Hashtag JenniferMakumbi! Hashtag Winning!

What is she thinking? Is she anxious? Does she feel the burden of all our hopes on her shoulders? I wonder how she will react if she wins. Of course, she will be happy, ecstatic and maybe even, “I have no words to describe what I am feeling.” She might feel all that but that is not the part of her brain I would want access to. It is the part of her heart or mind that doubted if this writing thing was for her that I wish I could have access to. The part that was unsure. The part that was “always wracked with guilt as I went to work and spent money on my education“. That’s the part I would want to read.

I wonder if in hopes of winning, she has already budgeted for the prize money and perhaps told herself, “Finally! I can get that bag I have been lusting after at that store on my way to school.”

I hope she wins. For us, for herself and so she can get any bag she may have lusted after.

Because if she does not win, that would be embarrassing. Not sad but embarrassing and awkward. Kind of like if Brazil had lost that opening match to Croatia. How would we even react? We would of course clap and maybe ululate because we are nice and polite but would we then down our drinks and walk out, our heads bowed in shame or would we hold her hands and tell her we were proud of her anyway?

This is what I was thinking as I prepared to go to the Commonwealth Short Story Announcement event. And I really should not have gotten that ahead of myself and worried myself like that because Jennnifer Makumbi won!

Makumbi reads from her award winning story: Let's Tell This Story Properly — Makumbi reads from her award winning story: Let’s Tell This Story Properly

There are times in Uganda when there seems so little to celebrate. Read the newspapers, sign into Facebook and you will find more things that will trouble your spirit than will lift it. Until nights like last night happen to us. Nights/days when a Makumbi, a Kiprotich, a Malingu takes one big one for #TeamUganda. Nights when it feels good to say that you are a Ugandan writer because if Makumbi can do it, the rest of us now have more motivation to try harder.

Congratulations, Jennifer Makumbi! Thank you for writing!

Commonwealth Short Story Prize judge, Ellah Allfrey

On the judging process, Chair of the judging panel, Ellah Wakatama Allfrey, said: “The winning stories from each region boasted craft, intelligence and ambition. Choosing one overall winner felt an impossible task. In the end, we felt that the characterisation in Jennifer Makumbi’s Let’s Tell This Story Properly, with its bereaved widow living in London and gaggle of feisty ‘women of a certain age’ disrupting a funeral, and its narrative style that draws on a powerful national heritage of dramatic story-telling, significantly expanded our understanding of the possibilities of the short story form.”

Read more about what the judges thought of Makumbi’s story here.

On Wednesday June 18, Kwani? will launch Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi’s novel, Kintu which won the Kwani? Manuscript Project last year. This will take place during the upcoming Writivism Festival at National Theatre.

Move Against Kenco Foiled | Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

“You people need to get over Idi Amin and take responsibility for your failures,” Wambui had retorted, “it’s thirty-three years since he was ousted.” “What do you know, Wambui?” this time there was real emotion in Kizito’s voice. “After all, our war is your profit.” Photo by Edward Echwalu — “You people need to get over Idi Amin and take responsibility for your failures,” Wambui had retorted, “it’s thirty-three years since he was ousted.”
“What do you know, Wambui?” this time there was real emotion in Kizito’s voice. “After all, our war is your profit.”
Photo by Edward Echwalu

Bizarre this bust up between Wambui and Kizito; I mean, bizarre because it was just coffee.

By chance, we found ourselves living in Victoria Hall on Upper Brook Street and went to the same Manchester University. Wambui was Kenyan, I – Tanzanian, Kizito – Ugandan, Abesolome – Ethiopian, Anopa – Zimbabwean; and Majoro – Rwandese Ugandan or was it Ugandan Rwandese, he had a Rwandese passport but spoke Luganda and behaved Ganda. The rest of the students in the hall were white.

Wambui travelled to Kenya regularly during term breaks while Kizito had not gone home for two years. Perhaps there was jealousy there, I don’t know. But knowing the European love for Kenyan coffee, Wambui brought packs of it on return and put them in the kitchen for everyone’s use. And boy did they love it.

One day, on the internet, Wambui found this picture of a Kenya Coffee House in Romford! You should have seen his excitement. He printed it off – a large Victorian house – hung it on a wall in the kitchen and made this cute Kenyan coffee corner. From then on, he made sure that the corner never ran dry of Kenyan coffee. I think Kizito was getting irritated by the Kenya coffee success story because one time as we had supper together in the kitchen a white student, who had just made himself a brew, said to Wambui, “Thanks mate; this is great,” Kizito had clicked, “Kdt, Kenyan coffee is popular because people out here have never tasted real coffee.”

We laughed; I mean, Ugandan coffee is literally unknown in Britain but Kizito carried on: “Before Idi Amin, our coffee was far more popular all over the world. No one knew about Kenyan coffee but then we fell off the grid and Kenyan coffee took over.

“You people need to get over Idi Amin and take responsibility for your failures,” Wambui had retorted, “it’s thirty-three years since he was ousted.”

“What do you know, Wambui?” this time there was real emotion in Kizito’s voice. “After all, our war is your profit.”

“Is that why your Museveni is trying to destabilise us? So you can make money out of our misery too?

“Now, now, Wambui,” Kizito denied. “Museveni is no angel but he has no territorial interest in the region.”

“Ahhh,” Wambui clapped and laughed as if Kizito was the most shameless liar. Majoro joined him and they high-fived. Even Abesolome, normally quiet, shook his head. Kizito’s serious face fell and we all laughed. We left it at that – harmless banter.

Now, as if to provoke Kizito, Wambui started to buy Kenyan coffee from British supermarkets. The packaging was sleek and shiny, you know, Western style – Tassimo Corte Noire Kenya, Mocha Kenyan Style, Atomic café, Dormans Suprema, Esspresso, Decaf, but when he brought Christopher Bean Coffee, Kizito laughed, “I bet the real maker of that Kenyan coffee is called Christopher Bean, Mr Bean.”

Wambui did not find this funny. I think the idea that Kenyan coffee has European names hit home hard, but he kept quiet. Yet soon afterwards, he brought another pack from Altrincham laughing that even Waitrose had its own brand, Waitrose – mild and fragrant Kenyan Ground Coffee. I thought that he was laughing at the irony.

Last Christmas, Kizito finally went home. On return, he brought a lot of coffee and tea. And perhaps this was the problem; because if it had been me I would have brought tea only: coffee was already Wambui’s turf. Anyway, Kizito put it next to Wambui’s Kenya Coffee House and on the wall wrote, Real Coffee has arrived: all the way from Uganda. You can imagine the locally made Uganda coffee laid out next to the sleek British made Corte Noirs, Tassimos and Espressos! The packaging seemed rather random – garish greens and yellows – but coffee is coffee, people tried it. The Kisubi tea, spiced with lemon grass, was fantastic and it was the first to go. Myself I am a tea person and I loved it. Then one day Wambui tried the Ugandan coffee; he took one sip and remarked:

“I think eventually it will get there but at the moment the quality is still poor.”

We were in the kitchen as usual and I was giving him the eye, I mean, you don’t say that, but he just carried on, “It’s that poor sanitation and all the land fragmentation that makes it hard for you guys.”

Even I could not soften that remark with a casual joke. Kizito did not say a word. In retrospect, I think I should have said something to ease the tension. Anyway, the following morning, Wambui’s Kenya Coffee House had been torn down. In the evening when we returned from lectures, Uganda coffee and the sign were in the bin.

Wambui and Kizito stopped talking.

We were caught in the middle.

The white students, not knowing what was going on, were upset about the wasted coffee and; what the hell happened to the house of Kenyan coffee? We were keen not to let other students know that all was not well in the East African Community as we called ourselves but Wambui could not hide his contempt for Kizito. He accused him of being haughty; in fact, all Ugandans were now haughty, they look down at all other East Africans, that was why they did not speak Swahili, apparently they suck up to the British and spoke English with a fake accent, “They are fake, fake, fake,” he exclaimed.

When Kizito heard, he shrugged it off, citing history. According to him, in Uganda Swahili is considered as a language of violence because it came with slave trade. As for sucking up to the whites, he said that Uganda was never colonised the way Kenya was. I mean, you should have heard him say:

“The British came to Buganda because our Kabaka Muteesa asked H.M Stanley to write a letter to Queen Victoria asking to marry her. To him the British lacked proper men: otherwise why would they be ruled by a woman? And so he offered to rule them through her. Of course that creep, Stanley, instead wrote that we were asking for missionaries but who cares? The British came, gave us guns and we overrun the rest of the tribes creating a large kingdom. And when we got fed up with the British’s dastardly ways we asked for our independence and they gave it to us. Naturally, we can’t hate the British the way you do: what they did to us we had been doing to others.”

I tell you even I was irritated by this. I mean, Ethiopians were never colonised but Abeselome does not go on about it. And, Swahili is more Bantu than Arabic but I kept quiet. Anyway, we decided to put an end to the silly feud. Anopa reprinted the picture of the Kenya Coffee House off, this time even bigger, and put it back on the wall. Then we went to ASDA, bought two big jars of Kenco and put them underneath the picture. As for Ugandan coffee there was nothing we could do: it had been thrown away. The white students hoorayed and clapped when they saw the coffee corner back and that was it. Ugandan coffee had made a move against Kenyan coffee and lost.

Move Against Kenco was first published in Renagade, a travel magazine. It has been reproduced with the author’s permission.

Jennifer Makumbi won the Commonwealth Shortstory Prize-Africa Region for her story Let’s Tell This Story Pr operly. This evening in an event organised by Commonwealth Writers in Kampala, the overall winner will be announced.

See you there?

Because books can make you the winning-est winner of them all

This year, my friends and I decided to go to Wells of Hope Academy, a school my friends visited last year and wanted us to continue reaching out to. Wells of Hope is a home for children whose parents are on death row or serving long sentences in prison. I did not make the trip last year and I was quite happy to do so this year. When we asked what the Academy needed us to take for them they said anything could do but that opening a library is one of their biggest priorities at the moment. And thus we started out #StartALib campaign.

We reached out to fellow Church members, friends on social media and asked parents for books their children do not use any more. We asked people to buy a book for a child and one of us made mandazis that we sold at Church to raise money to buy books.

As the day of our visit drew closer, we were asked to think of things we could talk to the children about in terms of career, discipline, cleanliness, you know…the things people talk to children about. For most of us, that was the hardest part. How do you talk to children? How do you talk to children whose only moments with their parents have been a handshake through prison bars? How do you talk to a child who has been called a child of a murderer for as long as they can remember?

I resorted to a book because my books have bailed me out of the most awkward situations. Story books are what I placed on my lap and stealthily read through a boring lesson. They are what I turned to because I was that out-of-place kid who had no TV at my home and so could not contribute to stories about the previous night’s episode of Inspector Derrick. They are what I went to bed with in high school, covered my head with a blanket and turned on a torch when it was lights out and I needed to read at least one paragraph. They are what I have turned to when I am bored, need to recharge, need to discover, need to be entertained, need to cry, need to purge, they are what I have turned to. If I could not counsel these children, I could read to them and hope that somehow, the words they would hear would change their lives.

I have never read to a large group of children before (I have read to my nieces and that is a lot easier) but I have seen pictures of Michelle Obama doing it and it sure looks fancy. I could do that type of fancy.

Reading Oh The Places You'll Go! In which I look like I am campaigning for political office! — Reading Oh The Places You’ll Go! In which I look like I am campaigning for political office!

Words are very life changing. Books will entertain, teach, warn, expand our imagination and sometimes, literally blow your socks off. But what I needed was a book that would bring hope and so we went with the timeless Oh The Places You’ll Go by Dr Seuss. I have read that this book is one of the most popular gifts for students graduating from high school and college in the US and Canada but I figured it is never too early to give someone some hope, is it?

And so with our cars full of books, clothes, toys and other things, we set off. With our hearts full of excitement, on we went.

The kids welcomed us and thanked us for coming back. After lunch, a tour of the Home and some presentations from the children, it was time for our reading. To be honest, I was little worried about it. We had been told that some kids come from as far as Northern Uganda and when they get to the Home, there are many problems they have to deal with one of them being language barrier. We had also been told of a boy that was brought to the Home in April but has not been able to talk to anybody. There are of course children who should be in, say, Primary Seven but have not been to school so they only fit in Primary Two. I wondered whether they would comprehend or even just enjoy the message of Oh The Places You’ll Go.

And boy did they surprise me! Some stanzas they read out loud after me and four of them volunteered to read; clearly and correctly. Where I said, “You will move mountains,” they shouted back, “I will move mountains” some of them closing their eyes as they recited the lines.

"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes You can steer yourself any direction you choose." Reads Joshua — “You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.” Reads Joshua

That just brought me to tears. Tears I could not shed because I did not want them to be misunderstood. I did not want them to think that I was crying because I pitied them because I did not. They brought me to tears because I have seen how words have changed me and I could not believe I was seeing the same thing happen to someone else. I could not believe that they could understand what we had read and I could not believe it when they shared the stories they learnt from our reading. I could not believe that once again, a book had bailed me out and brought me to tears yet again!

"You'll be on your way up! You'll be seeing great sights! You'll join the high fliers who soar to high heights." Reads Rebecca — “You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.” Reads Rebecca

On behalf of my friends and I, I would like to thank everybody that gave. To Bev, Susan, Joan, Ke’mo, Bless A Child Foundation, The Njoroge children and Anne. I would like to thank people that bought our mandazis after service at church so we could raise money to buy books. I would like to thank people who sent in money and gave whatever they could so we could buy books. For parents that encouraged their kids to give up their toys and books, thank you for teaching them about giving, counting their blessings and sharing. Please read them a wonderful story today as a reward.

I would also like to thank my friends. For being awesome, crazy doers!

We raised Shs974,000 (about $389.6) that we used to buy text books, story books, sugar, washing soap, salt and some biscuits.

Thank you for your support. Because of you, a socially awkward kid is going to find solace in a book. Because of you, a kid who has seen so much that has left him so shaken that he can not find the mouth with which to speak will read a book and maybe find his words again. Because of you, there is a kid that believes that she will be, as Dr Seus says, the winning-est winner of them all!

The friends. Getting ready for a football match with the boys after the reading.

7/7: Don’t make me shush you!

If you are in Uganda, you are still enjoying your three day weekend and because this Monday is a public holiday, you probably have no Monday blues today. But you will need these tomorrow when your Tuesday looks worse than your usual Mondays because of all that you put off last week as you happily imagined that the holiday would never end.

smart phone cases, skins and covers for book lovers. I want!

1. The pdfs of the five shortlisted Caine Prize stories have been on the Caine Prize website since the announcement in April. Reviews of the stories by different bloggers have been up over at Brittle Paper (save for Chela’s Chicken which should be up soon), and now, the Caine Prize has introduced podcasts of the stories (three of them read by the authors). Listen to them here.

2. African Literature blogger, James Murua is making your favourite writer more accessible to you for a chat. Last week, he introduced the African Author Google Hangout where we, fans of African literature, will be able to interact with our favourite authors from all over the continent. The hangout will happen every two weeks, each time with a different discussion and authors. More details here.

3. If you have read Mehul Gohil’s work, you have definitely noticed that he knows his Nairobi really well. He will take you on a tour so good that the next time you are in Nairobi you will be excited to recognise some of the landmarks from his stories. Here he tells us where (and at what time) you can go book-hunting in Nairobi.

4. Can it ever be right to use true crime and real suffering as the basis for entertainment? Do you ever think of the victim’s families while you write crime fiction? What are the chances that they will read your work? What are the chances that they won’t? How far should you, a writer, intrude on actual events? Here is the discussion on the duty to treat somebody else’s tragedy with respect.

5. Nigerian writer and author, Elnathan John on How to deal with an insurgency: A Handbook of the Nigerian Government.

“Sometimes after a great tragedy you must show that nothing can stop you from being happy. Because that is what terrorists want, to make you afraid, unhappy and destabilized. So if you had planned a campaign rally the morning after a bomb goes off killing hundreds of people, you must react by first(as mentioned above) issuing a statement condemning the attack in the strongest terms while on your way to the campaign ground. Then you must campaign your heart out, dancing to whatever song the invited artist is singing. After all you will already have booked and paid for the music and you do not want to waste government resources by not dancing to the campaign music you have paid millions for.”

6. Doreen Baingana. Goretti Kyomuhendo. Helon Habila. Mukoma wa Ngugi. Aminatta Forna. Monica Arac de Nyeko. Nii Aye Parkes. Arundhati Roy. All writers whose literary agent is David Godwin of David Godwin and Associates. David Godwin will be in Kampala and will be hosted at Femrite’s Author (Guest) of the Month on Monday 16th June. Here is our chance to find out what agents look for in a book. You may need these?

7. Dear Kampala importers of smart phone covers, skins and cases, can you get some cool covers for us book lovers? If you can get me the “Don’t make me shush you” one, I will be grateful. shushpng_iphone_wallet_case

Have a great week, friends!

7/7 is Sooo Many Stories’ way of helping you beat the Monday blues. 7 things that are making me happy in the literary world.

Walls and Borders | Ssekandi R Sseguja

Ssekandi R Ssuguja’s Walls and Borders has been shortlisted for this year’s Writivism Short Story Prize. Read other stories here and vote your favorite by commenting beneath it. The most voted story will win the Third Place Writivism Short Story Prize announced on the 21 June 2014 at The Writivism Festival in Kampala.

"Her dream of a good homecoming suddenly vanished as she realized that she was now a prisoner." Photo by Edward Echwalu — “Her dream of a good homecoming suddenly vanished as she realized that she was now a prisoner.”
Photo by Edward Echwalu

The Jaguar Bus pulled up by the sides of Immigration offices at Katuna border post in Kabale District. Nancy, who was seated at the rear, got up from her seat as the bus turn-boy ordered everyone to make haste. She was now closer to home. She had replayed this scene in her mind countless times in the past months. As she stepped outside the bus, she felt her heels dig into the damp wet mud. Kabale was a cold place and she felt the cold bite to the bone.

“Next please,” the immigration officer called out to an absented-minded Nancy. The man right behind her shoveled her out of the way and took to the clearing desk. She heard a lady behind her chant some words in Kinyarwanda; she did not understand what she was saying but she could sense impatience and irritation in her tone. Kinyarwanda was supposed to be her language, it hurt to know that she could not understand it.

Nancy headed towards the Rwandan side. She was a few metres away from crossing over – home. In her mind, she toyed with the feeling of being on the other side. The border, like a point of transformation, ceased to be just a yellow line separating two sovereignties. It was the difference between home and that place back there, a place she had decided to leave.

Nancy and her family left Rwanda in 1994 during the genocide. Her mother had told her on several occasions how their family had been separated and some of her relatives killed. She had told her of their old family home in Nyamirambo. She always said it was cozier than the little shack where they lived in South Western Uganda. A place where Nancy had never felt at home because of the way her people were treated.

From as far back as she could remember, life had been different for her, haunted by the past of her people. In school, people would always ask once they knew that she was of Rwandan descent, which of the two tribes she belonged to. She had to be either Hutu or Tutsi. This made her feel like a subject of study most times. It hurt to be associated with a culture and tradition she knew little about.

Now on the Rwandan side, Nancy got back into the bus and began the last drive to Kigali city. She had heard so much about Kigali; tales of how it was probably the cleanest city in Africa. Some people even said that Kigali was like Europe. She was told that in Kigali boda boda, the famous crazy motorcyclists, were not allowed to carry more than one passenger and this was something she could not imagine!

Through her window, she could see the steep terrain of the countryside. Farmed hills of green, and livestock, symbolizing the peace that now reigned in this land. Her mother had told her of their big farmland in Bugesera. She was told that as a child, she used to like going to the farm to eat guavas. She now smiled to herself as she felt the sensation of nostalgia. Being here had always been her dream and she was elated the day had finally come.

Nyabugogo Bus Park is the place where all buses coming from Uganda stop. Nancy was finally home! As passengers dismounted, she took the opportunity to take in her environment. The quiet, calm landscape of Kigali at night. Numerous streetlights shone with a deep yellow richness, giving the city a romantic disposition.

At this moment, right there in the safety of the cozy bus, she felt the whole world pause as she spiritually connected to this place that for generations had harbored her ancestors.Deep down, she felt butterflies flutter and she smiled. How good it felt to be home.

Uri gusohoka muri bus mada?

Nancy was brought back to reality by the turn-boy’s call. From the look on his face, she could tell he had been standing there for a long time. Reluctantly, she gathered her bag and headed out. She was immediately swarmed by a fleet of motorcyclists chanting phrases in Kinyarwanda. Fear gripped her as she realised that she was going to have trouble communicating with her people. Yet again, she felt the shame of not knowing her language. For some reason, she felt that this was the missing link to her home dream.

Before Nancy set off from Uganda, she had had a bitter argument with her mother who was against her desire to go home. That morning, Nancy had pressed her for the reason.

“You should just listen to me!” she had replied, throwing her hands in the air frantically and pacing around the compound.

“If you cannot tell me, then I am going to find out by myself”

She could tell that her mother was not comfortable discussing the topic, but she had her mind made up and she set off.

“Please do not go Nancy!” she pleaded amidst wails and tears.

Nancy hated hurting her mother but in that moment, she felt she had to break through from the confines of her mother’s supposed protection.

Where to Madam?

For the first time, Nancy felt the hopelessness of her adventure. Truthfully, she did not know where exactly she was going.

Nyamirambo.

The cyclist began the ride while muttering more words in Kinyarwanda. Nancy told him in English that she did not understand Kinyarwanda. He asked her if she spoke French and she shook her head. The cyclists smiled shyly and shrugged his shoulders. Nancy knew that he wanted to know where exactly in Nyamirambo she was going. Deep down she wished he knew her story.

They took the first turn after the Bus Park and the motorcycle puffed as they climbed a hill. Along the way, they bypassed heavily armed soldiers patrolling the streets. Nancy wondered why this peaceful place should be heavily guarded. The motorbike reached a busy area; a street of bars and numerous people out on the streets at that time of the night. Nancy watched in amusement as the cyclist went a little slower, as if reading her mind.

The cyclist stopped. Nancy could barely understand him but knew that this had to be the end point for Nyamirambo. She got off and handed him some Rwandan Francs. She then walked off as though she knew where she was going. She heard the cyclist call her back and she turned to see him following her. He muttered some words and handed her money as he smiled. She was amazed by his kindness. Back where she lived, such an act of kindness to an ignorant traveller would not be done. Were all the people here this nice?

Now that she was in Nyamirambo, Nancy felt the futility of her actions. Where was she going next? She had no idea where their big house was. She did not know whom to ask at this time of the morning. Fear began to creep in as she imagined the worst. She decided to find lodging for the remainder of the early morning as she waited for people to start the day.

Rwanda was an hour behind Ugandan time and she was surprised that it was bright outside even though it was supposedly 4am! She walked towards a neon sign. Dreams Guest House. Nancy walked in, her body weighed down by the fatigue of the long journey. Luckily for her, the receptionist knew a little English and she was able to check herself into a room. Once inside, she locked her door and collapsed onto the bed.

Nancy must have slept for hours. She woke up to the sound of loud music outside. As she attempted to open her eyes, the sun glared through her window, blinding her. Her mind fumbled as she tried to remember where she was. She then instinctively jumped out of the bed as though she had seen a snake in it. She rushed for her handbag, got out her phone and checked the time. It was midday! She had no idea she would sleep for this long. She felt a sudden desire to rush. Her plan was to get to her home as soon as she could. After her shower, she was now fresh and ready to go.

Luckily, the girl who had checked her in was still at the reception. Nancy paid her and then asked to be directed to her home. The girl asked where exactly her home was and Nancy fumbled with her bag, got out a rough paper on which she had written a name.

Mr. Sibomana.

That was the name of her father or, at least the name her mother had always used to refer to the man who supposedly fathered her. Growing up, it had always been taboo to ask her mum about this part of her life. She always changed moods when Nancy attempted to ask questions about her origins. The receptionist was now talking to her …

Sibomana? Which Sibomana?

Nancy was startled by her tone. Why was she sounding alarmed? She got out her piece of paper and read the name again, making sure she made no mistake.

Felicitus Sibomana.

‘Why are you asking about Felicitus Sibomana?’ The girl asked, making Nancy really uncomfortable. From the look on her face, Nancy could tell there was some mystery about the name. The receptionist asked to be excused as she went to call her manager. Nancy sat down and waited uncomfortably.

After what seemed like the longest wait in her life, the receptionist returned with two men. She watched them conferring in hushed tones. The receptionist stole glances at Nancy and occasionally pointed towards her. The two men finally approached.

Come with us …

From the way they spoke, Nancy knew that she had no choice. She got up and followed them to the truck outside. They sped her through the city until they reached a house with a high gate. It was heavily guarded and Nancy now began to shiver. Was this a kidnapping? She motioned towards one of the men to ask him but one glance at his face and she remained silent. They led her inside the house and ordered her to sit down.

How do you know Sibomana?

Sibomana is my father.

Where is he?

Now this was getting scary because the men were getting increasingly aggressive.

I do not know where he is.

Nancy was told that Sibomana was a hunted fugitive in the country. That her father was one of the perpetrators of the 1994 genocide in which thousands of innocent people had been massacred. She was asked to state his whereabouts or else face the consequences.

I do not know where he is.

Nancy was crying. This was too much information for her. She now understood why her mother hated talking about the subject. She could not believe that the blood of a murderer flowed through her. She pleaded with the men and told them of how she had grown up with her mother and did not know anything about her father.

Captain, put her in the cells. When she is ready to talk, she will be brought out.

The captain dragged her down a long dark corridor and then turned left. She was hit by a nasty stench as she was led to what appeared to be a stretch of metallic doors. He stopped at one of them and pulled out a bunch of keys. He then opened it and tossed Nancy inside. She landed on something long and hard, heard the door close and then broke into sobs.

Shut up you bitch!

Nancy got up defensively, startled to hear another voice inside the cell. Her eyes now accustomed to the dark, she noticed a sea of faces looking at her. She saw five tired faces of women who from their physical appearance seemed to have been in the cell for a while. They looked hopeless and in pain. The stench inside was so strong that Nancy held her nose.

Do not worry, you will get used to it after days.

The voice came from an old woman in the corner. She looked calm and more composed than the rest of the inhabitants.

Locked up in this cell with strange faces, Nancy felt trapped. Her dream of a good homecoming suddenly vanished as she realized that she was now a prisoner. She thought of her mother back in Uganda and the grave look on her face as she left that morning. Why had she not told her the truth? Nancy began weeping silently, her body rocking with both fatigue and fear.

Trapped in the strong cell walls, she felt that feeling again; the feeling she always felt when people in Uganda pointed at her and said, “Banyarwanda!”

Was she meant to forever live in walls?

Ssekandi Ssegujja Ronald is a writer, poet and law student. He is also the Executive Director of Writing Our World, a youth-run NGO in Uganda working with and empowering young writers to contribute to positive change in their communities. He has a keen interest in spoken word and the power of the arts in changing our world. He is also a Peace Fellow of The DO School in Germany and a member of the Ugandan Youth Advisors to Washington. His shortlisted story is titled Walls and Borders.

Jackee Budesta Batanda: It was a relief to know that I could do more with my writing

Jackee Budesta Batanda is a Ugandan journalist, author, speaker and entrepreneur. Jackee has a long and rich writing CV but it is her passion for writing that will get you. This year, she was one of the three Ugandans (the others being Glydah Namukasa and 2007 Caine Prize winner Monica Arac de Nyeko) that made the Africa39 list.

I spoke to Jackee when Sooo Many Stories was only beginning to take shape and I learnt so much from her attitude towards writing and getting the work done. Thank you so much, Jackee!

Courtesy photo Photo by Edward Echwalu — Courtesy photo
Photo by Edward Echwalu

You recently made the Africa39 Project list. 39 African writers under 40 who will shape the future of African literature. Congratulations!

Thank you!

Before Africa39 and all these other things you are working on, you must have started somewhere. When did you start writing?

I started consciously writing in high school while at Maryhill High School. We used to write compositions in English class, however, I also used to read a lot. My reading trajectory started with reading Ladybird books, Famous Five, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Pacesetters, Danielle Steele and Ludlum, among others. That was the rite of passage. I read books that my big sister initially borrowed for herself from a library run by Alliance Francaise in Kampala, until she actually started borrowing more for me. When I started writing stories in an exercise book, my classmates were very huge fans. My exercise book novel was set in Uganda, Rwanda and Italy; places I had never been to (apart from Uganda) except in the books I had read.

Whatever became of that novel in the exercise book?

I actually wrote to Danielle Steele’s publishers and asked them if they would be interested in publishing my novel. Surprisingly, they wrote back and asked for a synopsis (I had no idea what that was. Thank God for dictionaries!) and three chapters of the novel. The next time my father came to visit me at school, I gave him another letter to post with what they had asked. A couple of weeks later, I received my first of what would turn out to be many rejection letters. They told me they it was against their policy to review hand-written manuscripts.

How many rejection letters have you received since?

Quite a number. There is a time I used to tell my friends at Femrite that I could write a book on how to deal with rejection letters because I had received so many of them. But that is part of the process. Behind every successful writer is a pile of rejection letters and the successful ones are the ones that never give up. I never stopped improving my craft and I understood that they were preparing me for bigger things. It still hurts but I know that that is the process.

What books/authors shaped your writing?

Edwidge Danticat’s Breath, Eyes, Memory that I read in 2000 at Femrite. That book taught me that it was okay to write or tell our stories. I had read books by African writers before but I always felt they were books one read to pass exams. It was Danticat’s book that made me realise that we could have our stories told for leisure. That gave me permission to write about my world as I know it.

This was further reinforced by all the ladies that I met at Femrite that were writing stories about us and our world.

You have a long list of stories you have written. How do you keep going?

Well, I still hold onto the hope that one day I will be a rich, famous writer (laughs).

Anyway, I know for certain that I am meant to be a writer. Even when I go away from it, I am still convicted to write.

I also read a lot. Good books always challenge you to write. The other way to keep at it, is to stay in touch with the writing community. There is a healthy competition that exists among writers and so they will push you. Go for writing seminars and join a writing club that will not cushion you but one that will help you write better work.

In the fall of 2011, I attended a writing class that was taught by the acclaimed American writer, Junot Diaz, at MIT. It was an undergrad class but there was no way I was going to pass up the chance to be taught by Mr. Diaz. When it came to critiquing, he made us say what we loved about the story and then later asked, “How do we make this story better?” That technique helped us not to feel attacked and in the end we got to make our stories better.

What happens when you can’t write?

I stalk my friends on Facebook (laughs).

Reading is always what I go to when I can’t write. I read about the competitions I want to apply to in order to be motivated to write. When I wanted to compete for the Commonwealth Short Story Competition, I downloaded all the winning stories for the previous 10 years, and then looked for a pattern. I realised they were all told in the voice of a child, in the present tense, they captured a moment and were told in the first person narrative. Those are the ingredients I used to write Dance with Me, for which I was awarded Africa regional winner in 2003. Sometimes you just have to be deliberate about how and what you write to get over the writer’s block.

You have been writing a lot of non-fiction. How did that happen?

I was going through a frustrating time as a writer when I had some soul-searching and realised that my writing was not limited to creative writing. I realised I could do more. I could write essays and I could also venture into journalism. It was a relief to know that I could do that. It is easier to deal with disappointments when you broaden your scope. If one thing does not work out, another will.

Non fiction vs fiction…

I am happy to do both. I have learnt that some stories are better told immediately in form of an article and others are better told later. For example, I wrote an article on acid attack victims and nodding disease victims and people got in touch asking how they could help. With articles like those, people can actually get help and the issue is taken more seriously than when you fictionalise it. Of course after sometime it can be told as a fictional story.

Non-fiction is also much easier because you have the facts. There is no need to overly describe a place because it actually exists.

But with fiction you can create anything…

Yes you can, but you then have the task of making it believable whereas with non-fiction, it is a fact. But I am still happy to do both.

Your website is very elaborate in as far as telling who you are, what you have done and what you can. You don’t seem to have the bashfulness of writers who won’t market their work.

Why should I? Writing is a serious thing and unless we begin to take ourselves seriously, no one will. When I lived in South Africa last year, I attended business seminars taught by business moguls from around the world. I learnt so much from people who have made it and I started asking myself how I could make my writing profitable. I realised I needed to get out of my shell and look at writing from a business perspective.

As writers, if we want to be read, we need to think about it strategically. Everybody that has succeeded has had a bigger picture. Where do you want to be published? Who do you want to be in five, 10, 15 years? How do you get there? Do you want to be on the New York bestsellers list or do you want to be read by just your family?

Unfortunately, we have also let people believe we can offer them services for free but if people want our services (editing, ghost-writing, co-authoring) they should be able to pay for them and we should be able to earn money from our writing.

Now that you are on the Africa39 list, do you feel pressured to write something that will change the literature of Africa?

No. Not this time. When I won the Commonwealth Short Story Competition, I thought, “Oh crap! Now I just can’t write bad stuff!” and that self-consciousness may have hampered how I wrote after that. But with Africa39, I look at it as an opportunity first, to go back to creative writing from which I had taken a hiatus, and secondly, as an opportunity to work harder on my upcoming novel and to be introduced to new readers. It’s a great opportunity!

Jackee is currently working on a novel, A Lesson in Forgetting. The novel is about a former spy chief in a dictatorial regime who is released after 25 years in life imprisonment. His return reawakens a country’s amnesia of the past and explores how nations and its people helplessly deal with the mechanisms set up to handle past atrocities and heal wrongs. A Lesson in Forgetting unlike numerous stories that locate the isolating impact of warfare upon wives, lovers and /or mothers, addresses the relation within the family, in this case father and daughter.

7/7: Thank you, you phenomenal woman you!

1. I remember the first time I heard of Maya Angelou. I was in Senior Five and I was interviewing my Deputy Headmistress for the school magazine. When I asked her what her favourite book was, she told me about I know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. She asked me to look for it and read it. I remember being really fascinated by the title and that was all I needed to begin my search. Since her death, I have been thinking about how a stripper could transform herself to all that she became. To quote a lady on Humans Of New York on her death, “It goes to show that life is cumulative, and you can’t devalue any type of experience.”

I am also quite happy to see so many photos of her laughing. She is the one that said she does not trust people who do not laugh, right? And now I have a new mission-laugh more!

Farewell Maya Angelou! Thank you for the inspiration!

2. I am now reading the five shortlisted stories for this year’s Writivism Short Story Prize. Cameroon, Nigeria, South Africa (there are two writers from South Africa whose names are alarmingly and very confusingly similar until you read their bios!) and Uganda made the list. Ssekandi Ronal Seguja’s Walls and Borders is representing Uganda.

Read the stories and find out how to vote for your favourite here.

3. Earlier this year, Chimamanda hinted that she would be working with Lupita this year. And now it’s confirmed!

4. Do you consider yourself a writer of high calibre and imagination? Jonathan Cape is open for fiction submissions the entire month of June. Details here.

5. Alex Ikawah is a friend, fellow writer and member of Jalada. Here is Spirit Child, a shorty story by him as my Monday Fiction offering.

6. Just last month, Africa Is A Country published a story about the acacia tree book cover treatment that most books about Africa seem to be getting. Here is Bookshy’s take on this.

7. I am going through an intense crush on Toni Morrison’s work and I don’t want it to ever end! I was introduced to her work when I listened to the audio version of Tar Baby about three years ago. I loved the book then and the late Lynne Thigpen who narrates the book, sounds exactly how I imagine Toni Morrison sounds. But when I read Morrison’s Song of Solomon and Beloved this year, I found myself going back to listen to Tar Baby again to make sure I did not miss any of the things I am loving about Toni Morrison. And now, when I am jogging/walking, or doing my nails or in a taxi, it is me and my Toni Morrison.

Which writer are you obsessed with at the moment?

7/7 is Sooo Many Stories’ way of helping you beat the Monday blues. 7 things that are making me happy in the literary world.

Ray Kali | David Tumusiime

: “Maybe there is no proper way to react to something like that. That how one reacts is how it is meant to be.”
Photo by Edward Echwalu

You will pay for everything

For every pleasure-moment got

For every laugh-free breathed

You will pay for everything

For being born

For living

You will pay for everything.

Song lyrics we used to sing then.

…at the end…

Nobody spoke. The hall was silent. We all sat still in shock.

We looked at the speaker on the stage and we turned and looked at each other and again looked at the speaker on the stage and none of us could find anything to say, or react in some way to show that we understood what had just been revealed to us.

Perhaps it is best that we reacted that way. But then almost always immediately I often think we made a mistake. Maybe there is no proper way to react to something like that. That how one reacts is how it is meant to be. For us, when it came that day, we were silent. Silent from shock. Silent because all etiquette up to that time had not yet come up with a standard reaction.

And the speaker waited.

He was not a stranger. In fact, I had had personal acquaintance with him like everyone there. He was one of us. I had known him ten years.

I still clearly remember the first time I saw him. It was in the school bursar’s waiting room at Margarita Secondary School. Like he, I was enrolling for my first year of boarding high school education and terrified. His oddity diverted me from my own terror. From the first moment he struck me as the kind of guy with qualities we all start out with from our mother’s knee-lap school of how to behave but very quickly run out of.

He was courteous and polite even to the taunting jerks of the second year, eternally gullible to a sob story no matter how much everyone sponged out of him, hardly talked to girls despite the fact that his money and looks and manners made him very attractive. We made fun of him, as such guys are in boarding school, and teased him and placed him in the niche of the archetypal shy guys but nevertheless loved him. We struggled through those O’Level years together. Ploughed through its excessive humiliations, trials, annoyances. Endured its rigorous restrictions because we had something to look forward to, a dream to aspire towards. The dream of A’ levels.

In that school run along the joint lines of a convent and a monastery with no distinction in treatment between the primary pupils to the O’Level students, A’level seemed a bastion of unbridled freedom. Though still very much under the control of the school authorities, in A’ level the overt physical restrictions slipped beneath and never had much cause to reassert themselves and from the rumours we heard, there was a lot of wickedness to get up to awaiting us. Mere imagining always left us trembling with almost unbearable excitement!

Higher School Certificate level finally did happen for us as it had for so many others before who we had looked up to with envy year after year as it will for all those who will come after us and though it wasn’t all that those before us had led us to believe it would be, nothing in life ever is quite as they say, we enjoyed those two years enormously.

The best parts were lording over all other classes, the termly out of school dance; for the bow-legged, stick-legged, hairy-legged, the face saving or is it leg saving dignifying right to wear trousers for both sexes. And the girls from classes below us who worshipped and made us feel like gods, girls we met at those termly out of school dances on their school grounds that made us feel if they ignored us like sinking into the earth to hide our humiliation, girls who came to our school and we could torment as they had tormented us.

Having a girlfriend, wives we called them, was a badge of honour, a sign of true and tested manhood. But to have a girlfriend in the school, that was the ultimate pinnacle, the greatest heights anyone could climb, however short the time one stayed with her. The deans of morality always found out and broke it up. Many times the boy was expelled.

This condition first brought Ray Kali into his own. He got a girl in the school. Not just a girl but the most beautiful, most gorgeous, most lusted for girl in the whole school: Joy Kisekka, the head girl. Then he went further! He stayed with her the whole of our A’ level tenure, never once caught, never found out by the deans of morality.

Envy was high of course and bitter wags spread the rumour that actually it was she who had hunted him down. However, when it became quite clear that they were going to remain a couple and a few of those wags mysteriously got into some serious disciplinary mishaps, the rumours died out. The glamour of their union, on the other hand, did not. It increased. We had all looked at Ray Kali as somehow different, unique from the rest of us, and it was in those years that I began to understand why.

Philosophers say there are two different kinds of people in the human grouping: the leaders and the led. The leaders are the fewer in number of the two but make up for their minority by superiority of character and abilities while the led because of their numerosity have their abilities and traits too scattered to be exceptional. Ray Kali belonged to the first group. I do not believe he was aware of this just as we weren’t. He never even ran for any elective office throughout our secondary school career. But somehow he was always at the centre of activities that mattered and there his presence or absence noted, opinion considered.

Being unintrusive, scrupulously impartial and friendly with a kindly interest in everything and everyone, he became quite unconsciously, for each of us, the ideal of what everyone of us could be at their best. For becoming his girlfriend, Joy Kisekka was transformed too into a model for the girls. Mbosi Samson, Ray Kali’s best friend from senior one, forever with the duo, became the embodiment of what true friendship ought to be like. But best of all, they never seemed to change, never seemed to suffer the momentary lapses from the usual behaviour the rest of us are prone to and this was what made all of us adore them.

The pleasure of high school however, was diluted by the birth of an even bigger dream: making it to the country’s best and one of Africa’s most respected institutions, Makerere University, and not only just qualifying for admission but being admitted on a government scholarship. You can pay your way through Makerere University, which is admirable and even gains you notice that you come from a wealthy background. But to study on a government scholarship not only means you do not have pay for anything, but also gains you a greater recognition as being one of the best brains the country has to offer. Its added prestige is that out of the millions who apply, only a few get that scholarship. To get it confirms your passage to a superior society of the elite. We had our fun but we had our fun working hard with teeth gritted, heart pounding, eyes never straying from that prize we all wanted but no one acknowledged.

The exams came. We did the exams. The results came back. We had passed!

I am from here not a reliable chronicler of the following several months. Even then if you had asked me, I would not have been. Something seemed to explode in all of us at the same time. An intoxicating madness that made even the most cautious, Ray Kali included, throw caution out into the wind. Go crazy at once!

There were parties almost every other weekend in one place or another from the time our exams were released until well into the first semester of our stay at the university. These parties were not those dull adult affairs where you stand around whispering and clicking wine glasses in decorously ordered rooms. They were wild parties with hard booze, thundering music and unruly patrons. Wild parties that ended in brawls with off-key singers atop swaying tables bawling their voices out. Wild parties that ended with all kinds of things smashed and bands of hollering youths staggering through suburban silences in chilly misty dawns. Wild parties with half consummated love acts wherever lust lay.

I had never really been aware that there exist social classes even in schools. After all, I had never encountered difficulty when seeking the society of anyone in school. I realize now that this was because my family was wealthy and had, throughout my school years, put me in schools equal to our standing. My family lost a lot of wealth at the beginning of my university stay. I was adrift for a while, coming to grips with our new situation in life, learning its insides and outs, its perimeters. The Ray Kali’s, this was one of the first lessons I had, were now beyond my reach. It was a bitter pill to swallow and I knocked against the locked door repeatedly before I finally accepted that like everybody else poor I would hence have to content myself watching from outside. Distance gave me disapproving eyes and an angle of detachment I had not before possessed. But it also made me appreciate what I no longer possessed. University years are supposed to be the best years of one’s life. I discovered that this depends really on a number of things, your station in life being a major part. If you cannot live the life you so wanted, you get it lived for you.

For many of us unable to realize university as the best time in our lives, Ray Kali lived it on our behalf. He had by now realized his special abilities, as had future sycophants. Joy Kiseka and Mbosi Samson were still by his side but their irrelevancy in the Ray Kali magic was glaringly clear. He was the real star, had always been, without a doubt he definitely was now. His slender, tall, languid figure with green cap worn backwards, dark sunglasses, cotton jacket of some colour, baggy jean trousers and black sneakers in the midst of a chattering clique became as fixed a figure in the campus landscape as the ancient bell tower clock on the main building of the university.

His activities were of great interest to all of us and I followed them hungrily, breathlessly as never before. Through him, my life was not all about soulless work and struggle and anger. I was with him at every party he gave and attended, watching him charming and wowing everyone with his wealth and style. I was with him every time he drove through the campus with a newer, flashier car no one else yet owned. I was with him at those expensive eating joints ignoring those delicacies whose names even the waiters serving them could not mouth and where you mingled with the very elite of the elite in Ugandan life and campus girls desperate to snag from them a rich old man to maintain them at the university were at all hours of day and night flooding his room, willing to do whatever he desired to get an invitation as his escort when Joy was unavailable. I was with him and I was him at his greatest triumph when he was elected the guild president of the university student body.

But still I was stunned by the events of that Tuesday afternoon which with hindsight I should have foreseen but did not. They were a prelude to those disastrous revelations we were all to be forced to take part in. I remember how hot that afternoon was, the sun blazing in a clear blue sky like a metal disk. I remember the closed in, oppressed feeling I carried around with me. I remember clearly thinking how I felt that this damned weather had been sent specifically to punish me.

I was exiting Elvis Kasujja’s room who had not been much company when Ray stalked past us towards his room. Elvis tried to be friendly.

“Fuck off!” was what he spat.

This is a common word among us and is not at all shocking. We often use it in fact as a salutation. But the way Ray used it that afternoon in that small stifling corridor, with sneering lips and attitude, it jumped and attained all its deeply shocking value that that it felt like a physical punch on the chest. It was much worse for Elvis, I could see from his face, he who loves to wax about his friendships with the famous. We had hardly had time to recover when Mbosi Samson also came by, headed the same direction as Ray. From his long, delicate, very expressive black face, it was easy to guess that something momentous had occurred or was about to. I am not a natural eavesdropper but poverty had made me appreciate situations. You never tell how one seemingly hopeless trivia might be of great use in advancing you a little further thus I was rooted to the place as if I resided there like Elvis Kassujja and a few passers-by had become. Our curiosity was not only rewarded but peaked when even before the door was shut behind Mbosi Samson, Joy appeared. Going the same way! Tense faced! We did not have to wait long. The action began.

First there was a silence.

Then a voice, deliberately low, began. Ray Kali’s voice: fierce and full of passionate anger. If at first we could not make out what he was saying, we very soon were able for he began to shout and Mbosi Samson to shout back and Joy to shout at both of them. We could hear furniture in anger being moved, things smashed, sex lives revealed, emotions wounded, secrets spilled. In that congested hallway jammed with breathless listeners, we were thrilled! We grinned and smiled and our eyes blazed with excitement. We would be talking about this for months! Then something unordinary happened. Weeping. No one in that hallway could ignore it or brush it away with a joke. There is no sound more horrible than the sound of a man weeping. Two men were weeping: horrid screeching howls. It went on and on. On and on, like a never ending cracking.

I do not know if the others stayed. I have never met anyone who could tell me what happened after I had left. All I know is that I could not stay. The hall mate I left with, we had nothing to say to each other. The next day the room Ray Kali and Mbosi Samson shared was cleared out by the university authorities. Ray Kali and Mbosi Samson’s mothers were there. They signed for the property. None of the rumours on the campus had one theory in common, an indication that no one really had any information withheld from the rest. For six months we trudged on in this kind of ignorance. Then they came back, the three of them, but not to study. They wanted to talk to the entire campus; to explain everything!

The main hall was full to capacity and the excited buzz of talk electrifying. They looked great up there on the stage, so wonderful and at home it pleased the eye and gladdened the heart to look upon them. I realized in that moment, with no jealous pangs or hatred, that they and no one else were and always would be the very best of us. Joy was beautiful: Mbosi Samson, with a comical leer on his lips, was a picture to behold: Ray Kali was magnificent.

Ray Kali spoke first and an icy hand seemed to clutch at all the hearts there. There was silence.

He had said he had HIV-Aids, Mbosi Samson had Aids, Joy had the virus too. There was a silence and I have never stopped hearing that silence.

David Tumusiime is a writer, used to live to write, had to write to live and is happiest back to living to write. Ray Kali is just one of his many stories. More here. And here.

Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi: Folklore tells us so much about our history and explains so much of what remains of our culture

When Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize this year, most of us asked, “Isn’t that the lady from the Kwani? Manuscript Project last year?”

Yes, she is. When she won last year, we had no idea that she would be back this year to win the Commonwealth Short Story Prize-Africa Region. And now, here we are crossing our fingers hoping she wins the overall prize!

Congratulations, Jennifer. Thank you for being the reason we are walking with a spring in our step this year!

Jennifer and I had a chat. Here is what we talked about:

Last year you won the Kwani? Manuscript Project for your manuscript, The Kintu Saga. How far have you gone with the novel?

Oh Kintu the novel is ready: it will be launched in Uganda at The National Theatre on June 18. I am so lucky that Kwani? has been working tirelessly to make sure that Kintu is launched in June. And it is quite a fantastic coincidence that I have won the Regional Commonwealth Prize and the award ceremony will be taking place in Uganda. The two occasions will be held in Uganda back to back; how good is that?

It’s awesome! You have said that Kintu came from your father’s mental illness and the anxieties surrounding the heredity of such a condition. How hard was it to confront these anxieties and write about them?

It was very hard first of all to acknowledge that I had these anxieties, let alone write about them. I think I first became aware when I saw the first draft of the novel and realised what was going on at a subconscious level. You must realise that I did not say to myself that, ‘Oh let me write a novel dealing with mental illness.’ I started writing but when I read through and realised what was going on, I thought, ‘Well you might as well do a good job of it,’ rather than burying it again. Perhaps it was even good for me. However I did not write about my father; that was a bit too painful. Instead I did research and at the time, I worked as a support worker for people with mental illness and got all sorts training and sensitisation towards the illness. That was very helpful.

How did you manage to make it more than just about you?

Firstly, I did not write myself into the text. Secondly, the novel had a mind of its own. It soon moved away from my father and focused on a clan. Then it became so big it was a nation and then Africa. By the end, I had forgotten that it all started with my father. Indeed if I had not mentioned my dad, no one would tell by reading the novel except members of my family.

You have also said that in Western media, you have noticed that Africa is portrayed as a place of insanity. How so?

You have to come to Europe first to see what I mean. When I first arrived here, I was shocked by the things they wrote about Uganda. The Western media has an uncanny way of finding the worst parts of your world to report back to their people (and the best part of themselves to promote to the rest of the world). They never tell or show the beautiful aspects of Africa except wild life or nature. Otherwise it is the ugly side of poverty (their idea of poverty) and everything is perverted and it is so bad you want to bite yourself in anger. They have been so successful that out here being African is just not advisable.

But I have noted that in the West, people have acknowledged all types of insanity and have even made room for dealing with it whereas that is not the case in Africa. Being bipolar or having OCD is not our reality. The naked man that runs in the streets is the mad man and not the woman who kills her three children because they have no food to eat. What do you think of this?

Africa has no time for or patience with the nuanced aspects of mental illness. In fact, Africa has no time for any illness that has not been diagnosed with a lot of research and history behind it in our communities. So a woman who kills her children is not sick: she is just evil and bipolar is just an unbelievable hypocrisy, pretence, bunanfusi, and if they find out really that something is wrong, then you are bewitched. Sad, but that is the result of weak economies, hence no research.

For how long have you written Kintu? Any other work you have written while waiting for that novel to get finished?

I have been working on Kintu since August 2003 but if you look at the real time I have spent working on the novel it is about four years.

I have been working on other things as well – a few other ideas for books and short stories. I also started a critical PhD on Yvonne Vera’s novels and abandoned it, then started another on Hybridity (the African novel as a hybrid form) which I submitted together with Kintu.

How do you know when a novel isn’t working and that you need to walk away from it? How do you know that you must keep at it even if it takes you more than five years?

The thing is, all authors are readers firstly, then writers secondly. As a reader you know what you enjoy, you know what works for you in terms of a story. And though sometimes you can be blind to the weaknesses in your own writing – a plot can run out of hand, you can go on and on about inconsequential things – but mostly a writer is her own worst critique. So you do know when a piece is not working.

I was also told by my MA tutor that if you feel that a piece is not working, perhaps it is really not working: get rid of it. Besides, it is not advisable to work on your own. I belong to a writing group in Manchester run by Commonword/Cultureword which supports budding Black writers. There, I take the worst pieces of my writing and man, they are ruthless! If you don’t know them you might be tempted not to return to the group, but they are good for me.

I have read your short story The Joys of Manhood online. Is it an extract from Kintu?

Oh my God, you did not read that! It is an extract from Kintu from a long time ago; an old, old version when I first started writing. It was not well edited. The editor did not bother to send it to me when he edited it or tell me when he published it. I landed on it by chance one day on the internet and read it and I was horrified because the editing had changed it tremendously. I actually do not like it at all but it is on the web and there is nothing I can do about it. I consider The Accidental Seaman a better short story. It is available on my website, www.jennifermakumbi.net and I have also recently published a tongue-in-cheek very short story in Renagade (the alternative travel magazine) called Move Against Kenco Foiled.

The extract that I read is set in 1740. What drew you to that particular time in our history?

It is now set in 1750. I am just starting out as a writer; where else do you start but in the past? By past, I mean pre-colonial. In the past is our traditional storytelling and I always pay homage to that. Mostly, history at this time is oral therefore not set in ink. This gave me permission to reimagine, invent and subvert all I wanted without being constrained by history. But also culturally, in the beginning is Kintu so I was experimenting with myth and history.

The relationship between Nnakato, Kintu and Babirye reminded me so much of Leah, Jacob and Rachel in the Bible. Did you draw any inspiration from that story?

No, no, no! I did not draw inspiration from the Bible. We told stories before the Bible came and yes I did look at biblical issues in the novel but only to subvert Christianity. So the whole ‘Ham’s curse’ thing I looked at because it is a European explanation of the ‘African madness’ but that does not inspire me, it saddens me. My aim is to show that Christianity is not innocent when it comes to Blackness. I hate it when African creativity is brought back to European forms as if we are incapable of imagination, or lack our own stories to inspire us. The story of Babirye and Nnakato is a Ganda cultural reality. What happens to them was what traditionally the Ganda used to do as a culture and I am interrogating that. I draw my inspiration from oral traditions.

Your stories are deeply-rooted in Ugandan oral tradition and folklore. What in it inspires you? How do you think us Kampala-born-international-school-going-DSTV-watching generation can benefit from this?

Our traditional creativity and imagination is encoded within oral traditions. I love decoding these. They tell you so much about our history and explain so much of what remains of our culture. I call the culturally impoverished children of today ‘the pamper-generation’ who are impoverished culturally because their parents have chosen to go Western. There is nothing wrong with being born in Kampala; I was born in the city and grew up in a very westernised home reading western books. However I had to learn my culture like cooking traditionally, and I am talking about cooking luwombo in Kololo even though there were maids. I had a whole host of extended family all over Luwero district and I spent a lot of time in the rural village – my grandfather insisted on it – and learnt so much and I was fascinated. My siblings and cousins on the other hand were not as fascinated and so they are surprised by what I write even though we grew up in the same home and are of the same generation. The parents of the ‘pamper- generation can pass on what they know if the children are interested. I once rang home and talked to my three year old niece and she insisted on talking to me in English!

You are the only person I know that has a PhD in Creative Writing. Most people who have a Masters in Creative Writing do it after a degree that they had to do to please their parents. If you had a moment to convince a parent to let their child to study Creative Writing or to even pursue their writing passion, what would you tell them?

Oh God, you know how snobbish we people from the Third World are when it comes to subjects that promote talent. It is the fear for the doubtful future and we all suffer from it as parents. A doctor, lawyer, teacher is ensured of a job but not a writer, a singer, actor or dancer. I would not embark on convincing parents with words; it is a waste of time. People are insecure because of our insecure economies. Look at the universities; how many of them offer Creative Writing as a stand-alone discipline? What I can do is to show the world, through my endeavours, that creative writing is worth the trouble.

Thank you Jennifer for this interview. Hoping that you bring the overall prize home!

Look out for ‘Move Against Kenco Foiled’ in our #NowReading category.

Writivism Festival 2014: What you need to know

Last week, Bwesigire bwa Mwesigire talked to us about CACE, writing competitions and why we should read. This time, he tells us what we must know about the upcoming Writivism Festival.

1. When and where will the Festival take place?

The Festival will take place at the National Theatre in Kampala, from June 18 to June 22, 2014. Five whole days.

2. What should I look forward to as a writer and as a reader?

For the writers, there will be a workshop and a number of master classes for you. We shall announce the winner of the 2014 Writivism Short Story Prize from the long list at the Festival. You will meet fellow writers from all over the continent, including the most talked about contemporary writers. You can also come and sell your books.

Did I mention that David Godwin, one of the most prolific literary agents the world has to offer, will be at the Festival? I think writers should be interested in meeting him and attending his master class.

For the readers, there will be books; old and new. Come and buy..or win as we shall have a number of promotions and small competitions where readers shall win themselves books. You will also get to meet your favourite writers and have them autograph your copy of their book. You will be able to participate in panel discussions and share your opinion about things you found in some book and hear from other readers. If you have a book club, there are specific festival products for you and if you do not have a book club, come and meet other readers and maybe you will form one.

We shall also have a book signing at Aristoc Booklex on Saturday June 21 where you can come and meet the authors and have a brief chat with them.

3. How can I be a part of it?

Just come to the National Theatre, from June 18 to June 22. Some sessions at the Festival will be open to only a select number of people, so we shall open up an online sign-up on the Writivism website around June 1. Most of the other events will be free, one just needs to find their way to National Theatre, and carry some pocket change for some events that shall have a participation fee, but most will be free.

4. Anything for children?

We shall have a very active children’s corner. Oscar Ranzo will be there with his instant reading workshops for children, and we shall also have a Children’s Writing Competition, whose prizes have been generously offered by Jackee Batanda’s Success Spark.

5. How do you plan to interest non-book lovers?

Books do not bite. This lesson will be important at the Festival. Besides books, we shall also be screening the World Cup at the Festival. We shall have dance performances and a five-day food exhibition where you can discover Uganda’s culinary pleasures. We shall have comedy, drama and even flash theatre, film screenings and exhibitions. There is something for everyone, book-lover and non-book lover alike.

Sooo… see you there?