You’ll realize this only after you’ve grown
That the stories we read are not our own.
Literature, they call it. But what they refer to are books written by old white men.
500 years later, you, a teenage African child will have to read these books,
These books are part of the reason they’ll consider you learned.
With these books, they’ll label you refined.
These books then, just might earn you nods of approval at dinner parties,
“Clever ”, they’ll tell you. As quoting Shakespeare and referencing the Bronte sisters
Earns you 3 minutes of attention and a slight smile, maybe a shrug or two.
In your brick walls and concrete floors, it might mean something.
But what does a 13-year-old girl living 5000km from the capital city
Know about wine and cheese,
When all she’s eaten revolves around starch and protein,
Millet and potatoes, meat and beans?
What does she know about beautiful young girls with blonde hair and blue eyes,
When her own sister has brown skin and thick short hair?
How then, must she understand and explain to her examiner why Romeo took his own life,
When she’s grown up knowing that taking your own life is forbidden?
Why would a town named Padua mean anything to her?
She tries to conjure an image of a monster Dracula,
A pale white man and long teeth (fangs)-
Of Frankenstein,
A creature brought to life by sparks in the sky.
As if her own culture, her mind, her upbringing
Isn’t dotted with monsters of its own:
Popo Bawa, Zike, Jalabok, all frightful as death.
How then, will she learn of The Pacesetters Series,
Of Okot, Ngugi, Ahmadou and Camara,
When her school library has 2 worn copies of “Song of Lawino”,
And a whole row on a shelf with “David Copperfield” alone?
Eventually, when this young girl finally decides to write her own stories,
She will write of coffee in clay cups and not tea in plastic ones.
Of high school, with lockers and principals that make announcements on the microphone,
And not secondary schools with wooden desks and morning assemblies.
Her protagonist will be a dark-haired girl that wears sweaters and walks with her head down — Kelly.
And her antagonist an insecure, rich blonde girl with an attitude problem — Ashley.
Kelly will not be a soft-spoken girl with dust around her ankles,
And Ashley a spiteful girl with a farmer for father.
Kelly’s father with be a snow-haired man,
Not an ash-haired one like her own.
She will not see that both these men
Are wise, with wrinkled hands and short footsteps.
Her monsters will be vampires and werewolves,
Not red-eyed cannibals and creatures with wooden legs.
Her vehicles will be blood-red Ferarris,
Not simple white Toyota Corona’s.
She will cringe at the thought of towns with names like “Pader”,
And find peace in the ones with names like “Batesville”.
She will find it easier to write about crowded airports and subways,
Not noisy bus stations and frenzied taxi parks.
When her story is finished,
Her words will be empty,
Because she has felt none of the things she writes about.
Her scenes will be black and white,
Because the colors in them, she has not seen.
Her characters will be lifeless,
Because there was no part of her in them.
It will be nothing she can recognize,
Because the reality will not be her own.
You’ll say “But African literature exists”. I know it does.
Google “African writers” and tell me,
Who are you familiar with after Chinua Achebe and Nelson Mandela?
Why then, can you list maybe 10 titles by Shakespeare and probably only 3 by Chinua?
Why are the stories you are familiar with set in snow-laden towns,
And not small, earthy villages?
How then, and why
Did we abandon what we had?