New Fiction Journal (NFJ) Launch: A Brief Intro

NFJ is all about fiction and fiction writing. Old fiction written in a new way and challenging/defying our pre-existing conceptions about this most popular form of the world literature. It is dangerous stuff being composed by very mobile imaginative minds across a fast-shrinking globe by some very talented writers---old and emerging. The shock value can be enormous---2000 watts of raw, white energy, some may say, delivered directly to the solar plexus, for better effect. The pulsating electric charge carried in that simple innocuous graphic piece on a white paper can give a fundamental jolt to all your ossified thinking/ perceiving modes and make your mental dish-antennae to rotate fast in order to catch and register every second of the super-fast trajectory of a hurtling tornado. In fact, to change the metaphor again, it places you as a helpless participant, suddenly and without any previous warnings, in the epicenter of a whirlpool of conflicting emotions, feelings, settings and moods, and, wants you as the participating reader to mentally record every atom falling on your fine but cluttered mind. Tough job? But that is how new creative writing has been doing all these past years and decades in last few centuries…shock. Metaphysical poets precisely did that. Browning did that. Cervantes and Joyce did that in their own style. It is different matter that the high-voltage shock, very soon, becomes blasé and gradually gets incorporated in the commercial culture as hallowed academic canon--- becoming mundane through routine and repetitive inane teaching/research activities that can easily kill the best creative stuff in the class room by the most unimaginative and boring men and women, with inadequate literary skills and inclinations, treating themselves very seriously--- and thus losing its earlier aura, integrity, freshness of vision, an enduring intellectual symbolism and thrilling youthful appeal to a minor group of wide-eyed consumers. The NFJ wants screaming fiction: a piece of writing that is unhappy with the deterministic narrow framework of story-telling decided by previous generation(s) of writers, literary editors and academics---that is all the arbiters of tastes for you. The ideal New Writer (NW) for us at NFJ is typically impatient---the way our beloved Derrida was with the western logos and everything foundational, metaphysical and fixed. He was, as his comrades gleefully point out, unhappy with everybody except himself. So the poor chap deconstructed everything sacred, static and traditional in one single sweep---to the utter delight of the restive Americans in perpetual search for something new and challenging to replace the earlier pantheon of the new and exciting in their national culture of the instant gratification---and got himself installed as the new demi-god of the western cultural world. He spoke and everybody thought he as the official spokesperson held the secret keys to all the sacred civilizational truths till rediscovered Bakhtin demolished the French in the little arena of competitive ideas. The NW is more or less like these icons, ready to demolish and then, willingly or unwillingly, become enshrined in the popular mythologies. Something can not be helped. To-day’s radical is to-morrow’s conservative. Regis Debray syndrome? Yeah. All the Parisian intellectuals of some significance of the 60s and 70s were just that before the allure of the establishment caught up with them and claimed them as apologetic defenders of the faith. But this is the second painful part of being a successful public figure of a market economy. For us, that early rebellion is still relevant and any way, youthful radicalism part is always better of a great career than the geriatric status quoits mindset of a failed revolutionary; better a reformed rebel than no rebel and die as a happy, complacent and wealthy organic man of the wicked world. Radicals change the world; some make it in their image, others, however, become its mirror-image. Some subversion is important for our mental health. It can be at purely thought level or formal or linguistic one…murder to create thing, you know. The idea is to break out of old moulds…and create new ones till somebody else comes and does it for you what you did to your holy predecessors. But that is life any way. Our kids always treat us as scum of the earth and rebel, only to get sucked in the same mire and become same as us. Little ironies of life!
It is New Fiction or NF we are on the look out for our journal, preferably composed in English for varied audiences across the English-speaking world; restive audiences eager to sample shifting perspectives, dialogic voices and conflicting view-points; that startling solid Pound-like crisp image or powerful arresting visual; the haunting music of carefully-crafted lines near a sea shore or in solitude of mind or heart, in brief, white creativity originating and erupting forcefully in multiple cultural locations and active, feverish finer mindscapes that soar in places, whether you like it or not, only few can visit. NF, by definition, is restless, cerebral, innovative, gravity-defying, Eureka-moment, multi-disciplinarian thing and is ready to challenge the overused dull lusterless decaying conventions and moribund boundaries of the art of fiction and fiction telling. It is to be edited by some very fine people: some venerable university dons, others about to become, while some young angry Osbornes wanting desperately to re-write their own histories in hot flushes of deep rage. If you think you have all the mixed cultural genes of Monet, Borges, Ginsberg and Guevara, to name but a few, you are welcome aboard the NFJ for a long and exciting mental journey across varied colourful landscapes conducted by the best fictionists of the time. In an instant, the eclectic experience will change from monochromatic to pure psychedelic. Send your shorts, micros, comments, interviews to our proposed half-yearly journal that is global in tastes and standards, and, of course, headed by an international edit team. Indian journals will not look the same again. We will provide the epochal and the revolutionary. The rest depends on God and our valued patrons on terra firma. Amen!

Voices: near and far-off

This is a column that aims to bring emerging and established literary voices of India and different countries to you. It is an interactive column for our valued readers. They can suggest some good writers to us, post comments on the e-interviews published in the column and give any other serious and relevant advice to make it more productive and lively. The column is part of Creative Saplings, an India-centric literary journal, focusing on IWE (Indian writing in English) but keen for a dialogue with other writers of repute from other countries, preferably writing in English for an English-speaking diversified global audience. You are welcome to join this prestigious journal by sending comments to:drsharma.sunil@gmail.com

Writing is more important now than it has ever been

The Zimbabwe-born, USA-based Emmanuel (PZ. add the surname), is a young poet, fiction writer, literary editor, teacher and , in general, Literature-activist who promotes the literary activities through his magazines, blogging, organized poetry readings, workshops and presentations featuring new writers to the local audiences. The Creative Saplings is pleased to feature this promising and cerebral creative thinker in this dialogue, for our valued readers. A separate author-profile is there to tell them about our first writer of this stimulating series on world literature, culture and art, where various perspectives of reputed writers from different parts of the world, will be put across. Happy reading!

Emmanuel Sigauke grew up in Zimbabwe where he studied English at the University of Zimbabwe. In the 90s, he was part of the National Executive of the Budding Writers Association of Zimbabwe, serving as the Secretary-general. He helped in the implimentation of new chapters of the organization throughout the country. He published poetry and fiction in magazines like Tsotso and Horizon. In 1996 he moved to California and completed graduate studies in English. He teaches English at Cosumnes River College in Sacramento. He is one the editors of these print and online journals: Cosumnes River Journal, Tule Review, Poetry Now, and Munyori Literary Journal

List of publications
The Return of Mukoma - short stories (Zimbabwe, 2009)
Forever Let Me Go, poetry collection (2008)
Poetry in Rattlesnake Review, Taj Mahal Review, Witness Magazine, African Writer, One Ghana, One Voice, Ovi Magazine, African Writing Online, Sam's Dot Publishing, Artsinitiates (Zimbabwe), Slow Trains
Short Fiction in The Pedestal, Story Time, SN Review, Artsinitiates, New Contrast




Sunil --Do you think writing is important in to-day’s global world?

Emmanuel: Writing is more important now than it has ever been. For one, there is increased literacy in the world and more access to technology, and with the internet, we read about places we would known about otherwise. Our world abounds with news of disasters and sometimes it seems that as we draw closer to each other we are still in many ways separated by the specificity of our experiences. For this and many reasons, writing can be used to help us understand each other as we work together in the global world.
As cultures interact, it is important to gain literacy about them, and one way to ensure that this happens is through writing. Who knew that HBO, for instance, would be running a series set in Botswana called The Number 1 Lady Detective Agency, which is based on books written by a Zimbabwean based in the UK. Only in a globalized world is such a thing possible.

Sunil -- Can it make a solid effect in a standardized world of mass-produced objects?

Emmanuel: With the proliferation of mass-produced objects, it would seem like writing has not place anymore in the world, but the opposite is true. Even as we enjoy these objects, the need arises to express our experiences of such enjoyment through writing. But remember that writing is a skill that’s required in life, so on its own, it will continue to be taught as a part of the socialization of people into the literate society; and along with this comes reading, which could inspire further writing. Because writing is part of art, which we will always use to express ourselves, it doesn’t seem like something we can stop to do, as long as we remain artistic beings.

Sunil -- How writing can really resist the reified thinking of a commercialized culture?

Emmanuel: Writing cannot resist its commercial reification, but true art has a way of emerging, whether or not it is treated as a beneficial commodity. Take poetry, for instance. Looking at the state of poetry, one would be discouraged from even becoming a poet, but because it is an art that often reaches the core of our humanity, a deepest expression of our feelings, a liberating one at that, it always resists reified thinking. But not all forms of writing can afford to avoid the commercial realities of our world. Much of popular writing is tailored towards money-making, otherwise it would be a waste of time. And often what can be commercialized is people’s attitude towards a form of writing. There is a ready market for popular fiction, and publishers thus keep churning it out. As for serious literary writing, as long as we teach literature in schools, and there are degrees to be earned in literature, there is a great chance that no amount of commoditization can take away the creative leanings of a Toni Morrison.

Sunil -- Can avant-garde neutralize the increasing commodification of art and artistic products?

Emmanuel: I imagine it would do so if it is not itself immediately commoditized. But in a place like the United States, institutions responsible for the creation of art, all the MFA programs, which may even encourage some form of uniform avant-garde, are built around the idea of looking at art as commodity. Perhaps the image of the starving artist is fast dying, as commoditization, as with reification, of an artist’s work may bring commercial gains. Avant-garde, in its search for evocation and radicalism is sometimes a quick target for objectification, as people sometimes fall for what’s different, what resists the establishment. It can easily gain the revered label of “cool”.

Sunil -- Cultural location and place and locale are important in a trans-national, Internet-driven world?

Emmanuel: On April 25 I was a presenter at a writer’s conference where the keynote speaker, Julia Connor (poet laureate of Sacramento) talked about the importance of place in writing about our stories. I found her message strong and valuable, as I have always believed, in the Faulknerian model, that specificity in place and locale can enhance the universal in a work of literature.
Place is even more important in this globalized, internet-driven world because it helps writers ground themselves in an idiosyncratic mode from which to create their works. Someone reading about Mumbai while in Harare will become aware of the specificity of Mumbai as a location, which has also been universalized by the internet; that person may want to contribute to the specified presentation of a Harare life, which is immediately given universal presence on the world wide web. Of course, issues of interest and access of such broadcasting of information about the places does not reach everyone at the same time or with the same impact. There are far too many people who still cannot access the internet, but to those who do, learning about the specific settings of an author’s work is important.
Specificity in setting has always been important in the most successful literature and will continue to in this internet world of ours. In fact, specificity is more important now than it has ever been.

Sunil -- Why there is a dearth of serious voices? Why there is a multiplicity of small voices in every literature?

Emmanuel: If this question is being given in the context of internet publishing, I would say it depends on what “seriousness” here means. But it is true that not many of the established writers publish online, although their works are increasingly being sampled online as a marketing or promotional tool. Traditional publishing, especially as handled by conglomerates and media companies, continues to attract the big names, because bigness attracts bigness. And some of these big names happen to be serious—Michael Ondaatje, Salman Rushdie, J.M. Coetzee, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Ian McEwan and many others.
A multiplicity of small voices in every literature is caused by the fact that current publishing trends are favorable to keeping a multiplicity of names small while promoting the few big ones which are already profitable. Publishing is risk-taking; it’s a big investment. But the multiplicity of the small names is a good sign that there is ambition, and that people still believe in writing. With hard work, some of those multiple, small names will join the top brass, as defined first, by the conglomerates, and second, by elite prizes like the Nobel, and fellowships like the Macarthur.
Sometimes writers just want to express themselves, which explains why there seem to be a multiplicity of small voices. Such voices, because they want to be heard, become easy victims of the vanity press and scam writing contests, but some have also taken to self-publishing on the internet. Sometimes they are desperate to have their work out that they will not give it the effort it needs, and we end up with more sub-standard writing by many small voices. In their smallness, though, there is a bigness that’s defined by the sheer size of their number, and they are hard to ignore. The internet may finally change the way publishing works.

Sunil -- Do you think writer’s subjectivity and vision are fractured to-day?

Emmanuel: Does that mean fragmented too? Because a fragmented vision is possible for a while, until all coalesce and the author has a body of work that defines a voice. As for subjectivity—it’s almost always fractured; there is always this indeterminacy, which leads writers to continue searching for the truth. Sometimes the writing leads to a more solid sense of subjectivity, yet the need to intensify the reaches of the vision may lead to constant shifting. So then you begin to ask: what is subjectivity? There are subjectivities that are as slippery as a catfish handled with bare hands. I think that even though his was clearly defined by the role his society accorded him, even Shakespeare’s subjectivity was fractured at the core—that’s what helps writing, this constant and never-complete becoming of an author’s vision and voice.

Sunil -- Does the writer have any appeal?

Emmanuel: Perhaps writers have don’t have much appeal anymore, but it depends on what writers. We still have literary writers who are becoming celebrities. There is something in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Zadie Smith, Jhumpa Lahiri, Petina Gappah that readers love. Try attend these writers’ readings and book signings—the lines tend to be very long. Then it also depends on what type of writing you are talking about; some genre writers have immediate appeal: Stephen King, J.K. Rowlings and the author of the Twilight series. Lately, a lady detective in Botswana is gripping the hearts of many in the United States and the United Kingdom. It just depends on what appeals to readers and (increasingly) viewer at the time. As for literature in general, it’s appeal tends to be in the English classroom, where something as simple as a grade may motivate sleepless nights with Chaucer, but let’s leave it at that.

Sunil -- What is writing according to you?

Emmanuel: I tend to generalize what writing is, because I move beyond creative writing. So it includes all written forms of expression, be they for creative or factual purposes. In other words, writing includes composition and critical thinking, creative fiction and creative non-fiction. But the writing that I think you are talking about is creative prose and poetry. These two categories are informed by the imagination and feeling and are used to tap into the core of our humanity. In other words, through creative writing (and especially through literature), we seek a better understanding of what you called our subjectivities earlier.

Sunil -- What difference your writing has made to your culture?

Emmanuel: As to whether my writing has done anything to my culture, it is too soon to tell, and I don’t think there is much that our writing can do to our culture: ask not, therefore what your writing can do to your culture but what your culture can do to your writing, if I may twist J.F. Kennedy’s saying. And here is what I mean. I have discovered that the more I write, the more I seek my culture, which in itself is a dynamic entity. The culture informs the writing and gives it meaning. As Homi Bhabha already argued in the 90s in that hard book of his (The Location of Culture), my culture is the location from which I interact with others. Often, it is easy to move away from your culture in preference for another, or to be stuck in the middle of something whose edges you can’t touch, but if you are a writer, you tend to end up seeking that which is true to you, that which is close to your heart. But here is a warning.
In as much as we can be influenced by our culture, we are also capable of critiquing the culture. There is always the temptation, especially if you are writing in exile, to idealize your culture, to seek to show only its positive aspects—that’s bad writing. The best approach, if the writing is allowed to be true to itself, is to critique the culture, to present both its positive and negative aspects.

Sunil -- Does poetry have a future?

Emmanuel: Yes, it does. At some time I was beginning to think that there wouldn’t be much of it being written or read. But I have noticed that more and more people are returning to poetry, especially in these hard times. Most poets know that they are not going to make a living out of poetry, but they are also aware that they cannot live without poetry. So they continue to write, and they tend to be creative about how they do poetry: they team up with other poets and do readings together; they buy each other’s poetry; they attend poetry workshops together, and they form virtual poetry communities. Then they try to publish their poetry, and if a traditional publisher does not seem interested, there is always Lulu, Authorhouse and other places. Of course, some of this is not serious poetry, some is not even poetry, but these poets are driven; they want to keep poetry flowing.
I live in Sacramento where I breathe poetry. Every day of the week there is a poetry event somewhere in the Greater Sacramento area, and when I look at the San Francisco poetry calendar, there is poetry everywhere there too. Remember too that nearly every city in the United States has a poet laureate, who works to develop poetry activities in the community, taking it to the schools, prisons, and other places. And there are international poetry conferences, such as the one to happen in San Francisco in July this year, which will have a well-known Zimbabwean poet, Ignatius Mabasa, performing in Shona.
There is poetry everywhere. I look online and I see websites like International Poetry Magazine, which features poets from many countries (India has good representation there). If poetry on the page seems boring for some, there is slam poetry, in many places. Then television programs often feature poetry performances.
Poetry is everywhere. There is even a well-known print journal called Poetry, then a wide range of other journal, online and print, whose purpose is to make sure that poetry does not die. It would never die anyway, as long as there are people on this earth.
Poor sales in poetry? Yes, poor sales, but who said there is money to be made in poetry? What has money to do with it? And why would someone be looking for money in poetry? Why make it cheap by putting a dollar value to it? So then someone may ask: why write it then? Because we can’t afford not to. Indeed, poetry has a future, as long as there is a future for humans.

Sunil -- Writing in English helps the writer for whom it is not a first language?

Emmanuel: Writing in English does help. It helps the writer reach a wider audience (since we all get into this with expectations of being known widely one day). Commerce has made English one of its trade languages, so those writers who want to be able to market to a wider audience would benefit from using it. As to whether English helps the writer, perhaps the questions should be, does the writer help English? The writer does. If we bring our specific experiences to working with the English language (if we write with our beautiful accents, so to speak), we enrich the language, and I have never known English not to love enrichment. We are talking of a language that is probably thirty percent French, forty percent something else, and thirty percent other languages; indeed, it is English that benefits from being used by writers of diverse backgrounds. Since we are in the business of creating, we tend to present language in innovative ways. Just take a look at what the Americans did to the English they crossed the Atlantic with; look at South African English, Indian English, et cetra. They are all part of this root English, yet they have added many enriching elements to the original (I shudder at the use of this word) English.
There might be a concern about writers being able to reach the audiences of their country. Where I come from, I wouldn’t even worry about that. As Petina Gappah pointed out recently in an interview with African Writing Online, there wouldn’t be a need to translate her book, An Elegy for Easterly to Shona or Ndebele in Zimbabwe because anyone who can read these two indigenous languages can also read English; most of us were taught all three languages (in terms of reading and writing them) when we started school. So there is no talk of literacy in Zimbabwe that doesn’t already use English, starting with the word ‘literacy’ itself. In fact, writing in English helps an African writer reach a wider audience even in Africa, which is why Ngugi wa Thiongo translates his novels into English.

Sunil -- Can you really colonize English language, the way Conrad did or Nobokov?

Emmanuel: I don’t think Conrad or Nabokov colonized English; they learned it really well, sometimes going through embarrassing episodes attendant to adults who learn another language. But they learned it well, then embraced it. I am not yet a fan of Nabokov, just because he was not emphasized when I was studying my literature, and I have not even had time to read his Lolita (because I am busy re-reading my Dickens, Lawrence, Faulkner, Chaucer, and embracing contemporary authors who are often influenced by Dickens, Faulkner, Chaucer, Lawrence). But I have studied Conrad both in Africa and in the United States, trying hard to find out why he angered Chinua Achebe so much and just enjoying his writing about which he agonized. Conrad, like most immigrants and ESL learners, had moments of self-doubt, never felt he attained the mastery of English. You see it in his writing, whose sentences sometimes give the impression that here was a writer seeking to prove a point about how well he could write in English. And he had reason to prove a point; even having become a British citizen, having served the country, and having contributed significantly to its literature, he still experienced what most second-language learners experience, the appearance of being a learner when speaking the language. We are talking of a country where your English may be dismissed because of missing the stress in one syllable. So of course his friends, most of whom were writers, sometimes made fun of his accent. And for anyone whose accent has been made fun of, there is really no way of taking that lightly, especially if you have the sensitivity of a writer.
Nabokov and Conrad did not colonize English; it colonized them; then they enriched it.

Sunil -- Is Literature not a problematic category these days?

Emmanuel: As a literature teacher, I don’t—can’t—see Literature as problematic. It’s my profession, just as lawyers will keep their professions, however problematic some of the categories may be. That being said, what can be problematic about literature is canonization. The question of who decides what literature is and what is not always comes up. There are often inconsistencies and biases in deciding what the literature of a country is. I studied America literature, but as I do my own reading, I am noticing that I never studied key America authors like Sherman Alexie, Jose Antonio Villareal, Leslie Silko and many others. I almost didn’t study Rudolfo Anaya, whom I discovered through a course called “Aesthetics of Minority Literature”, and having been recently used to being part of the majority in Zimbabwe, I wanted to find out what was meant by minority, let alone “minority literature”. And once I was there, I found out that I was studying what should just be called American Literature. The category literature then is not problematic, because literature is really a necessary category, separate from, say, Horror fiction, or Science Fiction, or Romance, and so on. But the subcategories we create for literature, calling something World Literature if it only includes two or three countries, is problematic.
But categorization is not a big problem anymore. There is a shift toward more inclusive categories, to give our students access to diverse literatures. The fact that I am answering this question here is a good sign; it shows we are now thinking about the problems of such categorization processes.
Of course, another problem with the term is in how we determine what’s literature and what’s not. The criteria for genre fiction are already established. If you choose to write romance novels you will find out that the structure is already put in place for you by the publisher; the plot has to be a certain way and always that way. But with literature, there is more depth and an emphasis on the complexities of life. There is high symbolism and a special way of using language and stylistic nuances that raise the prose to a literary level. The distinctions for what’s literature and what’s not, as far as we know, are clear, made clear even by the conditions under which genre fiction is produced.

Part 2 of my Interview with Sunil Sharma of "Creative Saplings" (India)

The following is the second installment of the interview with Emmanuel Sigauke, for the e-magazine, Creative Saplings. The interview has been conducted by me and is posted at the Creative Saplings Forum:


Does poetry still appeal to a culturally diversified mass audience?

No. There is no mass audience for poetry anymore. The mass audience does not buy poetry books, or come to poetry events in record numbers. This partially explains why publishers are reluctant to publish poetry, and why the poetry section in book stores is dwindling. More and more, poets are becoming their own audience, so fellow poets are the greatest market for poetry.

Is it possible to create a symmetry, consonance and harmony in a language headed for elliptical, fast SMS mode, inverting traditional categories of grammar?

As an English teacher, I say it is possible to do so, because part of my job is to make sure that there is harmony and consonance in the language. Symmetry even. It is as if the more diversion (in the form of text messaging conventions) that comes, the greater the need o teach students how to write. There is definitely some deterioration in grammar among big numbers of students, which makes teaching grammar more interesting. The students, or people who have to learn the conventions of the language, don’t necessarily resist the knowledge; it is as if they realize that even though they may break the rules with relish and indulgence (like misusing the apostrophe, or using smiley faces in place of a full stop or period), they still have to learn proper grammar and writing style (in the Strunk and White sense). So as an English teacher, I am needed today more than ever before (of course, I have to believe this with a passion).

What does poetry mean to you?

Many things; it is a companion; my teacher of life ; it is my voice. I like how it operates as the language of life (to use Bill Moyers' terminology), how it is closely linked to what matters to us—-our deepest feelings. I believe that if I cannot get a story on paper, I have to express it though poetry, to capture the heart of the matter.


Can it radicalize blunted modes of perception controlled by a culture industry?


Yes, as long as humans have feelings, and have those deepest moments they retreat to at the end of the day after all the static has settled down. It is as if everyone has a poetic moment, whether it is in the form of grief, or that flash of happiness, or minutes revelation about life. We breathe poetry, it is the language we speak. Culture industry? Surely, this is just a temporary distraction, even if it may happen on a large scale.

Can a non-native poet write in English and become natural and effective?

Yes. We have great examples of non-native speakers who have won Nobel Awards through their poetry and prose (written in English). Wole Soyinka, a fine poet, comes to mind. Dambudzo Marechera of Zimbabwe was effective. Chinua Achebe, although known for his prose, has written effective poetry too. And we have many other examples: Charles Mungoshi of Zimbabwe, Jack Mapanje of Malawi, Okot p’Bitek, and many others. Sometimes writing as a non-native brings some originality to the English language. The language has grown by borrowing from other languages. So each non-native poet could be effective through a distinctive voice and linguistic style.



Why the elite prefer the West as a work location and talk of their nostalgia about their homelands that are voluntarily relinquished for personal gains?

The West is a good place to operate from, in order to reach a wider audience. But a large percentage of those writers don’t prefer the West; most are in forced exile, escaping repressive governments and living in new countries where they don’t feel they can be as effective as when they were back home; so of course nostalgia sets in. The West tends to be well-equipped to facilitate dialogue on diverse topics. Take the US graduate school or research institution which benefits from the expatriate scholar, writer, or elite. In 2001, I met Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak in New York City and I asked a question similar to this. I had felt that post-colonial scholars, whom Spivak was calling the Native Informants, had a pattern of talking about the subaltern that they didn’t interact with on a regular basis. And these scholars were writing in a language the subaltern would never understand, and it seemed as if they were making careers out of the fate of people continents away. But I realized that there was nothing wrong with that. Sometimes the success of some discourse requires that the writer be in a location other than the original home. Chinua Achebe, Ngugi waThiongo, Wole Soyinka, Taslima Nasrin, and others have been more effective operating from the West. Regarding personal gains? Everyone is always seeking those, whether they are in the home country or in exile.

How do you evaluate African-English writing?

It continues to reap the benefits of colonial influence. This only makes sense in that although all African countries are no longer under direct European colonial influence, they kept the language for official business and as the primary language of instruction in schools. In that regard, it remains one of the most important languages used by writers to reach a wider audience in Africa and beyond. I believe that the writing is diverse and ranges from one that is very close to the native British English to some that has been bent for the purposes of carrying the experiences of the writer’s people. Each writer’s style adds to the English language, but I think some voices are shut off because of their perceived poor command of the language. Sometimes it seems that publishers outside of Africa are more willing to publish “African-sounding” English than those in Africa, who insist, in their guidelines, on British English. And those writers who have mastered the British English have done a great job of it, although it is hard to tell if they always effectively represent the experiences of their people. It is hard, anyone, to trust that any language is able to represent human experience effectively. Every act of writing is a form of translation, and is always an approximation, an always-almost affair, where the words the writer uses attempt to express the feeling.


The term African writing refers to writing by people who have disproportionate skills in English. African writing is done by writers ranging from a goat-header in Mazvihwa (my village) to an American-turned-African writer in Botswana (or in Zimbabwe). So my works will sit on the shelves with those of J.M. Coetzee, Nadine Gordimer, Andre Brink, Wilbur Smith and Doris Lessing, who are all considered African literature, although some of these writers are not even considered African here in the West. With this in mind then, I evaluate African-English writing as diverse, and it is forever growing.

When do you plan to write about ghosts and other beliefs in your community?

Interesting question. I am always writing about these. I am inspired by how popular culture in the West seems enthralled by ghost and vampire stories, and the writers who produce those kinds of stories here tend to succeed overnight. One can be reminded of the Harry Potter series, the Twilight series, or primetime television shows likeGhost Whisperer or Medium. Of course, much of this is not what’s considered literature, but even serious literature that deals with ghosts and other paranormal phenomenon has a large following here, and they have a cute term for it: magical realism. When I finally write about the ghosts of my land, I will be following in the footsteps of William Faulkner, who wrote about the ghosts of his Mississippi, Toni Morrison, who invokes the ghosts of slavery, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Ben Okri, and many others.


All I can say at this time is that that America taught me to appreciate the ghosts of my land.

Is it not a good strategy of connecting with your distant community through a literary device that exploits collective memory of folk culture?

In America, I quickly realized that my community was not going to be as distant as I had suspected. The culture was already exploited here. I live very close to the San Francisco Bay Area, home of diverse cultural groups, most of them American, which specialize in certain African cultures. The music that I used to think was exclusive to Zimbabwe, the mbira, is played here by Americans who were trained in Zimbabwe when they visited as cultural tourists. And I remember them, because back home I used to see them. The folk tale has been recorded and reproduced already under copyright here, so has the music, especially the so-called African drum. The first shock I had was when during my first week in California I attended the Whole Earth Festival at the University of California-Davis. Not only did the sight of Americans playing African drums shock me, I was entranced by the skillful dancers, some of whom acted possessed on the stage. So here I was, having been taught somehow to look down upon some African traditions in preference for aspects of American culture: it was like a slap in the face, a rude re-awakening.

The collective folk culture has already been exploited. Since it is a rich resource, it has not yet been exhausted, so I am certain I can get my piece of the cake as well. I don’t think about those things though, when I write. I just write, and if I end up exploiting folklore, so be it, it is part of my experience as a writer.





Is English a good tool for harvesting non-English culture, primarily for an English-speaking target group? Is there not an inherent danger or erotizing a non-western culture?


It is not a good tool, but it is the best tool available. Humans have always sought the best tools to make their lives easier. The advantages English provides, the opportunities even, outweigh the disadvantages by far. Perhaps it is not harvesting we are talking about, just a sampling. The English-speaking target audience, especially my American one, tends to be a sampling audience. One day they are in a Sushi bar, the next they are sampling Tundoori Chicken, and by Friday they have already eaten chimichangas in a Mexican restaurant. The samples, whether authentic or not, are easily available on American soil, so then the target audience does not even have to travel beyond its shores to sample non-English cultures. But it is never a form of harvesting. No language is able to harvest a human culture; we are always approximating, always exercising what Homi Bhabha has aptly called “metaphoricity”. And by the way, I like his landmark text The Location of Culture, especially the wayit raises the issue of the impossibility of full cultural mastery, but asserting the possibility of a hybridity akin to the sampling that I am talking about. Even I sample aspects of my own culture, and as a writer, I choose what to distort. Again, I think distortion is what a language like English allows us to do.

As for eroticism, that could be a positive thing as long as we are not too obscene about it.

How do you view Achebe and Ngugi?

They will remain the trend setters of our African literature in English; however, we need to view the in the context of other writers like Sembene Ousemane who were writing at the same time in French, Portuguese, or even in indigenous languages, like Solomon Mutswairo of Zimbabwe. These writers did their job of opposing Joseph Conrad, Joyce Cary, H. Rider Haggard, and other colonial writers who were misrepresenting Africa. They set a good foundation, and now I see African literature expanding to discover new voices who experiment with new ways of writing. In other words, there are now diverse camps in the African literary tradition, some tapping into the oral tradition, and other coming out avant-garde.

Ngugi’s theory on language use continues to be attractive, but not always practical. In a recent interview with African Writing Online,my friend Petina Gappah stated that she was not going to have her new book, Elegy for Easterly, translated into Shona because that would be a waste of resources. Zimbabweans can read in English. Recasting the works in Shona would be a kind of translation-for-translation’s sake. Conversely, Ignatius Mabasa, another friend of mine, laments the near-death of indigenous languages in Zimbabwe because of the emphasis on English. His novels and most of his poems are written in Shona. He even recently read Shona poetry in San Francisco (and in a Ngugian fashion, the reading were accompanied by English translations). It matters that these writers are my friends, since their views may have a bearing on my views on the politics of language in African literature. I happen to be the English teacher among them; and I know what helps me keep my job.