Rotimi Fani-Kayode died 29 years ago (21 December 1989), in exile, after […]
Archive | Archive RSS feed for this section
He decided, I’m going to find a way in which I’m going to stop hunger because it’s this that turns us into slaves dependent on our masters, it’s this that decimates communities…
Perfect, perfect, you have solved the problem for me, we have deconstructed the idea of National Theatre. We have taken the national and thrown it in the dust bin.
The Nigerian superstar bandleader Fela Anikulapo-Kuti hosted a covert summit meeting in the summer of 1977.
Its location, vocation, and publication intended to speak to a politicised Third World imaginary.
“Music Is The Weapon” “…The struggle of black people inevitably appear in […]
The Library recognises people as knowledge and memory as the art of […]
On January 16, 2001, in the middle of the day, shots are […]
Africa has a long history of comic production that span multiple forms […]
Since its launch in 2011, every edition of The Chronic has engaged with this question: […]
From January 15 to February 12 1977, thousands of artists, writers, musicians, […]
The Chimurenga Library focuses on how we forge communities, produce and circulate […]
Who invented that piece of nonsense called truth? Tired of truth, I am. And metanarratives and more truth and post colonies. An intellectual world in which each paper rewrites its own perceptual framework; everybody is represented, nobody is real.
Sick, I am, of affirming stories about strong brown women; of being pounded into literary submission; patronised beyond humanity. I miss beginnings, middles and ends. Please bring back the myths and legends – even those ones about wise rabbits and wicked witches.
The hot dry breeze is lazy. It glides languorously collecting odd bits of paper, they tease the ground, threaten to take flight, tease the ground.
Every so often there is a gathering of force and a tiny tornado whips the paper into the air, swirls dust around, dogs lift their ears, tongues lolling, then burrow their faces between their forelegs as the wind collapses, exhausted.
Children are in school, long lines of spittle reaching their desks as they try to keep awake
Somebody has locked themselves in the toilet. The upstairs bathroom is locked and Frank has disappeared with the keys. There is a small riot at the door, as drunk women with smudged lipstick and crooked wigs bang on the door.
There is always that point at a party when people are too drunk to be having fun; when strange smelly people are asleep on your bed; when the good booze runs out and there is only Sedgwick’s Brown Sherry and a carton of sweet white wine;
Bracketed and intersected by 9/11, Mwai Kibaki’s ascent to power, Kenya’s post-election violence, and Barak Obama’s election; written primarily during Binyavanga Wainaina’s residence in the US, or at least away from Kenya; set in Kenya, Uganda, South Africa, Nigeria and the US; and marked by sounds from Congo, South Africa and the US, along with the Kenyan benga; and shifting, frequently, between the confessional and the ethnographic, the nativist and the cosmopolitan, the national and the postnational, how might one describe where One Day I Will Write About This Place lives as it travels?
By Binyavanga Wainaina (Winner of The Caine Prize 2002) Chapter one THERE […]
by Binyavanga Wainaina I meet Alex at breakfast in Accra. He is […]
Billy Kahora on Binyavanga Wainaina’s Work I had two first meetings with […]
by Binyavanga Wainaina Rule 1 Be the richest man in your country […]