The Granta Book of the African Short Story
Language: English
Pages: 400
ISBN: 1847083331
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Africa: Why Economists Get It Wrong (African Arguments)
Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa
The Elephant Whisperer: My Life with the Herd in the African Wild
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