The Granta Book of the African Short Story

The Granta Book of the African Short Story

Language: English

Pages: 400

ISBN: 1847083331

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Presenting a diverse and dazzling collection from all over the continent, from Morocco to Zimbabwe, Uganda to Kenya. Helon Habila focuses on younger, newer writers - contrasted with some of their older, more established peers - to give a fascinating picture of a new and more liberated Africa.
These writers are characterized by their engagement with the wider world and the opportunities offered by the end of apartheid, the end of civil wars and dictatorships, and the possibilities of free movement. Their work is inspired by travel and exile. They are liberated, global and expansive. As Dambudzo Marechera wrote: 'If you're a writer for a specific nation or specific race, then f*** you." These are the stories of a new Africa, punchy, self-confident and defiant.
Includes stories by: Fatou Diome; Aminatta Forna; Manuel Rui; Patrice Nganang; Leila Aboulela; Zoë Wicomb; Alaa Al Aswany; Doreen Baingana; E.C. Osondu.

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walked. How beautiful is the unbroken human spirit. I tried desperately to think of something to say, but could not find the words. Thoughts were spinning in my head, but my mouth remained closed and empty. So we continued in silence, this stranger – my daughter – and I. So this was it. My homecoming. What did I expect? The village to come out in celebration of a long-lost daughter who had come home? How long had it been? Forty years? It must have been about forty years. How I have lost track of

Ada instead. She would like to give Ada a nice wedding present. She wouldn’t go to the wedding ceremony, of course. She’d save the dear old family the embarrassment. But she’d have to give Ada a nice wedding present. And then in the middle of her thoughts the front door banged, feet hurried along the passageway, and the door opened and there was Ada. ‘Myra. Myra, ou pal. You’re back.’ Her younger sister was there, flinging bag and jacket aside and hugging her. ‘I heard those damn old hens up

his nose and speaks in steady, modulated stills. He knows that, though their faces are uncertain here, on this floating thing carrying people to work for people who despise them, he will be the source of mirth back in the narrow, muddy streets of the suburbs, where his people live. They will whistle his fake mzungu accent through their noses and laugh. In a town like Mombasa, his tour-guide uniform is power. He has two options to deal with people. One: to imagine this gap does not exist, and be

of the zungus, Miss Hornbake or Miss Simpson. (Miss Straw wouldn’t lower herself to stalking.) In that case you saw a ghostly-pale face, wrinkles and white hair gleaming, and that would shut you up with fright pretty fast. Whoever it was threatened us with entry into the Red Book, which usually meant standing under the Punishment Tree right in front of the staffroom. It sounds like a joke, but imagine the cutting words of all the teachers coming in and out of the staffroom, while you stood there

be hours and hours between afternoon and sunset.’ She said ‘I’, not ‘we’, and that seemed to him proper and respectful. She would forge ahead on her own whether he joined her or not. He was relieved that this outing to the mosque had satisfied her. Cheap and hassle-free. On a student budget, he could scarcely afford expensive restaurants or luxurious shopping trips. It was good that she was a simple Khartoum girl, neither demanding nor materialistic. Still, she said that she wanted him to

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