Nothing to See Here

Hilda Twongyeirwe

Description

In Nothing to See Here, sixteen African women writers ably deal with the politics of nationhood and identity, and the burden and beauty of womanity. From the serious, to the absurd to the seriously absurd, these stories will leave you pondering, crying and laughing as you travel from East Africa to Southern Africa through to West Africa. A beautiful collection with 16 well-written, well-plotted stories from 16 amazing African female storytellers. - Zukiswa Warnner

Sujets

• Littérature Africaine
• Littérature Africaine
• Collections
• Collection

Informations

• Publié par: Femrite Publications
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9789970480067
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Nothing to See Here
Nothing to See Here
Edited by Hilda Twongyeirwe
FEMRITE - Uganda Women Writers Association
P.O. Box 705, Kampala
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
www.femriteug.org
Copyright © FEMRITE - Uganda Women Writers Association 2015
First Published 2015
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: 9789970480043
Cover Picture – Juliet Kushaba
Cover and Layout design by Bonnetvanture T Asiimwe
[e-mail]
Printed by:
Good News Printing Press Ltd.
P.O. Box 21228 Kampala, Uganda
Tel: [phone]
E-mail: [e-mail]

Acknowledgement
FEMRITE appreciates the input of all partners and colleagues who have been part of the process to make this publication possible.
The writers for sharing their stories and their lives with FEMRITE. The Swedish Institute and African Women’s Development Fund, for supporting both The Regional Residency for African Women Writers and the publication of this anthology. The Karavan Magazine, for being keen about developing African women writers and for working with FEMRITE to implement the Regional Residency Project.
Table of Contents
ALWAYS THE HEAD
Melissa Kiguwa
PEOPLE OF THE VALLEY
Makhosazana Xaba
ALLETJIE EVERYTHING
Karen Jennings
THERE’S NOTHING TO SEE HERE
Davina Kawuma
THE SAUSAGE TREE
Grace Neliya Gardner
QUEEN OF THE PEARLS
Linda Nkwoma Masi
RECONSTRUCTION
Doreen Anyango
MY FAULT
Monica Cheru-Mpambawashe
MAMA DEAREST
Lisa-Anne Julien
THE SILENT LAUGH
Olufunke Ogundimu
THE AMERICAN
Mercy Dhliwayo
HAPPINESS
Bolaji Odofin
PHOENIX
Famia Nkasa
THE DO-GOODERS
Lauri Kubuitsile
BAKING THE NATIONAL CAKE
Hilda Twongyeirwe
SHORTCUT
Sylvia Schlettwein
Notes on Authors
ALWAYS THE HEAD
Melissa Kiguwa
We chew over every piece of small talk until it sits like stale curd at the back of our mouths. Through our ruminations, we stumble upon my father’s name (father defined as the one who gave sperm and five years). Stretched on the bed, I put the telephone on the pillow and place my ear on top of it so that I do not have to hold it anymore. I think, mostly, the name Ngenyo is useless to me at this point in my life, I say into the mouthpiece. I do not know what it means or where it comes from. And I get so embarrassed when the questions, ‘Where is your name from? What does your name mean?’ come and I have no answers. I cannot be this old and still be dealing with identity shame.
I can hear her smile. You could try and find out, she tells me. Then we both laugh. What hadn’t we done to try and reach out to my father’s side? Results had yielded stalkers masquerading as cousins, clan meetings convened without me to begin the process of resuming a long-standing ritual, and truths about my own grandfather who had long ago disowned everybody in his family and refused to give me any information. She speaks after our laughter has subsided: at least Facebook brought about some interesting results.
About two years ago I found a Ruth Ngenyo on Facebook and we began communicating. She was feminist and radical and we took to one another right away. At that same time I had just received acceptance for a fellowship at the University of Witwatersrand and she was one of the fellowship instructors. We figured it fate and chatted on and off about school, romance, finding one’s place, and this lost tribe of people called the Ngenyos. Even she had no linkages to our people, and I accepted that perhaps my people were like that: brilliant and the most clichéd type of isolationist.
My mother visited South Africa that same year and took along baby clothes as a present for Ruth’s expectant sister. I remember her nervousness before she set off on the trip. Solo, I know she is having a boy, but I bought a yellow baby suit . . . I just know how you feminists are. I figured if I got the baby something blue, Ruth and her sister may think I am trying to socialise the baby into mainstream masculinity. I laughed at her words until the credit on the phone ran out.
Ahh, Ngenyo, Ngenyo, my mother interrupts my thoughts. We have tried and tried and tried to get your grandfather to give us more information. To give us a link, a name, even a number — anything that would give you an anchor. I sigh into the phone.
During my childhood, my mother and I talked constantly about Joseph Ngenyo. I have memories of him before their separation, a quiet man with glasses that remind me of pictures of Patrice Lumumba. Then there are the memories of him after their separation; these are patchy. Was it really him, flighty and hostile, banging at our door in London with police officers behind him? I visited him about five times after they separated, each time meeting him in a new residence. Once in someone’s garage, another time in a friend’s guest room, and the other three places are silhouettes I cannot place. At the time, I tried to understand him and why he left. And when I wanted to move back to London many years later, I remember his letter, a rejection of the daughter who has his eyes. My mother would tell me all kinds of stories trying to convince me I was still loved and appreciated and wanted by this Houdini of a man she had married.
The pictures of my mother during this time show a shell. Her cheeks sunken, legs the size of twigs. She laughs when she sees I still carry those pictures in my wallet. You surely are a weird child, Solo. Why you would want to keep pictures of such an ugly woman! Look, you can even see the bones under my eyes! And she laughs again, probably because these days her cheeks are full and his name rarely comes up.
I do not know when we stopped referring to Joseph Ngenyo outside of family reunions with aunties who had not seen me in years. I suppose his name became scarce because we had other things to do. Full-time jobs, cousins giving birth, friends whose families were disintegrating. We had little time to ruminate over people who leave. I learnt, first from my mother, to fill the memory of emptiness through one-way tickets to places further and further away from the cradle of betrayal.
As though hearing my thoughts straying, my mother asks whether I will change both of my names to make Solome into something more traditional and African-y. I laugh. No, seriously Solo, she says, I know it’s what’s hip with the pan-Africanists. I’m just waiting to read a poem somewhere by Olumide Ngenyo formerly known as Solome. I laugh again, this time from somewhere deep.
Olumide is so far from my reality, Mama! If you ever read a poem by Olumide Ngenyo formerly known as Solome, please give me a nice big mscheeew slap over the phone. She giggles.
But, like many lessons learnt from my mother, I understand that simply because someone is attached to you does not mean they want all the details. I wonder about telling her of my intention to hyphenate my name. Well, I start shyly, I know it is about ten years overdue, but I’ve been thinking about hyphenating my last name.
Really? she asks. Well, yeah. Everyone knows me as Ngenyo, but again, it is just a sound. Consonants and vowels strung together, no meaning. But Chindama, well, that is the name of the man who raised me. Who played dad and who has seen me grow. While it is still too patrilineal for my liking, I would like to take dad’s name (dad defined as the one who raised me).
Wow, she says. I don’t know if I ever thought those words would come from your mouth. She chuckles: the both of you gave me hell you know. The way you would fight each other . . . and now come to find out you’re really the same person. Stubborn and hard-headed. I laugh and ask, that is not such a bad thing, is it? She says, I suppose not. It has gotten us this far, right? I nod as though she can see me. It has gotten us far . . . Ngenyo-Chindama. I say, it all seems so ceremonial, changing my name. It seems like a lot of work. I was thinking of just getting rid of the Ngenyo altogether. Maybe taking on your name. Mayanja-Chindama.
I hear her nodding. Yeah, she says, your younger cousin did that. We all know her dad is useless, so when she decided to take our family name no one said anything. Now she is Agnes Rurangirwa. But she had that insight quite young. The problem in your case is people have known you as Ngenyo since you were a child. You know in school no one knew my name was Peace, they called me Sarah Mulungi. When I left school I went by Peace Mayanja, and after I got married to your father I became Peace Ngenyo. And then I got married to dad and now I am Peace Chindama. I’ve lost a lot of connections and contacts simply because people cannot find me. They do not know my name.
I want to process through the depth of what she has just said. Constantly changing identities. Not knowing one’s name. Loss. But she prompts me to continue speaking to my naming process and I put my questions on the backburner for a later conversation. What of Solome? she asks. Are you going to keep Solome?
I have definitely thought about changing Solome, especially when I first began attending Pan-African events. She laughs. Seriously, mom! The way they Malcolm X us into believing anything that s