PUBLISH'D AFRIKA

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: One Way To Paradise

Written by Tebatso Motsepe

It’s a hot sunny day, with clear skies and the sun is halfway across. The smell of palm trees and pine trees are mixed with the smell of dried and dusted blood, rusty bullets that were meant for the fallen soldiers. This is all you could smell, because it is all the wind carried, especially now that it’s after the dragging wars in this country- Mozambique. Sometimes I wonder how war really looked like. Was it all cries and screams, blood and bodies, and sorrowful just like they tell us? Or was it something different that is intended for peace-making? Wouldn’t you wonder too, if you were born in a country that is full of unreasonable hate, purposeless wars and endless suffering?

“Anastasia… Anna?”

I hear a woman’s voice, a low filtered voice. I suddenly realise that I am sleeping, in class, again. After the wars, schools were left vandalised. Twenty years after the great war and nothing has changed; it’s only getting worse. The school is a ruin of dozen single walls with bullet holes, with each class held under a huge tree that can occupy 10+ learners. I’m 18 and in the 13th grade, that’s like the final grade of high school in this country, such a drag of school years for a hopeless country.

“Anna, wake up. This is my class and you can’t keep on sleeping whenever you like!” Mrs Sithole yells from the side of the tree where she moves around while teaching. Even though we share the same last name, we are not the same. I’m brown skinned, with a black Afro – Mozambican. She is a light skinned, with long curly brown hair, Brazilian-Mozambican.

I raise my head from the wooden desk I am lying on, stretch my arms and release a quick cat-like yawn.

“Were you daydreaming about paradise again, Anna? Perhaps you should take us with you some day,” Mrs Sithole teases me and the class laugh dumbly. She’s teasing me, but what she says is true. I always dream about paradise, a place with no hate, war and poverty, a place far across the border.

“At least it’s better than…this,” I kick back, trying to protect my imagination.

“No place is better than home, Anna.”

“This is no home, how is it a home when it has turned into a grave of ruins?”

The class stares at me, and for a minute, no one says a word. A scream from the other side of the walls brings all of us back to life with fright in our eyes. The screaming multiplies until it is a cry from the many learners, young learners. Something with a sound like crackling fireworks rings from the other side, followed by a ‘Boom’ that shakes the very ground. Smoke and dust rises to the air.

Before we can think, we are surrounded by men with objects. They are in dark green and brown costumes, just like soldiers were described, with black short boots that cover the end of their trousers. They are wearing red cloths on their heads. Their clothes have red marks that are very close to blending in with the colours. They look young but angry and deadly. Most of them look like they are of my age group, born after the war. Some look a few years older, probably born during the war. They seem to know more about it than the rest of us.

“Gentlemen, wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t scare my children?” Mrs Sithole asks, and the men say no word but warn her by pointing the AK-47 at her. Our poor teacher stops talking. She stands beside me, and this is the right time to ask questions.

“Are these soldiers, Mrs?”

“No.” she answers with a shaking voice. “These are not soldiers; they are terrorists.”

I feel a chill run down my spine and my heart starts racing. All the concepts of war we were taught and none ever mentioned unauthorised soldiers whose only purpose is to make the earth bleed, make people cry and for what reason? No one knows. A few minutes later, a man comes from the other side of the wall. He wears the same clothes as the others. He is a beast in the clothes with a huge chest, broad shoulders and huge biceps. He looks like he’s in his late 40s but his beard is as dark as night. He’s mostly bald but he wears the red cloth on his head, so it’s less visible.

“All boys line up on the wall!” he orders with his deep voice.

There is hesitation before Mrs Sithole speaks. “What are you to do with my boys, Mr?” She stretches her arms to form a shielding sign.

“And what are you? Their negotiator?” the man mocks her as he moves forward, pointing at her with his 9mm pistol. Mrs Sithole flinches.

“No, I’m their teacher and their safety is my responsibility.”

The man looks back to his group and back to Mrs Sithole with rage in his eyes. At point blank range, he shoots her in the head and blood sputters to the ground before her body hits it with a thud.

I was born two years after the great war and all I know of war is what I was told, but no one told me that it was a non-negotiable act. My instinct tells me to run and I do, but I crash face first into an AK-47 that sends me flying back to where I came from. The cracking sound of my nose has no pain at all. I drop to the ground like a sack of maize meal and dust flies up. I’m unable to raise my head, so I look at the sky as it blurs up and everything turns black.

I wake up in a camping tent that is the same size as a chicken house. It has a paraffin light placed beside me. I’m lying on a huge blanket that stretches to every side of the tent and a pillow that is impossibly uncomfortable. My nose hurts like hell.

There is a fire outside. I look through an opening and see the terrorists gathered around it. It must be twenty of them , or less. Felix is seated in the same way but at the other side, facing my direction. I recognise a lot of them but he’s the only one I know by name. The way they sit around the fire reminds me of my parents, for they like sitting around fires till late at night. The thought of them sitting alone tonight, waiting for me to return breaks my heart, but the fact that these vultures outside might’ve harmed them breaks me the most. I hope they haven’t.

My heart starts racing when the commander leaves the fireplace. He’s headed in my direction and the others also head to their tents. I crawl back to the far side opposite the entrance and cuddle my legs that they cover my back thighs and below.

“Ah, you’re awake?” he says as he enters the tent. “How foolish of you to think you can run from us. Now your beautiful face is ruined.”

He crawls towards me after his entrance. His look is lusty and it makes me feel naked as he looks all over my body. Disgust grows in my throat as he proceeds to move his hands atop my thighs, pushing my skirt back to reveal my underwear. He pulls me forward so hard that my head hits the ground. I try to fight back by pushing and kicking. I wish I didn’t do that. He throws a slap across my face and doesn’t give me a chance to rub over the pain. He proceeds to unbutton my white shirt that is now brown with dirt. He stops and stares at my revealed breasts that are now jiggling because I’m shaking and sobbing in pain.

A girl screams in another tent and it has him turn and look back. A tearing sound of the tent is followed by a gunshot that puts an end to the screaming. The mighty commander turns to face me with a smirk on his face.

“That’s what happens when you resist.”

You mean “disagree” with your decision to rape. I slowly extend my arm towards the paraffin light and grip it tightly. I pick it up and smash it across the commander’s face in a speed of fear. The liquid splashes on his face and onto the tent and catches fire. There is little liquid on my hand but I manage to get rid of it before it catches fire as well.

He screams and yells in pain as the fire spread across his face and that gives me a chance to run for my life. I jump out of the tent and enter the long grass behind it. I run into the bushes of long trees and look for one that I can spend the night on and rest. The first rule of wildlife is to never sleep on the world’s grounds.

It’s been four days of running and sleeping on wild trees. I have been depending on fruity trees for energy. I now carry a stick to help me navigate through the long grass and hold snakes away from my reach, like mostly killing them. I reach the end of the long grass and I’m at a beautiful sighting, a huge river in front of me – the mighty crocodile river. It is as described; humongous without beginning or end. The banks are packed with crocodiles, except for where I am. There is a boat on the side of the grass. Whoever put it here must’ve come from the other side and they chose a safer bank to store their boat. The boat is with paddles for movement in the water. I pull it with all my strength towards the water.

There is movement in the long grass that I just came out of. Could it be crocodiles? I pray not. It’s the commander, the one I thought I had killed. Seeing him makes me pant in fear and all I see on his face is anger. I push the boat into the water and he starts to run towards me. I jump into the boat and start paddling. I’m not fast enough.

He jumps into the boat, his weight making it float faster into the river away from the bank. I’m in my fight or flight situation. I choose to fight. I pick my navigation stick and try to hit him but he grabs it, pull it off my hands and throws it into the water. He pulls me by my shirt and punches me across my face with a fist that was meant for a man. He repeats until all I see are the stars and his face. It’s all burnt up with his tight side in wrinkles and his left with his skin completely burnt, only his flesh is showing. I had to burn him and reveal the demon and monster that he is.

He grabs my hair and dips my head into the river. The boat tilts to his weight allowing him to hold me in place. Through the water, I can see his determination to end my life, to end an innocent life. He is so strong and I’m almost losing my breath. My fist don’t work on him, my head is still in the water and I’m almost dying, but I can’t die. I don’t want to die. My hands and legs are free. I move my hands across his face and touch his fresh scars. They are sticky, slime-sticky. I scratch him without measure and he lets go to cover his face and yells.

At the instant I kick him from behind that he falls into the river in a splashing fall. The boat tilts a little and regain its balance as I fall flat into the boat and gasp for air. I think about what might happen If I wait longer and it scares me. I sit and grab a paddle and paddle fast, faster than my strength allows.

The commander pops out of the water. He is battling to remain afloat; clearly he can’t swim. I paddle to the other side without looking back. I see the other terrorists on the other side and it seems like they have been watching for a long time. They shoot at me but the bullets do not reach my bank and I’m grateful that there is only one boat. I stand there looking at them like I’d just won a race until they turn back and disappear into the long grass.

I look into the woods I’m to walk into and I run. I don’t know why I run this time without danger on my tail but I run, just in case. I run more days; two more days but without fruits this time. The grass is mostly dry and so are the trees. The fence is near and I just have to make an opening and run once more.

The fence is impossible for a pass through. I use a stick I picked along the way to dig an opening. The soil is soft, and I succeed and cross over to the other side. I cross a black road, I’m not sure what it is made of, but I can tell that I’ve never seen something like it. It is another run into the bushes and I can feel my body losing the little strength left in me. I’m tired but I can’t stop until I’m out of the bushes. I’m getting more tired as I run and I’m slowing down as I go. Finally, I reach the end of the bushes and land in a field with a lot of black people like me. I stop running and look at them.

“Dumela sesi,” a man says looking at me but I do not comprehend this language. The strength in me is lost and I fall with my back onto the field.

“Thušang!”

A woman shouts and before I know it, I’m surrounded by people and others are holding me. I don’t know if this is the paradise I always dreamt of, but I hope it’s not as ugly as the place I come from. I believe that we cannot choose where we come from but we can always choose where to go. Whether we’ll be accepted or not, it’s totally not up to us.

“Help!” is all I manage to say.

My energy is drained and the background is starting to blur, until all I can see is total darkness.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: Free Like A Dead Body

Written by Kamogelo Tselane Mashilo

Midnight-coloured shawls veil slouched shoulder blades. Soggy eyes are affixed to the crimson earth beneath our feet, they gesture respect with bended necks. My dear Aunt Jeminah tosses a tired gaze at me and clenches my hand, her sweltering palm squelched up against mine. A sneer paints itself on my face as I stare at his casket. He cannot die enough deaths and I cannot bury him enough times.

“I am sorry for your loss, Thami,” they all say, with that same deceitful look. I want to tell them that it is not a loss and that I want to rejoice and paint the town red and yellow and all the colours happiness might be. I want to say that I am free, but not like a bird. Free, like a dead body. But I must not say anything, I know. I simply nod in response and carry on with my day.

Pastor Nkosi invites his gang of salvation-pushing fanatics to begin a chorus. The man in the casket is my father. He and Pastor Nkosi were friends from as far back as I can remember. He was there when I broke my right wrist while trying to fly because I was sure that the low rumble of trees meant that I was a superhero. He was there to celebrate with my father when he finally got a job. He was also there for us when I lost the only person who ever mattered to me. He was there as a voice of reason in those last few years when my father traded in the bottles of beer for so-called redemption. He was always there, with his broad saint-like smile and puppy-dog eyes to tell us that God has a plan for us.

“A plan? Gladys, are you out of your mind?” exploded my father upon hearing those exact words from my mother one time when I was in Grade 4. They were having their daily squabble again.

“Yes. A plan, Mandlenkosi and you would have one too if you weren’t such an alcoholic,” my mother retorted. “We are drowning in debt, we can’t afford the groceries, we have no money to buy electricity and Thami needs a new pair of school shoes,” she continued.

“And your point is?”

“If you were pulling your weight, things would be different,” she said, lowering her tone.

“I am trying my best, sthandwa sam’. You know I love you.”

“Maybe love is not enough. Maybe it never was.”

I waited patiently for my father’s response from under the heavy tiger-faced blanket but it never came. His words could no longer hold her captive as they once did when she was young and still prone to purchasing the dreams that came from his tongue.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Godless, jobless lesser man.

I wore those same old open-mouthed pair of school shoes that gave me sores on my heels for the rest of that year. The bigger boys nicknamed me ‘Pac-man’ after the beloved arcade game character who swallowed cookies and ghosts because like him, my shoes had a wide-open mouth and swallowed dust and pebbles wherever I went. I became a joke and the joke became my life.

Aunt Jeminah jerks her hand away from mine and catapults me back into the now. She is slowly swaying her arms from one side to the other. Grace of Christ church choir is already deep in song, lamenting in honour of uBaba. There is no soul that is too heavy for their voices to ascend.

I listen to the heaving hums of baritones and sopranos melting together in the wretched wind. A multitude of cheeks gleam with wetness in the light of the curtained sunshine. Bulging clouds hang aloft, it might rain later. My mind swiftly remembers how it too rained on that cursed summer’s day. I get to thinking about the day that life became this itchy Christmas sweater, this cancerous mole on the surface of my skin, this thing and above all, this thing that just won’t die.

It was a Sunday— the uncomfortable type that comes at you quicker than reality. My mother, being the earnest and biblical woman she was, had nudged my father into a petty job as a gardener for Mr. Van Tonder, her previous employer. The pay was less than something but it meant everything to those who had nothing. He worked Mondays to Thursdays which meant he still had enough time to slug around Kwa Joe on his three day weekends. He had been paid that Friday evening and he had not returned since.

I remember the details vividly. My mother and I were on our way back from church. We treaded through the maze of shanties, tiredly shuffling our heels on the coarse gravel. We stopped on the way to buy a packet of tomatoes from a vendor. My mother handed the man a crisp R10 note and we journeyed back beneath grey clouds.

As soon as we got home, we were greeted by a partly open door and a muffled Whitney Houston belting one out for the heathens. I gripped the clanging metal and opened the door. We stepped inside and saw my father fanned out over the couch. He was blacked out and motionless. The jarring rhythm of his snoring travelled to and fro our earlobes.

“Kshhhhh,” the radio hissed its static from atop the coffee table.

“Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the beat with somebo–”

“Kshhhhh, kshhhhh.”

“This is 95.7, Voice FM. It is thirteen minutes to two and you are tuned into Soul Sundays, your number one midday show bringing you only the finest oldies every Sunday from 12 to 2.”

“Kshhhhh,” chimed in the static once again.

“–emember, today’s question is what song best reminds you of that first love when you were burning with youthful ignorance and passion.”

I caught a glimpse of my mother getting lost in nostalgia as she half-answered the question in her mind. She noticed I was watching and quickly snapped out of it.

“We’ll take one last caller before wrapping up today’s segment.”

My mother turned the radio off, putting DJ Sandz-O out of his bleating misery. A beer bottle laid overturned on the coffee table cover which had been mapped by a large splotch. There were two unopened bottles underneath the table and a few scrunched up R10 notes. We tidied everything up and finally slipped out of our Sunday outfits and into our snug clothes.

He awoke about an hour later while my mother was preparing supper and I was laying out my school uniform to be ironed . He arose like the storm of a man he was and stumbled his way to the kitchen. He stood at the door with a demented look on his shaggy face.

“I’m hungry,” he slurred, half-drunk and half-father.

His words went unanswered as we ignored him and went about our duties. She began humming a tune that she used to sing when I was young and bursting with curiosity.

“Gladys, I’m speaking to you!” he thundered coldly.

My mother pretended not to hear the blizzard in his voice or the earthquake in his stagger as he took sizeable steps towards her. She took no notice to him as she nonchalantly continued stirring the scalding hot pot of beef stew.

He grabbed her just above the elbow and she quickly turned her body towards him.

“Thami, can you please fill the water bucket up for me, it looks like it might rain,” she asked.

I obliged and grabbed the empty bucket to the tap outside to fill it. I could hear them arguing from inside the house in between the whirring swooshes of water hitting water. I could now feel the vehement scurry of the wind as it laid claim to everything I knew.

It took what felt like hours for the bucket to fill up. When it did, I immediately closed the tap and grabbed the rickety bucket handle. I steadily hurried back to the house. At 11, there is no amount of parenting that could undo the trauma of what I saw next.

As I entered the kitchen, I could sense a stiff coldness. They stood only an arm’s length apart in the centre of the room. Silent, as if to let their hearts do the negotiating on behalf of their voices. I carefully placed the bucket on the stand and joined the chorus of silence. Almost like the calm before the storm.

“Woman, what did you just say to me?”, he asked as if he had not heard her the first time. She looked straight into his pupils and did not flinch. The tension was so solid, it pinned me to the spot.

A five-fingered lesson bolted through her face, ramming her body onto the floor before she could open her mouth. He mercilessly grabbed her dreadlocks and stood her up. He then jostled her onto the kitchen counter and used both his hands to strangle her. Her arms fluttered as she laboured for a morsel breath of air. A wheezing cough squeezed itself out of her body as she struggled to escape his thick-limbed grip.

She looked at me the same way a starved dog looks at a stranger, behind those hazel-brown eyes you could almost see her clawing for liberation. Or death; I still can’t tell the difference between the two.

“Baba,” I pleaded softly. “Baba, you are hurting uMama,”

He slowly loosened the noose of his hands before completely letting go of her. She fell down coughing as she tried to catch her breath. He wiped the countertop clean, dropping everything as he slid his arms in hysteria before holding his head. He burst out of the house, ready to rain elsewhere. The sky had already began pouring by then.

I went over to help her but instead we just sat on the floor bawling our eyes out while she held me in her warm embrace. He returned three days later carrying a heart-shaped box of chocolates in his right hand to make up for the love they no longer shared, and a new-found authority in both. The abuse carried on for years after that incident and she took it every night until one night when her body couldn’t and she passed out in the middle of their ritualistic fights. She died when I was seventeen and all of me followed her.

Ever since that day, that cursed summer’s day, I’ve been trying to pick up the pieces of a broken home. He quit drinking months after her funeral. He claimed to have found the Good Book but I know that it is his cold sweats and night terrors that drove him to religion. He once went four nights without sleeping, just tossing and turning in an effort to escape his own filthy conscience.

Back at the funeral, Pastor Nkosi reads his obituary as the body is slowly lowered. He clears his throat as if to cock back the lies and begins.

“Mandlenkosi Titus Ngwenya, known to friends and family as Mindlos was born on July 7, 1969 to parents Joanna and Albert Ngwenya. He was born in our small township of Sizolethu where he lived all his life. At age 19, he met the love of his life, Gladys Maleka who passed away five years ago.”

 Suddenly, a gut-wrenching feeling colonises my innards. My toes curl up and that day replays itself over and over again in my mind. How dare he mention him and love in the same breath?

“He spent the last few years serving God. He passed away on Tuesday, the 17th of September 2012 at the age of 43 after being stabbed 6 times on his abdomen on his way back home.”

“He leaves behind Thamsanqa and the rest of his extended family. May God help you through these hard times, son.”

If only he knew that this is the softest time has ever been to me.

“To some, an uncle. To others, a friend. To your woman, a man. To your son, a father. And to me, a brother. We thank you and may your soul rest in peace.”

His words nauseate me so much that I want to vomit. That man was many things but he was never a father.

After the funeral, they ask me how I am doing. I hope the saliva used to deliver that question drowns them. I hope their tongues swallow themselves. I hope he wakes up, just so I can see him die again. Do not ask me how I feel, no. Rather ask where I buried the knife.

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: The Whistle Man and Bow

Written by Chazaq T. Reads

‘Please don’t do this, she is sick, I beg you please,’ the young man pleaded as he knelt before the intruders. ‘My mother is sick, she can no longer work. I am the one who has to work and since I am still young, my wages are cut in half. But I will have her tax money ready by tomorrow afternoon.”

But still, no mercy was shown.

‘Sebaste, you know the law, taxes are equal to each soul, you can’t live here freely,’ said one of the soldiers. He had a moustache that flapped around the air as he spoke. In excruciating pain, the woman stood up from the ragged reed mat. Her knees shook with weakness as she struggled to keep herself strong.

‘My son and I will leave tonight,’ she cried. ‘Please have mercy on us, we will pack and leave, you will never have to see us again.’

‘You have only ten minutes to pack your belongings and leave,’ commanded one of the soldiers. ‘Whatever it is that you leave behind will be counted as your taxes paid to the kingdom.’

Bow collected himself from the floor and helped his mother pack clothes and food.  As they walked out of the hut, the soldiers followed them to the gates of the kingdom.

‘Don’t look behind you and don’t shed any tears,’ Bow’s mother reprimanded. ‘The soldiers will see this as a symbol of resistance. Surrender my son; we will figure out our way outside these gates.”

Bow’s mother clasped her son’s hand tightly inside her sweaty palm as they walked on. Bow obeyed his mother’s orders. He held back the tears and erased the temptation to look behind him. The soldiers marched behind them and when they approached the gates, the screeching sound of the hallowed billows heavily weighed into their hearts, as they stepped out into the unknown.

The people of the kingdom had heard dreadful tales about what awaited them in the outskirts of the kingdom. The nation laboured hard to secure their stay under the ferocious rule of their king. On the other side of the hallowed kingdom gates lay a nation of scavengers who preyed on human flesh. Every night they would roam around for feed by the railroad connecting the kingdom and the Coastal Plains. Long ago before the war against the scavengers, the train used to connect the two nations for trade. The Coastal Plains traded poultry and minerals from the Moresha sea and the kingdom had fresh vegetation and dairy to offer the fishermen from Coastal Plains. But long gone are the days when the fisherman and the farmer shared produce.

‘Where will we go?’ Bow asked in a voice that trembled with fear.

‘We will have to go to the Coastal Plains, ‘ his mother replied. ‘We’ll travel across the river in the valley and when we reach the meander by the berry bushes, we will have to climb Mount Yosemite. We will be safer that way, no one will see us.’

The scavengers feared water bodies so she knew that she would not find them prowling around the river route. The moonlight led their footpath as they set their trail down the mountain into the valley and followed the river. The fear of the scavengers gripped her son’s heart but the faith he had in his mother was as large as the depths of the Moresha sea.

The ground quaked at the gaits of the scavengers as they scoured the forest for human flesh. The couple had to take silent breaths and tread softly, lest their presence be known. Around midnight the mother looked at her tired son and decided to set up camp for the night. They camped under the willow trees and covered themselves with a reed mat.

‘Are we going to be safe here?’ the boy asked.

‘Yes, my son,’ the mother replied softly, and then comforted her son with a sweet lullaby.

Hours passed and the two could not shut their eyes, as the heavy gaits continued to shake the ground. They lay staring at the night sky, counting the twinkles as they tried to silence their fears. And suddenly the ground was no longer shaking.

‘Do you hear that?’ the boy asked his mother, relieved.

‘Yes, the scavengers are back in their caves and by tomorrow evening when they come out again, we will be safely entering the harbours of Coastal Plains,’ the mother replied, running her soft, cold hands through her son’s coiled hair.

‘Mom, do you know anyone in the Coastal Plains?’

A long moment of silence lapsed.

‘Yes, I do. In fact, since I became worse from my sickness, I had wished you could meet him.’

‘Look mom, a shooting star,’ Bow said pointing his small finger to the sky.

‘Bow, I wish that you could meet him because he is your father.’

‘My father?’ Bow asked, taking a deep breath with his eyes wide open.

‘Yes my boy, your father lives there. He was the greatest fisherman I have ever known. He was a soldier too. He protected the Costal Plains from the scavengers a long time ago and that is why to this day, the scavengers fear the waters.’

The boy’s heart jumped blissfully. All of a sudden, he forgot about the painful eviction from earlier that night.

‘Once upon a time, your father got swallowed by the sea. We were happy until that faithful evening. He came out of the sea a changed man. He came missing a leg and an eye. He looked different but I still loved him, and when I found out we were going to have you, I was excited but he was not. “Do you think a baby would want to look at someone like me?” he had asked me. “I mean look at me and look at you. A man like me does not deserve a beautiful woman like you or even an innocent child. The fishermen and I have littered the sea beds and the coast is dirty. How will we raise a child in a place like this?” Those were your father’s words.’

‘The bigger you grew inside me the more he grew apart from us, he could not receive me as I received him and so we went our separate ways,’ his mother explained. ‘The night when the Kingdom gates shut forever, I was Inland with you and I started working for the kingdom. And today, we are here. We are going to find your father, and if he still cannot receive us, it’s still fine. We will find our way.’

His mother took off her pendent necklace and opened it. ‘I know that you will not see it now, but this is the picture of your father and I. We took this picture on our wedding day.’

Bow wanted to see the picture; he never knew that the heavy necklace that his mother carried every day around her neck had such sentimental value.

‘Will you show it to me in the light tomorrow morning?’ Bow kindly asked.

 ‘Yes my dear,’ the mother replied with a smile as she locked the piece around her son’s neck. ‘I want you to wear it for now so that you can be safe as we travel. Your father gave it to me and said it will protect me wherever I go. I should so hope it will do the same for you, my child.’

She seemed to be losing the strength to keep talking, and lay down next to her son. Comforted by his mother’s words and the heavy piece around his neck, Bow fell fast asleep in his mother’s arms.

The next morning, droplets of dew from the willow tree dripped unto Bow’s face. The birds in the tree were dancing around the branches, shaking the tree and raining more dew to his face. He sat up in frustration and felt an inch of an awkward response from his mother’s body.

‘Mom! Mom, wake up, it’s the morning,’ Bow pleaded, but she remained silent. ‘Please Mom, wake up,’ he cried out.

He lifted her hand, moved her and shook her. He tried sitting her up but she remained heavy and senseless. He called out to her for so long, his voice faded to a whisper, leaving him groaning silently. His heart was shattered, his waning strength fighting the certainty of death. With his whole world lost and bereaved, he fell asleep.

Right below that willow tree, the day cursed the swallows of death. Bow numbed in his sleep until dusk when the shaking ground shook him awake. The scavengers were out prowling again. Fear trembled in his heart. He knew he had to escape. He looked at his mother; there was no more fear in her. She seemed more peaceful than he was. He knew she was safe because no sound of breath came out of her.

He walked on, not looking behind him but promising his footsteps that they would one day walk back to her under the willow tree. When he reached the river meander, he climbed up the Yosemite mountain and the next morning he was climbing down the mountain facing the Moresha sea. The sea’s waves crashing onto the rocks on the shore consumed his spirit. The sky above it bore an orange hue that pierced through his heart. He recollected himself and sat by a rock next to a thatched cottage. He dosed off into a slumber before he heard a cloaked man with a peg leg whistling a lullaby familiar to his ears.

The man was dragging a heavy bag to his boat. His sailors helped with the cargo and once they were done with the loading, the ship sailed into the sea.

A few hours later, the boy was still staring at the sailing boat. The boat went full streams ahead, and hours later it made its way back to the shore. A few moments later, the litter was torched to flames by flaming arrows shot from the stern into the boat of the floating litter. Bow was fascinated, and waited patiently for the men the in the boat to return. He thought they could be of great help to the woman he left under the willow tree.

A gang of boys broke into the alabaster gates behind the cottage and stole a few berries and tomatoes from the enclosed fields, and rushed out of the premises before the boat could return.

‘Hey you, you have to get away from there before the Whistle Man returns,’ said one of the boys.

‘Yeah, come with us or else you will be toast,’ another replied.

Seeing that the boys were about his age, he followed them. They ran into the market place where a few fishermen were drinking beer and playing a game of cards. The gang shared the stolen goods with them.

‘What you did was wrong,’ protested Bow. The men and the gang looked at each other and broke out into a mirth.

‘Where are you from anyway? We have never seen you around here,’ asked one of the men.

‘I am from the kingdom,’ the boy replied.

The men looked paled, all weary and silenced. ‘I came from the Kingdom, I left with my mom and she died on the way here.’

‘And how did you survive the scavengers?’ asked one of the men.

‘I ran away from them but Mother could not, she would not move. Mother said my father was the greatest fisherman that ever lived, she said he once defeated the Scavengers.’

All off them drew themselves away from him, but stared at him in amazement and fear.

‘He does sure look like him,’ said one of the men from the crowd.

‘Do you think that he is as dangerous as him?’  another one asked with a trembling voice.

Bow drew himself nearer to the men. ‘Do you know my father?’

‘No!’ They all exclaimed in fear.

‘But yes… yes, it could be that we do know your father,’ said one of the men. ‘Your father could be Bow, the Whistle Man. He lives in the cottage. I’m afraid he is no longer a fisherman or a scavenger slayer, but rather a mad man.’

‘You see, one faithful evening the sea swallowed him and a few days later he came out the mouth of a humpback whale drenched in seaweed,’ said one man. ‘When we uncovered him he had a missing leg and a missing eye. His lover, who could be your mother, left him because he turned into a monster ever since.’

‘That’s not true,’ the boy denied.

‘Okay, maybe he is not a monster, but he is sure mad,’ said another fisherman. ‘He no longer draws fish from the sea, he goes around whistling a depressive lullaby about his lover while picking the litter around at night with his sailors and burn the litter into the sea, like how mad people do, and all because the sea castrated him.’

‘That is a lie!’ the boy protested and left the men enraged.

Later in the evening Bow heard the lullaby whistled from afar and he chased after it. And when he drew closer, he saw a shadow of a man from behind. The shadow was big and tall and it dragged a load of litter behind it. When the whistling shadow reached the anchorage to load the cargo into the boat, Bow hid himself into the boat, below the deck in the galley. When one of the sailors entered the galley he yelled, ‘Boss, we have a stowaway!’

 Bow wanted to run but his legs stood stiff like ice. He could hear the Whistle Man approaching. Every stump on the wooden floor thundered as he drew closer to the galley.

The Whistle Man came closer to him, placed a monocle to his eye and investigated the young man. He noticed a familiar piece around his neck and pointed a dagger to the boy. Bow clutched his eyes and shrugged as he looked away.

The Whistle Man slit the pendent open with his dagger. Bow took a deep sigh of relief, he completely forgot about the precious piece around his neck.

‘Sebaste!’ the Whistle Man exclaimed, throwing his dagger to the ground and embracing the boy.  

___________

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: Hope Not Lost

Written by Emily Thorpe

France, Toulon, 1776

Elyna

Silently I slipped beneath the fence that ran around the edge of the wharf. My dress fell loosely around my legs and the hem tickled my ankles as I stooped to duck beneath the thick rope that held a big whaling ship in the port. I jumped as several barrels clattered to the ground behind me. Phillipe swore. We stood frozen in the shadow of the ship. I made a dash for the next shadow, but Phillipe grabbed my arm and pulled me back just as the torch illuminated the shadow of the ship next to us. I could hear Phillipe’s fast breathing next to my ear and under his shirt I could feel his heart racing. Oh God don’t let them find us!

“Anything there?” The torch light moved away. We shrank deeper into the shadow; Phillip pressed me against the helm of the ship and covered us both in his dark cloak. Oh, God! Oh, God! Please! “Nothing”.

The light moved away, and I could breathe again. Phillipe held me still a while longer before he was sure they were gone. “Elyna,” He breathed quietly in my ear “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes,” I whispered back, peering carefully around the corner of the ship. We have to escape. Get away. I ducked to the next boat and Phillipe followed, his feet silent and his cloak rustling slightly as it brushed lightly over the crates piled on the wharfs edge. I held the bottom half of my cloak in the crook of my arm to stop it catching on the metal chain that marked the edge of the wharf.

“Are you truly sure of the path?” I paused. The darkness confused me.

“The note said to stick to the wharf until we reached the dry port and then to take the road to the left until we come to the monger’s, from there we head through the cemetery to the bay near the Bange de Toulon.”  Phillipe took my hand and pulled me left into an alley, I glanced back and saw the dry port vanishing into the gloom of night.

“And why,” murmured Phillipe, “do we trust the anonymous letter writer?” I look up at a sign dangling above a door, squinting through the dark I could make out the fish painted next to red letters announcing the monger’s store.

“Because,” I said pointing the way to the cemetery, “the last time I received a letter in the same hand, it warned of the Bonapartist search party and we could hide the dragoon staying with us before they got to our home.”

Putting one hand on the wooden fence Phillipe vaulted over it easily and turned back to help me over. He lifted me over the fence and placed me firmly back on the ground.

“Because I’m sick of having to lie to each band of soldiers that comes into our home and give them food and drink when they demand it. I do not recognise Napoleon as my ruler. And I do not want to lie about it. It goes against my God and the real king of France.”

“Pardieu! Don’t let the emperor’s men hear you talking like that!” Phillipe dodged a small shrub that had sprung up between the graves. We slipped over the fence at the opposite end of the cemetery and began toward the Bange de Toulon. Houses grew fewer and fewer as they came nearer the dungeon. It was not a popular place, and the bay was too shallow for most of the ships, so no trade came that way.

“So where do we hope to escape to?”

I thought back to the letter. It had promised that I could go wherever I pleased. “We’ll go to La Rochelle.”

“Zounds! Do not joke with me milady!”

“I do not.”

“But Rochelle is on the other side of the country!”

“Precisely M. Phillipe. Far from Bonaparte and near the Calvinists.”

Phillipe paused, processing all the information. “Elyna, do you still believe that there could be Calvinists there?” A wry smile crossed his face. “King Louis XIII laid siege and forced them to be catholic.”

“Very true Phillipe, but surely some of them survived and that is now under a more lenient king. To Rochelle!”

I felt my feet sinking into the sand of the beach and to the east I could see a patch of darkness that was more solid than the rest of the night. The Bange de Toulon. I shivered. There were many in there for being accused of being royalists. I could be in there. If not for the Lord’s grace!

“And how, milady, will we get to Rochelle? If you ask me, we are going the wrong way. Rochelle is northwest of here.” I scanned the shoreline, searching for light. “Once again you are correct, Rochelle is the other way, but the shore is this way.”

“Aha, now I follow Elyna, you mean to say we will sail there?”

I nodded, then remembered that he couldn’t see me in the dark and said, “Indeed, my love. That is exactly what I mean.”

My eyes roved the land, and I was sure that they might burst with the effort of trying to decern a light in the darkness, trying to find the ship that was to convey us to safety. It would have to be a small one to get close enough to shore. Then suddenly, a little to our right there was a flash on the ocean. My head snapped round, and my eyes struggled to focus on the point, but before I could determine the direction, it was gone. I blinked. Had my eyes deceived me? No, there it was again, a brief flash and then nothing. “Come,” I said grabbing Phillipe’s hand and dragged him towards the light.

“Where are we going?” Phillipe trotted alongside me, easily keeping up with my fast pace.

“Every few seconds they flash a light, keep looking and you’ll see it bobbing up and down.” In the dim light of the halfmoon I could see Phillipe frowning as he stared at the water, looking for the light.

“I don’t…”

“There!” I pointed as the light flashed and then vanished again. No mistake. It was there. Phillipe had seen it too. We jogged as quietly as we could along the sand. Finally, we got as close as we could and when the light flashed, I could make out the figures in the skiff. Two men, one standing and flashing the light of a lantern before covering it again with a dark cloth, the other sitting and gazing out onto the shore.

I took out a hand mirror from the pocket of my dress and when the man pulled off the cloth of the lantern, I held up the mirror. The light of the lantern was reflected back to the skiff, I saw the man standing bend to speak with the seated one. The lantern was covered, but I heard the splash of oars, and the skiff drew up to the shore. One of the men jumped out and whispered, “Mademoiselle Elyna? Monsieur Phillipe?”

“Tis us sir. And what may we call you?” Phillipe addressed the man before us. In the moonlight I could decern only the vague outline of him. He was smaller than Phillipe with a thin frame from what I could see as he was enveloped in a large cloak. “I am Monsieur de la Flair and this,” he said gesturing to the man in the boat, “this is Monsieur du Moiré.”

Du Moiré jumped out of the boat. I stared at him. He was a giant! He stood a full head above Phillipe, and he was broad with flashing eyes that I could see even in the gloom. When he spoke his voice was a deep bass that rumbled rather than growling like other men’s. ’’Benvenuto”  He extended his massive hand. Phillipe gave his own. “Italian then?” Du Moiré nodded. “But my French is acceptable,” he smiled, revealing white teeth, “at least that is what la Flair says. You must judge for yourself.” He had only a slight accent but otherwise his French was indeed very good.

“Can I take anything aboard for you?” Phillipe shook his head. “We’ve only this,” he held up a small bundle, “I’ll manage, but many thanks Monsieur.” Du Moiré nodded.

“Come, make haste! The hours of dark are few and those who would pursue us would soon see us in the morning light.”

De la Flair began the wade back to the skiff. Phillipe followed; the bundle flung over his shoulder. I glanced at the surface of the water and then looked at Phillipe. The water was up to his waist before he could reach the side of the small vessel. I shivered, and steeling myself for the cold, I was about to wade in when du Moiré’s voice halted me. “Mademoiselle? Can you withstand the current? There is a strong riptide.” I hesitated, “What would you propose M. du Moiré?”      

“I could carry madam, with your husband’s consent.” Phillipe considered this.

“I can come back for her,”

Du Moiré hesitated, trying to formulate a reply, “I do not doubt either your capability or strength,” he said carefully and respectfully, “I doubt only your height. Where the water reaches your waist, it reaches only to my thighs.”

Phillipe paused, reluctant, I knew, to entrust me to someone else’s care but then he nodded seeing the sense of the proposal. Du Moiré turned to me. “Does mademoiselle give her consent?”

“With much gratitude Monsieur!” I let my cloak fall from the crook of my arm, Du Moiré stooped from his great height, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Then, in one deft sweep of his arms, he caught me up and held me like I was a small babe. He began to wade to the skiff. As we went deeper, I could feel him swaying to adjust to the strength of the current as it tried to tug him off his feet. But no matter how hard he was struggling against the current he held me as gently and carefully as how possibly could. For such a big man he moved with the grace of a deer.

We were almost to the skiff when I heard Da le Flair cry out, “Down! Get down!” and he pulled Phillipe to the base of the ship. I heard the roar of gunfire and Du Moiré grunted and stumbled forward. There was silence, then I could hear shouts from the shore. I could hear Du Moiré’s quick, sharp breathes as he waded forward quickly. He got to the side of the skiff, gasping, but managed to still get me up to the deck. Now that I could look back at him, I saw the dark stain that was spreading over the front of his white shirt. He tried to pull himself into the skiff but groaned and fell back into the water. I rushed to the edge and grabbed his hand and tried to help him in. I pulled and pulled, terrified. Lord! Help me! Give me strength Father!

Du Moiré made another effort to get into the skiff but fell back again. “No!” He looked up at me and smiled, “Too big for you madam.”

“Elyna!” Phillipe grabbed me by the waist and pulled me back and down onto the deck as I heard the rattle of gunfire then there was a big thud and I suddenly felt very faint. Darkness clouded my vision, but before everything went black, I saw the fingers that had been clinging to the boats side go slack and the slide out of view. Farewell du Moiré.

Phillipe

I watched Elyna’s limp form bobbing up and down ahead of me. She still hadn’t woken from the bump she had received when she hit the deck and was being carried by a big burly soldier. Perhaps it was better that way. The march to the Bange de Toulon had not been far, we were nearly through the courtyard. I twisted my hands; the ropes didn’t slacken.  

If I can just reach my dagger.  I tried to reach the scabbard where it hung at my side, concealed by my cloak. The soldiers hadn’t searched us. Not yet.

I strained and finally, I got a grip on the hilt and pulled it out. I saw Elyna stir ahead of me she groaned and then her eyes fluttered open. She closed them again but then registering what she had seen opened them wide with shock.

“Phillipe!” She struggled free of her captor and grunted as he let her fall from his shoulder. She scrambled up, even with her hands bound. The soldiers were about to pounce on her but then they saw she was coming to me and let her pass.

Before she could reach me, I sliced the rope from my wrists and fell upon the nearest soldier. To my right I saw De la Flair do likewise. The first man died quickly, as did the second but when I got to my third opponent, he was ready and so were his comrades. One soldier at the back was holding Elyna firmly, she was helpless and could only watch as we fought desperately, her cries muffled by the soldier’s hand. I tried to cut my way to her but felt something blocking my way. Something was pressing me back by the chest. I looked down at the hilt of the sword.

It wasn’t anything to marvel at, a plain wooden hilt with a bronze hand guard nothing more.  My knees felt weak and gave way beneath me and I slumped onto the floor.  I could see a spreading pool of blood.

But not mine, surely. Everything seemed so surreal. I could see Elyna, tears streaming freely down her face. I reached toward her. But before I could touch her everything went dark.

France, Bange de Toulon, 1818

Bardot

“Your shift M. Bardot.” I sighed. “Where am I tonight?” The captain smiled grimly. By this I could tell that it would be a new part of the dungeon to guard. Not a pleasant part either. I followed him and he gave me my orders. The dark was almost like a solid wall in this part of Benge de Toulon. Mostly older prisoners were held here. Royalists, I recalled the captain saying.

As I went deeper, I heard a faint humming. It grew louder as I approached, and I saw it was a woman, pale to the point of looking sickly but her face bright with joy and hope. She was singing a hymn. It was an old one and I didn’t know it. I wondered at her and though I wasn’t meant to, I spoke.

“Who, are you?”

“Once, in happier days, I was called Elyna. And what are you called?”

“Bardot.”

_______________

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: The Cave Of The Wise Decisions

Written by Julia Lemekwane

Once upon a time, in a tropical town on the outskirts of a small village called Ntshava-Riwa, in Tzaneen there lived a wise, old woman named Amazon. Her special hut was situated amid the mountain and a waterfall. The land had rich soil, fruitful nature, and flowing rivers that spiraled through the leafy vegetation. The people of this village lived in peace and harmony on the saturated ground. They had a profound respect for wildlife and understood the interconnectedness of all things. They knew that every living organism, plants and animals had a purpose and a role to play in the delicate proportion of life and they knew that their very existence depended on conserving this balance.

Amazon had been blessed with an incredible lifespan of one hundred and ninety years. Her name, which was given to her by the tenth descendant of the Kuvatla  clan, was a depiction of a tall, strong warrior. Despite her dark skin, she never wrinkled or withered, regardless of the season. With her owl-like eyes, she had the gift of predicting the future, and her long nails were celebrated for lulling babies to sleep. She could walk miles barefoot without getting fatigued.

Amazon was full of life and showed no signs of illness, which was astonishing for a woman her age. She discovered her spiritual gift of fortune-telling as a teenager, inherited from her late grandmother, Kiwi. Amazon could use people’s palms to prophesy and a mirror to identify the gender of an unborn child. Later on, she became famous for performing miracles in the surrounding areas, taking after Queen Modjadji, the rain queen, as she could change the weather from cloudy to sunny in a blink of an eye.

Amazon was also admired for her kindness and humility and was seen as a great leader of the village. She used words sparingly, but when she spoke, everyone listened. Amazon spent most of her time engaging with the residents because their happiness was all that made a difference in her existence. Some people called her a magician, and some would go to the extent of calling her a witch. Nonetheless, Amazon continued to pursue her calling, which her grandmother had left to her. Kiwi taught her how to read bones, study people’s energetic walls, travel between space and time, and make her own medication using herbs and plants. Amazon’s medicines never failed, and she could cure any disease. Inside her yard, there was a blue gum tree that had healing properties, and it was said that anything declared under the tree happened. The mystery of this place drew people from far and wide.

People came from all corners of the world daily to speak about their troubles, cast their wishes, seeking to discover the secrets of this enchanting place, and each time people came here the feedback was always a positive manifestation. Amazon shared her wisdom and knowledge with the people, teaching them the ways of the land.

Amazon had a fist full of followers and quite a number of enemies. One of her jealous neighbours, named Kwena, despised it when she saw visitors in Amazon’s yard, as no one came into her immaculate hut. Kwena’s personality was the polar opposite of Amazon’s; her heart was filled with hatred and envy, and she could not praise Amazon for being such an inspiration to the community. One day, she decided to visit a wizard who lived in a dark cave far in the mountains to seek advice on how to be more powerful than Amazon. With her heart strong as a lead, she took the trip to the caves of wise decisions. The wizard was a short old man with a creased face and a huge nose. His face was covered with a white beard, and his hair was long and pure like white wool. He took Kwena’s palm before she could explain anything and studied the deep lines. He then told her that he knew she wanted power and everything that Amazon had.

“Witchdoctor,” the woman proclaimed, “You must help me.” 

He didn’t respond for a while as he studied the deep lines in her palms.

“I know you want power and everything she has, am I wrong?”  he said to her, and she nodded, “In your roots, I see very powerful people. You are from a place of royalty. How come you are powerless?”

Kwena was surprised to hear such.

“How did you know all of these?”  she asked, surprised. “My great-grandfather was a king.”

“I know because I am the wisest man on Earth.”

The wizard began to laugh, his voice echoing. He then gave her a potion along with instructions. Kwena was told that before dawn the next day, she should go to the lake and say all she wished for as she faced her reflection on the clear water, shout Amazon’s name four times in different directions, pour the potion in a circular form, wash her hands, and then head to her hut, making sure no one noticed her.

“Don’t be surprised if something strange happens. Our king is on our side, and all you have to do is bow down,” these were the wizard’s final words.

As Kwena made her way home, tears of joy flowed from her eyes at the thought of being more powerful than Amazon. She wanted to make everyone who never believed in her to suffer, and make them pay for not choosing her. Anxiety kept her from sleeping soundly.

Before the breaking of dawn, she found herself in the lake, following the instructions she had been given. After pouring the potion into the water, she yelled in a bold voice, “Amazon!” facing different directions as advised. As she washed her hands, the sound of the water came alive and the river flowed between the rocks, forming gigantic waves. Birds fled from the trees as the rumble repeated itself, louder this time.

Suddenly, a heavy thud shook the ground, and a big black shadow resembling a snake with two heads appeared in front of her. Kwena was paralyzsd with fear when she saw this frightening creature before her eyes, until she remembered the witch doctor’s words: ‘Our king is on our side, all you have to do is bow!’ 

She bowed and worshipped King Python. The sun disappeared behind the clouds, and darkness visited the village. 

Amazon couldn’t perform any miracle any longer because her strength had mysteriously been taken away. Kwena began to rule with an iron fist, casting spells and killing for power. To keep the king alive and gain more strength, she had to throw a small child into the lake every week as a sacrifice to keep her power alive.

People lived in fear, and mothers hid their toddlers. Once Kwena had completed the ritual and made her way back to her hut, strange things began to happen. At first, it seemed like a coincidence, but as time passed, it became evident that her actions had caused a shift in the delicate balance of the village. The rivers began to dry up, the vegetation started to wither, and the animals started to behave erratically. The people of the village were puzzled and could not understand what was happening.

Amazon was deeply troubled by these changes, and she knew that something was amiss. She decided to consult with the spirits and the ancestors to find out what was causing this disturbance. After conducting a ritual of her own, Amazon was able to connect with the spirits and the ancestors, and they revealed to her that Kwena’s actions had caused a great imbalance in the village. The spirits warned Amazon that if the imbalance was not corrected, the consequences would be disastrous for the village and its inhabitants.

One night, Kiwi visited Amazon in her dreams and gave her an idea on how to regain her strength. Amazon found herself sleepwalking and woke up near the lake. Suddenly, something came from the water, making gigantic waves.

“The king of the dark world!” she whispered, remembering the stories her grandmother used to tell her. For the first time in her life, Amazon felt afraid, having lost her power. But she also knew that she was going to die that day. When Kwena appeared riding the snake’s head, Amazon was shocked. However, her grandmother suddenly appeared out of nowhere, more powerful than all of them, and began to fight the king. Amazon’s powers returned, and she struck lightning into the water, electrocuting both Kwena and the snake. Kiwi took Kwena out of the water and saved her, and then Amazon’s grandmother disappeared into thin air, saying,

 “I am leaving now, my child. The war is done.”

The next morning, Amazon found herself asleep next to the lake, and she was teleported to her hut. When the villagers heard that she was powerful again, they were relieved and happy to be safe. Kwena was banished from the village, and the snake never returned. Amazon knew that she had to act fast to restore the balance. She gathered the people of the village and explained to them what had happened. She asked for their help to restore the balance by performing a ritual to counteract the effects of Kwena’s actions.

The people of the village agreed to help Amazon, and they all came together to perform the ritual. They chanted, danced, and sang as they called upon the spirits and the ancestors to help them restore the balance. The energy in the village was intense, and everyone could feel the power of the ritual.

As the ritual reached its climax, the skies opened up, and a torrential downpour of rain came pouring down. The rain was so heavy that it washed away all the negative energy that Kwena’s actions had caused. The rivers began to flow again, and the vegetation started to come back to life. The animals also returned to their normal behaviour, and the village was once again in harmony with nature. Lightness was restored, and Amazon ruled and protected everyone.

Kwena, who had been watching from a distance, was filled with remorse and regret. She realised that her actions had caused harm to the village, and she felt ashamed of herself. She made her way to Amazon’s hut and apologised for what she had done. Amazon forgave Kwena and taught her the ways of the village. Kwena learned to live in unity with nature, and she became a respected member of the village.

From that day on, the people of the village continued to live in peace with nature, and they never forgot the lesson that they had learned. They knew that every action they took had consequences, and that it was their responsibility to maintain the delicate balance of life. Amazon continued to be a wise and respected leader, and her teachings were passed down from generation to generation.

The story shows that while power can be desirable, it can also be dangerous if one becomes obsessed with it. The story also highlights the importance of seeking help and guidance when in need, following your roots and the consequences of one’s actions.

______________

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT

TITLE: Blamed For Others’ Mishaps

Written by Elizabeth Nafula

She got under the blanket and enveloped herself. Thoughts flooded her mind on how her mother had yelled at her. That was after she was asked to turn down the volume of the television, but she adjusted it to maximum. She felt like taking off the blanket when she listened to the whining sound of mosquitoes. It distracted her.

She gripped her blanket in her hands. The warmth radiated was enough for her to forget her mother’s utterances. Her mind juggled between turning on the lights and killing the stubborn mosquitoes. She lowered the blankets and looked through the dark window. That was the best way she could calm the mind. The night was deep. She changed her posture and moved her head in a hasty manner. She collected her blanket and wrapped herself up. Thereafter, she heard her mother erupt like a bomb, “Wake up!”

Naliaka pulled the blanket up to cover her head as she listened to her mother’s shrill voice. “I wish some people were never born!”

Her ears concentrated on the clinking of washing utensils and the splashing sound of water. She gave a smile for a battle won. Her main concern was her step-sister, Anyash. From time to time, they had a heated argument over who should do what and when. They sometimes exchanged blows, and punched faces to bruising.  Muna intervened in the matter, but never gave her an opportunity to defend herself.

’’I won’t harm her again,’’ Naliaka admitted in a brittle voice, even though Anyash had started the fight.

“I would rather not listen to such nonsense,” she cut her short.

Muna pulled aside the blanket, exposing her body. Naliaka shot up from bed and looked for her pair of sandals quickly, and then walked towards the door.

“The dishes must be clean!” Muna called to her at the top of her voice.

“Not me, mama. I’ve done much this week.”

“The kitchen sink stinks,” she said, covering her nose with her palm. “Child labour? Not my children.”

 “Does it have to be me all the time?”

“How many times have you skipped a meal in this house?”  Muna questioned, looking at her with black eyes. She blinked her eyes, and retorted in an undertone,”None.”

“I’m counting to three…”

Naliaka darted into the kitchen and burst the door open. Anyash scrubbed the cooking pan with the scouring pad like that would be her last time using the pan. She hadn’t realized Naliaka was standing beside her.

“They should sparkle like diamonds, okay?”

“I’ve heard you; don’t make a big thing out of this!” she broke in.

She scrubbed off the utensils, towel dried them and set the milk to boil. As she finalised her washing, a plate slipped off from her hands and broke into pieces. Muna shot into the kitchen.

“How many have you broken?”

“It’s not me, it’s her,” Naliaka said, pointing towards Anyash with her mouth.

“Be careful next time, I will replace it.”

It was a moment of epiphany for Anyash, when she thought back to the milk she had set to boil. The cream layer spilled over the cooker.

 “You’re the cause of all this. If you weren’t here, it wouldn’t have spilled over.”

Anyash collected a table cloth and dipped it in water before she rubbed the cooking surface. She splashed over the water she used to rinse the utensils at Naliaka’s feet.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Naliaka pointed a finger at her.

 “I can’t harm you,” she replied with a plastic smile on her face.

Muna stormed into the kitchen. “What’s happening here? Get out now!” Muna directed her to the balcony.

“Do I deserve this?”

“You can report to your father, who brings you gifts every evening. He has never brought Anyash and Omosh gifts.”

 “Where is Omosh?” Muna broke the lull in the kitchen.

“I haven’t seen him. Though, he looked unwell yesterday.”

“Go check if he’s awake.”

Naliaka walked past them into Omosh’s room. She flung the door open and sat next to Omosh. He had developed breathing problems. She thought of waking him up and giving him her word after her mother’s reaction.

***

Mayi Nanjira was gone. She was not breathing. Her hands straightened like legs of wooden stools. She had been ailing for a fortnight. She had a reputation as a woman who stood her ground. ‘No’ was ‘no’ and ‘yes’ was what she wanted. Her eyes were like glass; she would predict what one planned to do and what was done already. She chaired women’s monthly meetings and helped resolve disputes. But, if one dared cross her, she would ensure she paid for it.

One evening, after winnowing the grains, she saw a woman plucking a ripe banana from a bunch in her farm.

“You’ll have to return my banana,” she screamed in a loud, piercing voice.

The woman threw away the banana and ran, thinking she had escaped.

Nanjira and her husband, Kolwe had been engaged for six years. He didn’t know what he wanted. Likewise, he would leave home as Nanjira went farming. Later in the day, he would begin a fight and call Nanjira all sorts of names. Naliaka tried to come in between them, but Kolwe pushed him aside.

Early in the evening, Kolwe arrived home and found Nanjira spreading her body in the grass. She hadn’t prepared a meal for him.

“Where is my food?” he yelled at her.

“Why can’t you find your own?” she replied in an audacious tone.

Kolwe moved an inch close to her and collected the axe next to the split wood. Nanjira spread her legs further. As she turned herself to sit, Kolwe hit her back with the axe. She fell and hit the back of her head on the hard ground. Kolwe shook his head and narrowed his eyes to the body. He knew Nanjira was dead. He helped carry her to the house. Naliaka had visited her aunt. She was to be back the following day. Kolwe tried waking her, but she was motionless.

Naliaka arrived home the following morning and was informed Nanjira was no more. Whimpers and hiccups could be heard from the room. Her mother’s death ripped a piece of her heart out. Naliaka lay down her face first in the broken grass. They brushed against her skin as she bent. She thought of how life would be in her mother’s absence. She sat upright and looked at the dancing trees. Her eyes felt scratchy.

***

 “What should I do now that the dishes are clean? I hate seeing Omosh sleep while I’m busy. If I report him to dad, definitely he will defend him.”

Muna was back in the living room. She walked in with a whip in her hand. She sauntered out from Omosh’s room, unaware of Muna’s intention.

“I am tired. Nobody listens to me,” Naliaka screamed her lungs out, but that only earned more whips. Muna gave her the final whip, which landed on her left eye.

 “There is a heap in my room. In an hour’s time, they should be clean, and dried.”

Naliaka dragged her feet to her mother’s room and assembled all the clothes.

 “Remember to scrub the jeans!” Muna called at the top of her voice as she peered through the window.

Naliaka washed without complaint, and returned to her room after she was done. Muna knocked on the door. Naliaka was deeply asleep.

“Am I speaking to someone?” her voice was cold and heavy with a threat. She woke up and collected the broom from the store. Muna pushed the dustpan with her feet and threw the rake at her. It landed on her ankle.

“This is too much. Anyash broke the plates, she wasn’t punished.”

“What are you thinking about?” Naliaka listened and tilted her head to the opposite direction. She motioned the broom sideways as the wind howled, blowing off her transparent skirt.

“The broom should be flat. Why is your back raised?” Muna yelled at her picking up a stone. She rubbed her brows and bent as Muna preferred. Her eyes were focused on the ground. Naliaka let her mind stray to the thought of how simple it would be to lose her mother. When she saw her mother’s grave sitting by the corner, she sobbed.

Late in the evening, Kolwe entered the compound. His skin was dry and dwindled after walking in the scorching sun. His neck was thin, and it held the motionless head firmly above the skinny body. He swung the Daily Nation Newspaper in his left hand. Darkness readied itself to embrace the fading light.

“What are you looking for in the dark?”

He stopped and peered in the dark to see her.

“Kolwe pulled up her hand and stormed into the living room, ready to spit venom. Muna had spread her legs on the table, watching.

“Why are you doing this?”    

“I’m tired of her. She burnt my dress this morning.”

“Where is Omosh? I thought he would be here.”

Anyash stared at Muna for a moment and said, “He’s been asleep the whole day.” Kolwe turned to Naliaka,

“I apologise for all that happened, and I’ll take you somewhere tomorrow.”

Muna looked at them as though she were about to say, “Why aren’t you concerned about Omosh’s health?” Muna was on her feet. Her eyes breathed fire. She lifted her leg and stood on the couch.

“I think you’re running mad!” Kolwe exclaimed.

“Did you just called me mad?” she asked, folding her arms ready for war. 

“I want all siblings to receive equal treatment.”

“She’s your daughter, not mine. She’ll have to do what I say. If not, she should find herself a new home.”

“I’ll send you away if you dare me.”

Kolwe looked at Naliaka and asked her to rest. She left the room relieved.

***

Muna woke up early. She sneaked into Naliaka’s room carrying a cooking pan with hot water. She placed it near her bed. She looked everywhere to be certain no one saw her enter Naliaka’s room. Muna got back to her room. She opened the door silently. She wasn’t aware Kolwe had woken up before her. He had followed her and saw the pan she was carrying. It was Naliaka’s turn to wash the utensils. Stepping out of bed, Naliaka lost balance when her left foot landed in a pan with hot water. She screamed as she tried to regain balance.

Naliaka was at a crossroads. Things were going too far. However, she decided the first thing to do was to wash the utensils. She dragged her feet to the kitchen and washed, then put them away in the cupboard after drying them. All the time, Muna glared at her.

“Why did you wake up late? I’m talking to you!” Muna gritted her teeth. Kolwe joined them in the kitchen.

“Where did you get my cooking pan?”

“I woke up and found it next to my bed.”

“Since when did the kitchen equipment be stored in the bedroom?”

“I saw you carrying the pan into her room,” Kolwe cut in.

Muna fumbled for words and said, “From today, she’ll rest.” She listened with worried attention, for she knew her siblings would rebel.

Anyash and Omosh burst the door open, “Dad, you love Naliaka more than us. We have never received gifts from you.”

“But you dislike her, whom do you expect to love her if not I?”

Kolwe invited the family to the table. They all sat up to listen. He began, “From today, there should be no raising of voices.”

Muna was moved by Kolwe’s words. She got up from her seat and walked towards Naliaka.

“I’m sorry, for all the mistreatment,” she said and shifted her gaze towards her father. Muna held her arms and rubbed her palms against hers. Kolwe looked at her with eyes urging her to forgive. She turned her shoulder to Muna and sobbed. Omosh and Anyash glared at Muna and embraced her. Kolwe walked behind them and patted them on their shoulders.

_____________

PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3

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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Short Story Competition
64 stories submitted
64 195 words written
167 pages length of submissions
Which ones made it into the competition?

The April leg of the PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Short Story Competition boosts a total of 44 stories that have been submitted, which totals 64 195 words. This translates to 167 A4 pages. Of course, some will receive the chop for, amongst other reasons, grammatical errors, poor grasp of the English language, spelling mistakes, and the biggest elephant in the room – dialogue tags.
Most of the stories in this month’s leg of the competition were disqualified because the writers just cannot write dialogue and aren’t clued up on the use of dialogue tags. Most of the writers would close the dialogue with a full-stop, and still add a dialogue tag – capitalised. Example: “Sorry Mom, but I am not going.” He said.
Some would put quotation marks ahead of a comma: “Sorry Mom, but I am not going”, he said.
Some would leave a space between the quotation marks and the first word of the dialogue, or even write the first word in lower case: “ sorry Mom, but I am not going,” he said.
Some quotations marks were left open-ended: “Sorry Mom, but I am not going” he said.
Probably the biggest sin in writing dialogue was lining the dialogue of two or more characters in the same line: “Sorry Mom, but I am not going.” “What do you mean you are not going?” “I mean I don’t want to go, Mom, and you can’t make me.” “You shouldn’t speak to Mom like that, Tom!” my sister intervened.
Also noted were writers who wrote an entire piece of dialogue – as much as ten lines – and only put a dialogue tag at the end. At times, it will only be a ‘he said’ or ‘she said’, which creates an even bigger confusion on who had actually spoken the words: “He said he is not going to go. It’s okay though, he can stay. He should not blame us though when something happens while we are all away. There is too much crime in this neighbourhood and criminals are always staking these houses out. They will notice us leaving and they will know he is home alone. They will storm the house and harm him,” said Rebecca.
It’s all good and dandy if it is only two characters talking and by some action description, you made it clear which character is speaking. But if it is more than two characters, the narration should identify the person speaking after the first line of dialogue, like this: “He said he is not going to go,” Rebecca said. “It’s okay though, he can stay. He should not blame us though when something happens while we are all away. There is too much crime in this neighbourhood and criminals are always staking these houses out. They will notice us leaving and they will know he is home alone. They will storm the house and harm him.”
And then there were homophones (words that sound the same but spelled differently and do not have the same meaning). “It is not the car he new.” Clearly, here, the writer meant to write ‘knew’.
“The red hat complimented her blouse.” Here, the writer was looking for ‘complemented’.

These could have been honest mistakes and even typos, but when you come across the same error several times in the story, it becomes clear that the writer still needs to put a bit of work in his or her writing.
Some of the stories had minor errors, which we asked the writers to fix after giving them the assessments. Some stories just couldn’t be rescued. Some were just plain essays and thesis.
Which stories made it through, you ask? You just have to keep an eye on the page on the 20th of April, midnight.

Writers are generally creative people; they can make up a story within minutes, and get you carried away by it. So creative are writers, they can pen a story about a con artist – a King and Queen Con – and lay out such elaborate tricks on how to scam people, they would leave the reader with a jaw to the floor.
As such, you would expect that all writers should then be immune to scams, and can never be caught napping by these silly tricksters. FALSE. More and more writers fall prey, especially authors of self-help books such as motivational, empowerment, business and skills development books. These are the authors most prone to scams, and are fraudsters’ darlings.
CON 1: The Publicity Scam. Every author wants maximum exposure for his or her work, be it on TV, radio, newspapers or magazines. And King and Queen Cons know this too.
Author Godfrey Malibe couldn’t believe his luck when he got a WhatsApp text from a well-known national TV news anchor, who expressed interest in interviewing him live on TV on his book, Happily Ever After. But there was a catch – the news anchor needed 10K to make the interview happen. We knew immediately that it was a scam, and encouraged Malibe to blow the lid on it. Needless to say, the news anchor had no idea someone was using her name to con people. She was just as shocked, and went on to lay charges with the police.
The scam artist hasn’t been unmasked, which means he is still out there prowling the author streets. He could have diversified his approach to not baiting authors with just TV, but also using radio, newspapers and magazines.

CON 2 – Last year, PUBLISH’D AFRIKA unearthed an elaborate scam where a ‘wealthy’ medical doctor approached an author, who opted to remain anonymous, after reading a PUBLISH’D AFRIKA post promoting the author’s book. He said he needed to speak to the author urgently, and needed her numbers.
“The first red flag was that this ‘doctor’ said he had read the author’s book and it touched his heart, so he wanted to speak to her and thank her for writing such an interesting book,” said PUBLISH’D AFRIKA co-founder Sukoluhle Nontokozo Mdlongwa. “The problem with this was that it was impossible that he could have read the book, because we had only just started promoting it.”
His story then changed – he now wanted to donate to the author, and have the books given to those who cannot afford them. The author gave us the go-ahead to give him her number. He offered to purchase R20 000’s worth of books, which totaled 133 books. He promised to pay the amount at the end of November. However, two days later he contacted the author, this time needing help with petrol money. He did not neglect to remind the author that he would be donating R20 000 towards the purchase of her books. What’s more – he forwarded emails from his employer, showing that his pay that should have clocked in on the 15th, had been moved to the end of the month, hence he was as broke as a church mouse.
“As much as I would have loved to help, I didn’t have the money,” said the author. “I had just spent it on printing the books.”
FACT – the guy isn’t even a doctor. He is just a King Con preying on authors’ desperate need to sell more books. He requests something as little as R300 to R500 for petrol, but if you multiply that by 50 authors, this man is making a killing on a daily basis, as much as 15K and that’s just on a bad week. As soon as you send him the money, he vanishes quicker than Houdini.
Note: He could have many eliases. He could pretend to be a businessman, a representative of a charity organisation, etc.

CON 3: We want to win awards; the more the better. Nothing boosts an author’s profile than a trophy on the mantelpiece –it tells the readers that this author’s work has earned the respect of his peers, and is therefore worth reading. The King and Queen Cons of this world know it too, and have already set out to cash in on this ambition.
A big scam PUBLISH’D AFRIKA has unearthed is where a con artist gets on social media and makes a call to authors to submit books for some awards, which of course, carry a purse of thousands for the best book. Yes, the authors are asked to submit hard copies, possibly three to five because each judge has to have a copy. To spice things up even further, on top of the prize money, the winning author will get mentorship at some posh literary agency that you have never even heard of. Of course, the disclaimer is that if you don’t hear from them within a month, assume that your book didn’t make the cut.
FACT – no one ever makes the cut. These con artists, most probably one individual too, is simply stocking up his or her own little book shop somewhere. They might even be running an online bookshop and you, the author, get zero royalties.Before you submit to any awards call, first check if they have any track record. Is it an annual call for submissions? Has there ever been any winners? Where are those winners now? Have you seen their books at any bookstore? How credible are the conveners of these awards? Google often has all the answers.

CON 4: A scam similar to the one above made the rounds last year. They asked authors to submit books for Provincial Library Services in the Northern Cape. Every book submitted (100 copies per title) would be accepted and payment made in two months.
No questions asked, acceptance was guaranteed. That was the red flag. Library Services wouldn’t guarantee acceptance of every book submitted; every submission would first have to be evaluated for its educational value. The second red flag was the Gmail email address supplied for inquiries.
Although some authors had already submitted books by the time we got wind of it, hundreds of other authors were dissuaded from submitting their books.

CON 5 – Quite a number of writing contests have cropped up over the years, where writers are promised publishing deals and prize money if they win certain contests. But for your entry to be considered, the writers have to part with a certain amount of money. “Basically, the writers are asked to fund the contest, in the process bagging the organisers a bit of jingle in their pockets,” said Thokozani Magagula, author and co-founder of PUBLISH’D AFRIKA. “If 200 writers entered the contest, each paying R350, the organiser smiles all the way to the bank, having scored himself a R70K nest egg. If the contest is genuine – most of the times it isn’t – the organiser will use less than R20K to award the winner and publish his book. A real con artist will award himself, announcing a winning author that doesn’t even exist.”Again, should you want to enter such contests, check if they have any track record. Is it an annual call for submissions? Has there been any winners? Where are they now? Have you seen their books in any bookstore? How credible are the conveners of these awards? Again, Google often has all the answers.
“Writers shouldn’t pay to enter writing contests, it should be the other way around,” said Thokozani. “If a writing contest organiser cannot find a corporate sponsor for such awards, he isn’t passionate enough about the craft and isn’t worthy of your hard-earned cash.”

CON 6 – The author submits a manuscript to an ‘international publisher’, and a day later is told that it is the best book they have read this year so far, and that it will hold its own in the market. They will handle the distribution, and will see to it that it goes international. Except of course, that it will need a bit of editing first to fit their titles, and they have an editor who has worked with them for years who can do the job. The author, however, has to handle the editing costs, which run into thousands.
Now who doesn’t want to be an international best-selling author? So the author takes the bait, pays the requested editing bill, which often is around 10 to 15K. It’s a worthy investment, I am about to become an international bestseller after all. The editing done, the author is ‘knocked for six’ to discover that he has to pay the printing costs as well. The print run has to start at 500 copies, no less. After all, the books will be distributed across the globe. Why not, I have already parted with 15K anyway. The only direction is forward from here on, so he makes the transfer – another hard-earned 20K.
An email pops in a few days later – they are sending him 100 of the 500 copies, and he has to pay the shipping costs himself. The cost? 5K. Hey, I have been gloating on social media that I will be published internationally, and the people can’t wait to lay their eyes on this international book. So he parts with the 5K, and a month later the shipment arrives. He is pleasantly surprised to discover that not much editing had been done – it’s still the same book, only this time it is packaged in a trashy little cover that doesn’t really say much about the story contained. Anyway, it’s an international book.
FACT – you have been scammed. Although you were told that the editor is an independent contractor who does freelance work for the publisher, the fact is that the editor and the publisher are one and the same person. They are only good at marketing themselves – these guys can sell ice to an Eskimo – but they are not proficient at publishing books.
As soon as they are done with you, they move on to the next gullible victims, some of them referred by you. Of course, some writers give up along the way because they cannot afford the exorbitant costs of publishing an ‘international book’, and these guys don’t care. They had already made money out of you when you paid for the editing costs, but they won’t stop sending you nifty marketing literature, each one more tempting than the last with even juicier carrots dangled in front of you.

CON 7 – The author is promised that if they publish with Publisher X, they will get as much as 40 to 50% royalties on the first of the third month. That’s a cheque in the mail four times a year! His book will be sold not only in bookstores, but also on the publisher’s website.
FACT: Not every book will find shelf space at Exclusive Books, Bargain Books or CNA, especially one that has been self-published. Bookstores run a business, and every business has to make money. As an independent author, you first have to prove that your book will sell, that there is a market for it and that it won’t gather dust on their shelves. The bigger the following you have, the better your chances of retailing your work.
Anyone can sell anything online, but you also want to sell where there is a lot of traffic. How much traffic does Publisher X have on his or her website? Books do gather dust online too, especially on a website that doesn’t see much traffic. It is impossible for an author to get 40 to 50% royalties on their work, mainly because both the bookstore and the publisher have to take a cut from the book sales. A publisher who promises you this off the mark, without having even read your manuscript or been privy to the following and fan base you have amassed, that publisher is a KING CON.

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Contact us for all your editing, proofreading, ghostwriting and self-publishing needs.
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Writing poetry isn’t easy; it takes application and a capacity to draw on inspiration. At the same time, it shouldn’t be mystified. In this regard, the attitude of many would be different if they understood that poetry appears in the lyrics of songs and in nursery rhymes. Poetry is thus more widely present as a human form of expression and – by extension – poetry writing is more widely accessible as a craft or practice.

Here are some tips for those interested in writing poetry or developing their budding poetry skills.

Firstly, if you want to be a writer, you have to put pen to paper. You cannot be a writer of poetry without actually writing. In the old days, the advice was to use a journal or scrapbook. These days, youth write in the Notebooks or some other space on their phone. Many people think they need ‘guidance’ about the elements of a poem before writing. That would be great if you could get that.

However, you don’t need any technical advice as a prerequisite to writing. You can draw from you’re the relevant knowledge and experience – from powerfully-written songs, from nursery rhymes and from how people such as mbongi have been sharing ideas and telling stories for ages. From these, you already know the basics such as using line breaks, creating stanzas for new ideas and deploying devices such as rhyme and rhythm. Just begin to write. Far too many people who say they want to write and want to publish, but don’t take the first step. They ask for all kinds of advice but seem to miss the simplest tip; you must actually write. When you do write, regardless of how your inner critic belittles what you have produced, you have content to work with or the seed for trying something new. For most aspirant writers, referring back to their journal or scrapbook after some time is almost always a rewarding exercise.

Secondly, you need to read poetry. Read (or listen to) at least three different types of poetry. There’s much to choose from: spoken word poets, poets in the African tradition like Mazise Kunene or S.E.K. Mqhayi, poems from other countries, verses in old school poetry textbooks such as Inscapes and so on. And many of these poems are available on the internet.

Reading poetry helps you grasp what poetry appeals to you. On a second or third reading of a poem, you can pick up devices being used by poets: How do they use sound or repetition? How do they use verses or stanzas to separate main ideas in a poem? How do they play with symbolism, comparison or exaggeration feelings, ideas or a story? In what ways do they use imagery that others can relate to but that simultaneously pushes the reader’s imagination to seeing old things in new ways? Reading poetry broadens the mind about the different ways words can be used in a poem to convey feelings or ideas.

Thirdly, as part of poetry practice, try to take part in poetry activities that involve the use of prompts. A prompt is a word or an image used to jump-start your writing. Various Facebook-based poetry groups issue prompts and, for example, poetrypotion.co.za, challenges poets with a daily prompt. Such exercises help to exercise your poetry muscles. The outputs from such activity do not necessarily result in complete or completed poems. I find that, playing with prompts, I only generate a completed poem 40% of the time; and even that is after honing my efforts a week or two later. The one advantage with the prompt is that you can bring pen to paper without waiting for a flash of inspiration or being dependant on a surge of strong emotions. The other advantage is that, often, you are engaging together with other writers. In that engaged process, you gain positive energy as you observe other writers working with the prompt, flexing their creativity.

Here are some exercises to get you started: Free write for 7 minutes on a topic of your choice. Once you write your first word, don’t stop until the time is up. Write whatever is in your mind at the time. This is called free writing. In some exercises I’ve been involved in participants have written about – for example – the fear of the blank page, an unresolved issue, on ‘inspiration’or the kind of day it was. In the next step, read through what you’ve penned, underlining as many striking phrases as you can. Select at least four. Now (either through rewriting or by using a scissors) place the phrases on different lines on a page. Move them around until you feel comfortable with the placing, and so that it resembles a poem. Add a title. After a few days, look at the poem you have constructed again and make any changes, for example adding, taking away words or replacing a word with a more appropriate one.

Exercise on place: As part of the warm up, list three places you have lived in or spent time at and that left an impression with. Next to each place name, write a sentence or a phrase about what you liked or disliked about the place. Then, thinking of that place as a person, write a poem of between four and ten lines about the place. The lines could refer to what the place means, its qualities or about the feelings it invokes in you.

Exercise three: Look at the image below. You don’t know anything about the details. However, you allow your imagination to fill in details about her: who is she, why is she there, what thoughts are swirling in her head? Now write a poem of four lines about the image. It can be from her perspective or from the perspective of someone close to her; from inside the four walls or outside.

Revising and editing are an integral part of creating poems. In revising, you strive to retain the initial idea or feelings or sense of inspiration that inspired you. At the same time, you take the opportunity to make changes. You might want to make the poem less long-winded and punchier by deleting superfluous words – or by re-ordering the lines. You may want to replace a word with a more appropriate one. Additionally, you want to extract clichés – those tired phrases that numb the mind – and replace them with fresh images, for example replacing “as cold as ice” with “as cold as a watermelon left outside in a Free State winter.”

About Frank Meintjies

Based in Johannesburg, Frank Meintjies was raised in an under-resourced community in KZN and, in his youth, worked in community organisations in Pietermaritzburg. He worked in the field of social development and hasbeen engaged as a Research Fellow at Wits University’s School of Governance. He has also worked in government, in the private sector and in organisations advancing community development.

He has also been engaged in cultural organisations such as the Congress of SA Writers, the visual arts body VANSA (as a member), and Vakalisa Arts (part of the collective). He has been involved in steering committees of a music initiative (Zimology Institute), a performing arts organisation (Performing Arts Workers Equity, PAWE) and arts journals (Staffrider and Calabash).

Frank is a skilled facilitator, with a Master Instructor certification from Deloitte Consulting. He has a diploma in counselling, has a certificate in Gender and Development (from London University’s UCL), has a certificate in ‘Working With Groups’ from an institution linked to the Tavistock Institute and has designed and implemented a southern-African leadership course for the British Council (SA). Frank also has business and entrepreneurial knowledge — he has been directly engaged in enterprise projects such as the launch of a radio station (he was chair of Mopani Media which conceptualised the radio station Y-FM), a social housing project and his own consultancy.

In 2020, he ran – for a cohort of 60 poets under 35 years of age – a poetry skills course called Power of the pen: Emergent Voices. In 2022, he ran a course consisting of five master classes on short story writing which covered topics such as character, the story arc, ‘show don’t tell’, ‘point of view’, writing scenes and the place of ‘story’ in African culture. Frank was co-editor of the multi-disciplinary book, Voices of the Transition. With Mi Hlatshwayo, he edited a special Staffrider edition focused on Worker Culture. Frank remains active in cultural work: he was interim President of the National Writers Association of South Africa. Frank contributes to the world of poetry through participation in public readings/spoken word events. Frank’s creative writing has been included in several South African anthologies –his work was used in collaboration projects of William Kentridge’s Centre for the Less Good Idea. Frank’s most recent poetry collection is Wind in The Trees; previously released poetry collections are Unfettered Days, Connexions and My Rainbow. Frank’s Afrikaans poetry can be seen and read here: https://ink.org.za/lede/frank/.

He has also written several children’s stories and short stories. These short stories and children’s stories continue to be widely read and can be accessed via the internet. Frank’s children’s stories include the following e.g. https://freekidsbooks.org/mystic-moon-saves-day-animal-story/ and https://live.fundza.mobi/home/fanz/essays/the-old-man-the-wise-woman-and-the-african-pot/). Others can be read here: https://live.fundza.mobi/writer-profiles/meet-the-fanz/frank-meintjies/. Frank has in recent times penned a range of culture-related articles. This includes pieces on the emergence of worker culture ( https://asai.co.za/an-explosion-of-worker-creativity-in-natal-cwlp/); on the Katlehong Arts Centre, on the renowned Drum-era writer Can Themba (https://frankmeintjies.wordpress.com/2021/10/19/can-themba-giving-voice-through-journalism-and-literature/); on renowned poet Don Mattera (https://www.timeslive.co.za/sunday-times-daily/opinion-and-analysis/2022-07-22-frank-meintjies-don-mattera-constantly-shuffled-the-deck-between-anger-and-compassion/), and; on James’ Matthews’ short stories (https://herri.org.za/8/frank-meintjies/). He was a collaborator in a project on social transformation through the arts (see https://stias.ac.za/fellows/frank-meintjies/); he was also a collaborator on and co-author of the book Changing Our Worlds (see Changing our Worlds – new publication in the STIAS Series – Stellenbosch Institute for Advanced Study).

Appeal to people who would rather watch a DVD than read a book

Every book that hits the bestseller list does so in the first two weeks of release; every sale thereafter depends on how good a marketing plan you have executed at sustaining longevity, and in converting people who would rather watch a DVD than read a book.
It is much easier to create a buzz on a new book rather than an older one that has been gathering dust. Secondly, it is on the bestseller list because the author had taken the time months before release day to market and promote not only the book, but him or herself as a brand.
But you don’t want to make a ton of money in one week and then die a sudden, painful death without anyone remembering your name, right? You want your book to keep selling and to connect with more readers. You want your book and your name to live on in the minds of readers for generations to come.

The work starts months before the book is released.
A solid marketing campaign should kick off at least six months before your book is released. This is the time when you should be growing your name, recognition, credibility and visibility. This means garnering sales in advance, while you are still writing.
Easier said than done, isn’t it? How do you go about achieving this? Many best-selling authors haven’t necessarily sold books, but have sold themselves as brands and as a result sold thousands of books. They have positioned themselves as the go-to experts on the subject they have written about, indirectly promoting their books. This approach has given them a significant, competitive edge.
Selling yourself rather than your book gives your target audience an opportunity to know who you are, and inadvertently know about your work / book. This generates more exposure and can help drive sales. It also ensures you build a solid market and a loyal audience that will consume every book you write as soon as it tumbles off the assembly line. Longevity in the minds of readers.

Does the book have public appeal?
Your book has to appeal to a specific audience. You cannot sell to just about anyone. Does it meet your specific audience’s needs? If it does, you can rest assured than reviews from readers and word-of-mouth referrals will keep the readers trickling in. The more relevant your book is, the more likely people will recommend it to friends and family. Bestseller status takes more than just writing talent, it is as much about the writing as it is about marketing and promotion. When I released my first book, Out Of The Ashes, in 2017, it sold over 2000 copies in the first three months because the target audience was clearly defined from the word Go. It was aimed at politicians and political activists. An error made by a journalist who didn’t bother to read the book and misunderstood the press release, drove the sales even higher. He assumed the book was a real-life story, and mentioned former president Jacob Zuma in his article. Of course, I allowed the error to slide for a week before asking his editor to correct it.
My second book, A Woman’s Essence, is a real-life story of Grace Nkosi, a slay queen who discovered that a life of luxury always comes at a price. She is now serving a 25-year sentence for killing her wealthy lover. Pre-orders of the book reached the 1000 mark two weeks before the release date, because of the snippets and teaser chapters I had posted on the book’s Facebook page. The biggest sales of the book came from Grace’s hometown Osizweni, in Newcastle. The residents, most of them not even readers, bought the book because it resonated with them and were curious about the life story of one of their own.

Reviews
Create a result-driven review plan. If no one is talking about your book out there, no is going to know about it. If people are talking about it, it instills some kind of trust and tells readers that it would not be a waste of their hard-earned money. Goodreads is the best place to start. Giving away free copies of your book in return for a review also helps to get the word out.
Usually, the drop in sales, or no sales at all, can be attributed to authors who assumed that getting published is the beginning, middle and end, and that their books will simply sell like hot cakes. The rude-awakening that they aren’t really the next Stephen King, and that the world has not been eagerly awaiting them to drop their masterpieces, comes as a shock for some. For the rest, it is the discovery that they can’t really write.
The mistake made by new authors is to leave the marketing and promotion of their books to the day the book is published. There is no book promotion magic wand that will suddenly draw queues of eager readers to your doorstep, and there are no bookstores that will come knocking at your door to ask you to let them sell your book for you.
Start spreading the word about your book long before you launch it. Facebook is the best place to start to build your audience well in advance of the book launch, if you will be having one. Yes, everyone is doing it but start that author page. But don’t just invite the friends you already have on Facebook to like and follow your page. Chances are you didn’t become friends with them because you are a writer. They might have been your friends from your high school days and liked you for your fashion sense and not literature. Their hundreds of LIKES might boost your ego, but they will not translate to sales.
Search elsewhere for readers. Search for groups that are specific to your genre. Talk about your book there, drop excerpts with links to your page. Join Facebook bookclubs and post regular updates. Visit other author pages and befriend those readers who engage the most with the story and who offer the most feedback. Chances are they have friends who share similar interests in literature, and will alert them to your work.

Online Presence
Create every online account there is and pile them rotten with content. Start a blog, website, Twitter and Instagram accounts. Follow accounts and blogs you have literature in common with. It will soon become clear where your audience really is, or where you are connecting more with readers. Don’t dump the other accounts just because Twitter gives you the best results. Continue building them into an audience, even though they give you a few or no sales. Interaction alone is currency, an investment that will mature over time.
Post teaser excerpts to generate reader interest and anticipation. Many people appeal to photographs accompanying the text often, the picture draws them to want to read what the book is all about. If it is your book cover you will be using along with the teaser, put as much effort into it as you would the story. Your book is made or broken by the cover and blurb, simply because these are the first interactions the reader will have with your work. It is your ‘hello, how do you do’.

Proposal Sheets
Create advance proposal sheets and send to media houses to ask if theyd like to review your book. Yes, book stores aren’t too keen to stock self-published books, but do send the advance proposal sheets. If they bite, great! If they don’t, at least you tried. Your media and online presence might change their minds over time, and get them to order a few copies from you. Remember that they are a business and will only reserve shelf space to books that are in demand. It is nothing personal. Get in touch with independent bookstores and interest them into holding book readings at their premises. They rarely say ‘no’. Any book-related activity is welcome because it generates traffic through their doors.

Network With Fellow Authors
How many author friends do you have? How often do you network with them? It does not have to be face-to-face engagements. The web and social media has made the world so small a place, I have made friends and constantly interact with authors from all of Africa and the Diaspora, as well as Europe and the United States. They have introduced me to ways of promoting my work effectively online, on their own pages, groups and other social media platforms that I didn’t even know about.

Local Events
If you prefer face-to-face engagements, try checking up on local events, and find a way to be a part of it. Event organisers always welcome ideas that will draw in numbers, even if it is just ten people. Ask that you be included in the program as a local author who has released a book. Your book launch can happen every time there’s a music show in your area, or a community meeting, or a community outreach program. Be unashamed. You have books to sell. Keep your eye on current events and latch on to topics that are closely related to your book.

Radio Stations
Contact local radio stations and ask if they would let you speak about your book. I have found that proposing a topic that will benefit their readership, rather than just you speaking about your book, appeals to local radio station programme managers. The 15-minute interview could then reserve the last five minutes to your work, and the lion’s share of the time to the topic at hand. Be certain that you propose a topic that you are well versed in, so that in the end it will be mentioned that the guest is the author of such and such book, which is now available for purchase. The topic, obviously, should be closely related to the theme/genre/subject of your book.

Newspapers / Magazines
Call on magazines and newspapers, both community and national rags. Don’t just assume that they will say ‘no’. In 2006, I had never written a sponsorship proposal but my then editor gave me the responsibility to ask local businesses to fund a project for local schools to visit our offices and learn how the newspaper is made; from gathering news, advertising, to layout and eventually printing and distribution. I obviously suffered a debilitating stage fright. What if they say no? I wouldn’t only be letting down a bunch of school kids, but also my boss who trusted me with such a mammoth task.
But I found that not only were some people within the businesses willing to assist, but went a step further to giving me ideas on how to draft a killer pitch that will appeal to their bosses, and to other executives anywhere. Ever since, I had assisted and been part of planning of regional and national seminars and awards ceremonies, each one of them proving to be successful. All it takes is the willingness to try. If it fails, you would have learned a few lessons along the way.

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