Chapter ten of a novella about family life, relationships and reunion — from Kenyan Dancan Ouma Obuya
(Editor’s note: We at The Kalahari Review are excited to bring you our first novella. Over the next several weeks we will be serializing Mr Obuya work. We hope you enjoy and follow along each week.)
Find previous chapters below:
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Vivian phoned to meet Rawila over the divorce papers he had left with her. She had given it a thought, and was willing to sign the papers under one condition: that they shared his wealth equally. That, she knew, would stop him…
Two poems from Ayomide Bayowa
Here or to Go?
(A poem about the Nigerian retrogressive authorities and their indifference to legal actors’ constant assaults, killings and violations of human rights.)
The US won’t find the perfect Aerial view
of an African woman’s pot as a nuclear hotspot.
& UN countries can’t suddenly meet to cook curiosity
about holed smokes smouldering her pan’s fried-fish attacks.
Juveniles — crabs with scissors’ fingers
broken into their back pocket(s),
assorted on false recipes.
A greyhound bus has plenty of routes to fix-
wrists fractured in handcuffs excepted.
plenty of keys to board, &
free cyberspaces to tang
parboiled militant stew- curative concave.
Pane…
A story about motherhood and its expectations — by Michael Emeka
Beyond the edge of the shade provided by the huge German mango tree in their Chimamaka’s compound, the earth was hot and the weather sweltering. The sun shone so brightly it hurt the eye. But beneath the tree, the air was cool and comforting. Chimamaka and I sat here, on a long wooden bench, discussing. I was on a visit to their house and until now our conversation had centred on generalities. Without warning, she leaned towards me and said, teeth clenched tight and eyes bulging, “Do you know you’re an orphan, that you were adopted?”
Shocked, I gave her…
A new essay from John Chizoba Vincents
Each time I lay on the bed in the cold night, the bedbugs’ sting always remind me of how God spat me out into this world to suffer. Each sting from them brings a lesson about endurance and acceptance to my body and how I allow others to see me. I can’t remember how many times I have allowed them suck my blood as much as they could and get away with it. Mother once said that when they suck you, they are actually taking away your iniquities to hell so that you can have a place in heaven. And…
Two poems are about love and fear — from Innocent Rindap
Nagging Question Marks
My palm is
heavy and folded―
empty, without a single penny
inside it.
I zoom around―
a gleaming motorcade
of misery and penury,
each waking moment.
I dine― clinking
empty wine glasses
together with the storm
and thunder laughingly.
I lie― pretending
that today and tomorrow
are under my feet.
I lie― pretending
that I clothe and feed the moon.
Yet, alone at night
I cry and groan
over my failing foolishness.
Alone at night
I’m pained because
she’s never winked back at me.
I’m pained because she’ll always elope
with someone else. …
A story about the nostalgia and addiction of love, between two lovers on either side of the Atlantic — from Chionye Okoh
“Why don’t you want me?”
Why don’t I want you?
Because Y has a long tail and two branches.
Because X, Y, Z.
Because Y-er tear pikin belle.
Because . . .
because you are the thickest fool under the sun.
You think it’s because of “What I might do to you if you let me?”
Where you from pick this one? Novel abi na oyibo film.
Hmm, I don’t care for your arrogance or your uninventiveness, Joe. …
A story about a dying man writing a letter to his long lost sister — from Kenyan Tonny Ogwa
Dear Lakech,
In the name of the almighty, supreme being and mother of all creations, I do not know if this letter will get to you before I’m gone. Indeed I do not know if it will get to you at all.
I have envisioned a million possible ways you would react upon receiving this very unusual letter, but in truth, I can’t really be sure. Seeing that we’re but strangers. You and I. Still I couldn’t leave this cruel godforsaken world of the wretched without at least saying goodbye to you, little sister.
That you’re alive I have no…
Chapter Nine of a novella about family life, relationships and reunion — from Kenyan Dancan Ouma Obuya
(Editor’s note: We at The Kalahari Review are excited to bring you our first novella. Over the next several weeks we will be serializing Mr Obuya work. We hope you enjoy and follow along each week.)
Find previous chapters below:
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Rawila was set to go back to the city. He went to his father, who was warming in the morning sun-rays beside his house, to bid him goodbye.
“Well, if you insist on returning to the city too soon then I can’t complain. Work…
A story about a young boy’s experience as an abandoned child in a general hospital— by Chike Ibekwe
They call me Chief! Just Chief. No suffix. Sometimes a prefix. Some call me Young Chief or Youngest Chief when they want to tease me. Growing up, I enjoyed the adulation and the flatter. Growing up, I thought it was my real name. I felt a bit betrayed when I realized it wasn’t. But the bitterness thinned in a flash — after that night’s sleep. They continued to call me Chief. I continued to enjoy it and the sound of it. A special kind of Chief. Oldest of my kind. Not by age. Not by experience. But by the circumstance…
Poems of Westernization: Through the African Child eyes — from Salam Adejoke
I Really Like Your Hair
I really like your hair,
It’s soft silky feeling and when it is blown by air,
I often wondered why nature wasn’t fair,
When distributing features in it’s share.
I really like your hair,
So much I attach it to mine,
So I could look and feel beautiful as I shine,
While putting my hands through to feel it.
I really like your hair,
Over time I would boast,
Of how soft my ‘our’ hair feels,
Maybe if I carried it longer,
Or pin it firmer in it’s hold down,
Maybe my hair would really become like yours.
I really…
The Kalahari Review
Where Africa tells her stories
