda - Aaku

Doreen Baingana

February 2012

3rd FEMRITE

Regional Residency

for African Women Writers

In the Shadow of God

Gothataone Moeng

When I was little, I thought it was my mother who summoned the rains. I thought it was she who commanded the night to softly swoop down, and that it was she who ignited the moon which lit our yard and the world beyond it. I remember that every day at dusk, when the sun bid farewell to the day, Mme would come to stand at the fence and shout out to my brother and me as we enjoyed our last moments of batho-safe.

"A ko le tle lapeng! Come home. The darkness is coming." And the darkness would come.

I thought it was Mme who summoned the rains. She would sniff the air and squint up at the darkening clouds with her half-blind eyes and say matter-of-factly, The rain is here. Hordes of peolwane birds would further darken the sky, flying across our yard, escaping the impending rain. And the rain would come.

It would fall into buckets and large containers that Mme put out to collect the untainted water. Fierce staccato rain fell on our corrugated iron roof and made a din that prevented everybody from talking.

Phenyo and I would remain wide-eyed and speechless waiting for it to stop so we could go hunting for treasures. My mother’s rains did not just bring the sweet water that she harvested and kept only for drinking; Mme’s rains also brought mud to be squelched under bare feet to a chorus of gleeful giggles, and millipedes to be poked into many legged wheels.

Mme’s rains also brought the beautiful little red velvet-skinned mites that we called gods. As soon as one spotted a god, one had to immediately kneel down, draw a cross and try to arrest the god within a circle. The gods always got away. Once, Phenyo who was six years old and five years younger than me at the time, found three gods and tried to possess them, each within its own circle, but they got away and I quickly claimed them as my own.

Phenyo ran straight to Mme. Kemotho stole my gods, he cried.

I watched from a distance too far for an accurate shoe-throw aim, as Mme straightened up from sweeping the ground. Puzzlement creased her face before laughter moved into her eyes. Mme was a tall woman whose skin was as dark as raisins. Her hair was often plaited into thick cornrows, but she always covered it with a headscarf. She was often stern and serious because she always had a matter on her hands, like redecorating the lelwapa, or weeding the yard, or sewing uniforms for the church ladies and dresses for their daughters. I was scared to disturb her with little reports, but my brother didn’t know any better. Perhaps this was why Mme did not scold him, why she called and sat both of us down. She told us that those gods were mere insects and that God existed everywhere, even within us. I believed her.

I believed that God was within Mme because she knew the answers to everything, and knew how to make everything better. Like how she had made me feel better one Christmas when I was the only girl among my cousins who did not have a new chiffon two-piece, and how her gentle hands were able to soothe a stomach upset caused by too much tripe at a wedding. Mme could look at you once and confessions would tumble out of your mouth unaided. When Mme sent us to Watson’s General Dealer, strange women would break up our playing with the other kids and say, Mma-Kemotho’s children? We would stop and nod. You know your mother won’t like you playing for so long. You know she is going to beat you?

As we set off running home, Phenyo would cast yearning looks at the kids who continued playing outside the shop. Kemotho, he would ask, "how come boPule can play, but we can’t?"

You know our mother; she thinks we are better than everybody.

But why can’t we play?

You are better off. You can play as long as you have finished your chores. Me? She always says I must read.

Why does she make you read all the time?

She says if I can read and write I can be one of those girls who work in the government offices, and then I will have money.

Are you going to be a government girl?

Well, our mother says I am, so I am.

Even in her absence, Mme hung around us like a spectre. But that was before the year of Seretse’s return from the white people’s country. The year Seretse’s people watched the skies for the aeroplane that would bring him home. The year they forgave him for marrying a white woman. When they realised it was better for their king to be home with an ngwetsi they did not choose, rather than wander around in the white people’s country, out of reach of his ancestors’ eyes. That was the year I turned fifteen, the year parts of my body disobeyed Mme. At the beginning of that year, hard morula fruits had sprouted on my chest. Mme looked up from her sewing one day and said, Kemotho, you have breasts.

The following morning, she woke me up while it was still dark and handed me the grass-broom. She showed me how to sweep the morula fruits away, using brisk up-down movements. Mme watched for a moment then, dissatisfied with my efforts, she wrenched the broom from me. I battled to stand still as her force swayed me to and fro, to and fro.

Every morning for three weeks, she woke me up and swept my morula fruits away: up-down, up-down, up-down. I endured the pain in silence but afterwards always smiled because despite my mother’s vigorous sweeping, my morula fruits showed their rooted stubbornness: instead of disappearing, they became bigger and bigger until eventually they surpassed the stature of a morula fruit. They became as big as mogorogorwana. After four weeks, Mme woke me up. She did not have the broom in her hands. I sat up as she settled herself on my bed. Her face looked softer in the early morning light. Mme? I was instantly nervous.

Kemotho, my child, you are grown now. I think your eyes are opened, you can see how I no longer go to the farming lands. How I stay here in Serowe, year after year, making sure you go to school.

"Yes, mma."

You can see these eyes of mine are dead. I am blind. Why? Because I have killed my eyes sewing these uniforms, stitching these dresses so I can send you to school. I don’t want you to suffer the way I did.

"Yes, mma."

I want you to finish school so you can become a secretary. Hmm? Who knows, maybe even a teacher. Then you can look after yourself. You can build a house just as big as those people from the royal family, maybe even bigger. You can take care of yourself, you hear me?

"Yes, mma." I averted my face to hide my resentment. I don’t want to be a typist or a teacher, I don’t care about a big house, I screamed in my head. Not only had my mother taken over my childhood, she now wanted to take over my womanhood too. Some of the girls in my class had dropped out of school to get married and start their own families. I too wanted my life to be my own.

On the day of Seretse’s return, Mme woke everybody in the yard at cock crow. She had made a fire, and boiled water in cooking oil tins blackened by fire. When I went to fetch my water, Mme was kneeling by the fireside, squinting as she used a piece of wood to scrape red-hot coals into a shovel, and then dumping the coals into an open iron. "Thoba-thoba, she said, without even looking my way. Why do you always have to be so slow? Your brother still has to bathe after you."

I scooped water from the tin on the fire and poured it into a bucket. Droplets from my cup landed on stray coals, and I watched as the coals hissed and then turned black. My mother closed the iron and padded a piece of cloth around the handle, then carried the iron into the house. I carried my water behind the house to bathe away from my mother’s impatient and overzealous eyes. I shivered as I took my night-clothes off, but that was remedied by the hot water sliding down my body.

When I went back into the house, I was surprised to find the white dress that I only wore for church newly ironed and draped over a chair. Mme sat on the floor, with a towel laid between her open legs, ironing Phenyo’s trousers. I could not risk interrupting her; so I asked my questions through Phenyo.

Mme, are we going to church? he asked.

Church? Who has time to go to church today?

Do we have Sunday school lessons today?

She stopped ironing and frowned at him. Then it dawned on her. Kemoothooo! she shouted. As I ran in from my hiding place, she spoke in the same loud voice. The witches must be using you! If you want to ask a question, why don’t you speak up yourself? I shuffied my feet. Even with my head down, I could feel her eyes on me. Then her voice softened: We are not going to church. We are going to welcome Seretse home.

Mme, who is Seretse? Phenyo asked.

"Bathong! she propped the iron up so its sharp edge faced the roof. You don’t know who Seretse is? He is the owner of this ground that we walk on."

I watched my brother as he glanced out of the door to look at the ground. His quizzical look showed he wondered how a strange man could own the ground in our yard. I smiled; at fifteen I knew that Mme meant Seretse was our king. It had been announced at the kgotla that after five years, he was finally coming home.

Later, Mme, wearing her best German-print dress, walked briskly ahead of us. Phenyo shuffied beside me, the only boy of his age in trousers and long-sleeved shirt. We walked