Pride Must Die! & Other Random Poetic Musings of The Desperate Naija Woman
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Pride Must Die! & Other Random Poetic Musings Of The Desperate Naija Woman
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If you chose to pay for a non-standard delivery, we will only refund the cost of our least expensive, standard delivery. Include at least the following information:. We will generally instruct you to ship the damaged product back to the retailer. If the replacement can't be made, or if you wish to cancel the order, you will be refunded in full. Pens are brittle they break easily in the gutter. Other writers are heavily experiencing the emptiness of existence: are trying to end the world-word as it is given: are searching for grammars of narration that would respond with a forceful vigour to the weight of our collective negation.
Discrepancies in life and literature are things of the day. But the ways in which our fictions are formed are evidence enough that we are still obsessing with telling the tedious, didactic tale, narrating no matter how mundane the manner or mode. Maybe we need D.
Spirit of this kind of formidable experimentation is criminally compromised in the fiction of Cole. An absence also applicable to most mainstream fictions and poetries coming out of South Africa today. Here is an example of aesthetic anxiety: the rigid edifice of meaning-making finds it impossible to develop a grammar that articulates what it considers an artistic anomaly, so that this failure causes a collapse of criticism, of aesthetics, in relation to the work in question. New language is required.
Harry Garuba wrote that if Amos Tutuola did not write, African literature would have had to invent him. Indeed, in terms of, among many other attributes, inventiveness, timelessness, rareness of vision, spirit of improvisation and resistance to any known literary categorization, Tutuola cannot be touched and tamed. But this forked-tongue writer-rhetorician is common enough in the country. No shock here. But I doubt the likelihood of the latter, for Cole could not convince me of his statement of seeing Amos Tutuola monkeydancing for Europe on reality TV.
Another word and world: like the dystopian vision of Deltron the Funky Homosapien, and the Automator, in the Year — crises precipitate change. Another manner of making the children crack their lips and laugh, like my stomach, when that Zim window of fiction opened, revealed the great chief commanding his court comedian to suck his cock. Another way: like the resistant sufferers that refuse death in the fiction of the writer who maintained and believed that to die was to dream a different dream.
Are we prepared to die and become izithunzela okanye iziporho? Are we not already dead but alive at the same moment? I can almost feel the heaviness of the black sea of the dead and the living. My memory is encircled with blood.
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My memory has a belt of corpses! Follow and admire his exploration of, and elaboration on the mythos invented by Detroit-based electronic music duo Drexciya. Could it be possible for humans to breathe underwater? Is it possible that they could have given birth at sea to babies that never needed air? Recent experiments have shown mice able to breathe liquid oxygen, a premature human infant saved from death by breathing liquid oxygen through its underdeveloped lungs.
These combined with reported sightings of Gillmen and Swamp Monsters in the coastal swamps of the South-eastern United States make the slave trade theory startlingly feasible. Black Life sprouts out the deadwaters of, lives in and through relentless rush of utterdisaster. Mystery and magic move me. Wherever I am, they are. My mind moves towards Nguni cosmology: contemplate the respect given to the river for its mystery and magic. Strong is the belief in the existence of sprawling villages under the waters: the existential certainty has always been present: that there are several customs and traditions and practises and myths revolving around the idea of a place and people worthy of reverence — existing underwater — in the same way we live on, and off, land.
Enough proof, this is no novel wisdom. We could look at it this way and say the difference here is that Drexciya is an invention of improvisational motion, in the after-experience, or afterlife, of catastrophe, the Drexciyan mythos is a radical approach, borrowing the words of Jared Sexton, to speak of about a type of living on that survives after a type of death. Not time-place bound. Myth here symbolises the persistent power and inventiveness of Blackness. The black magic which conquers all magic! Haunts the psyche of the very world, whose health is built on our collective negation.
Blackness as revolutionary improvisational motion: defying predictability; remaining resilient in the face of death or degradation? Not the exotic anymore, but the endotic, says Perec. You are the alien you are looking for, writes Eshun. I find myself faced with a similar situation and forced to respond in the words of Larry Neal, that indeed, we do need a system of politics and art that is as fluent, as functional, and as expansive as black music.
And when it is finally realized, it will be a conglomerate, gleaned from the whole of all our experiences. It is not unfair to lambast Fred Khumalo for missing an imperative opportunity. In his recently published novel about the sinking of the SS Mendi, Dancing the Death Drill , he explores the tragic historical moment that befell the Black soldiers who were on their way to Europe to fight for whites in the 1st World War. I agree with Amina Cain that the imagination is the determining factor in fiction. Not facts. But we cannot deny the tyranny of social facts and the existence of people who are averse to the ungovernable imagination.
One is reminded of a similar case, in Izwi , with Rev Isaac W. Not convinced our desperate times allow us to offer humble contributions, when the volatile present moment has proven to have grown tired of received and repetitious recitals, that render no revolutionary re-imagining of the past, but reduce it to rainbow nation romance.
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He was mad and did not understand why the intention and internal make-up of his text was being questioned when all he did was have his facts fictionalised. One worries, one wearies. It becomes a sad sight watching a writer or thinker who participates and plays into this problematic ploy, presenting their work as a textbook packed with facts that could contribute more light to the little that is known about the SS Mendi. The historical novel , says Khumalo, is the most supreme form of history.
That this form should be taken and treated as an opportunity to write an accurate, autonomous account of history and to expand on the footnotes in history books. They are writing the literary equivalent of program music. Mda does not take the textual torch and thrust it further, does not raise radical questions or pose problems. The text is a one-character stage play whose script was written by JB Peires.
Poem of the Masses
On closer reading one sees how The Heart of Redness over relies on tropes of the rural, not only as a place of non-progress, backwardness, but strangely enough, as the custody of certain African cultural authenticity. Narrative does not locate the borders of demarcation unnecessary… for the sole purpose of pissing on them and bringing to dust the rural-urban mirage. Tokoloshes invade my dreams all the time — where do they come from? A rather silly question Mda corners us to pose. How more absurd could it get? A memory of who [we were] yesterday , writes Nkosi, has been so outrageously erased because of the almost total dislocation of the tribal structure and system of values following large-scale industrialisation of the country and the urbanisation of the Africans.
Brian Evenson has pertinent points with reference to the relations between fields, specifically philosophy and literature. One does not see this relationship effectively at play. The reader is confronted with a case whereby the novelists miss the essential. Possibilities and potentialities of the unknown — forever in the process of be-coming, no consummation — are crippled and crushed at the exact moment writers overly rely on historical records.
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I read despair and death everywhere. Even with his cognizance of Bantu — Nguni cosmology, Khumalo, like Mda, failed at exploring and exploiting such richness that makes up Nguni cosmology while not forgetting the determining factor of fiction: imagination. No moment of rupture here.