Let's Tell This Story Properly: An Anthology of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (Commonwealth Writers)From Dundurn
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Let's Tell This Story Properly: An Anthology of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (Commonwealth Writers)From Dundurn
Free Ebook Let's Tell This Story Properly: An Anthology of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (Commonwealth Writers)From Dundurn
Honouring strong new voices from around the world, the 2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize is a global award, open to unpublished as well as published writers, with a truly international judging panel. This global anthology presents the winner of the 2014 Short Story Prize, Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi’s “Let’s Tell This Story Properly,” alongside some of the most promising and original stories entered for the prize during the past three years by emerging writers across the literary landscape of the world. Gathered from over ten thousand entries, the selected stories are provocative, rich in flair and ambition, and push the boundaries of fiction into fresh territory.
Let's Tell This Story Properly: An Anthology of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (Commonwealth Writers)From Dundurn- Amazon Sales Rank: #696598 in Books
- Published on: 2015-06-09
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .53" w x 5.49" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 240 pages
Review United only by the shared experience of diaspora and the consequences of imperialism, this collection of captivating vignettes focuses on the personal stories that form - and are often forgotten in - the broad sweep of history. (Publishers Weekly)
About the Author Ellah Wakatama Allfrey is an editor, critic, and broadcaster. The former deputy editor of Granta magazine and Chair of the 2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize judging panel, she is a series editor for the Kwani? Manuscript Project, the Deputy Chair of the Caine Prize for African Writing, and patron of the Etisalat Literature Prize. A member of the judging panel for the 2015 Man Booker Prize, she was awarded an OBE in 2011 for services to the publishing industry. She lives in London, England.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. LET'S TELL THIS STORY PROPERLY BY JENNIFER NANSUBUGA MAKUMBI If you go inside Nnam's house right now the smell of paint will choke you but she enjoys it. She enjoys it the way her mother loved the smell of the outside toilet, a pit latrine, when she was pregnant. Her mother would sit a little distance away from the toilet doing her chores, or eating, and disgusting everyone until the baby was born. But Nnam is not pregnant. She enjoys the smell of paint because her husband Kayita died a year ago, but his scent lingered, his image stayed on objects and his voice was absorbed in the bedroom walls: every time Nnam lay down to sleep, the walls played back his voice like a record. This past week, the paint has drowned Kayita's odour and the bedroom walls have been quiet. Today, Nnam plans to wipe his image off the objects. A week ago Nnam took a month off work and sent her sons, Lumumba and Sankara, to her parents in Uganda for Kayita's last funeral rites. That is why she is naked. Being naked, alone with silence in the house, is therapy. Now Nnam understands why when people lose their minds the first impulse is to strip naked. Clothes are constricting but you don't realize until you have walked naked in your house all day, every day for a week. Kayita died in the bathroom with his pants down. He was forty-five years old and should have pulled up his pants before he collapsed. The more shame because it was Easter. Who dies naked on Easter? That morning, he got up and swung his legs out of bed. He stood up but then sat down as if he had been pulled back. Then he put his hand on his chest and listened. Nnam, lying next to the wall, propped her head on her elbow and said, "What?" "I guess I've not woken up yet," he yawned, "Then come back to bed." But Kayita stood up and wrapped a towel around his waist. At the door he turned to Nnam and said, "Go back to sleep: I'll give the children their breakfast." Lumumba woke her up. He needed the bathroom but "Dad won't come out." Nnam got out of bed cursing the builders who put the bathroom and the toilet in the same room. She knocked and opened the bathroom door saying, "It's only me." Kayita lay on the floor with his head near the heater, his stomach on the bathroom mat, one end of the towel inside the toilet bowl, the other on the floor, him totally naked save for the briefs around the ankles. Nnam did not scream. Perhaps she feared that Lumumba would come in and see his father naked. Perhaps it was because Kayita's eyes were closed like he had only fainted. She closed the door and calling his name, pulled his briefs up. She took the towel out of the toilet bowl and threw it in the bath tub. Then she shouted, "Get me the phone, Lum." She held the door closed when Lumumba gave it to her. "Get me your father's gown too," she said, dialling. She closed the door and covered Kayita with his grey gown. On the phone, the nurse told her what to do while she waited for the ambulance to arrive. "Put him in recovery position . . . keep him warm . . . you need to talk to him . . . make sure he can hear you . . ." When the paramedics arrived, Nnam explained that the only thing she had noticed was Kayita falling back in bed that morning. Tears gathered a bit when she explained to the boys, "Daddy is unwell but he'll be fine." She got dressed and rang a friend to come and pick up the boys. When the paramedics emerged from the bathroom, they had put an oxygen mask on Kayita which reassured her. Because the friend had not arrived to take the boys, Nnam did not go with the ambulance. The paramedics would ring to let her know which hospital had admitted Kayita. *** When she arrived in Casualty, a receptionist told her to sit and wait. Then a young nurse came and asked, "Did you come with someone?" Nnam shook her head and the nurse disappeared. After a few moments, the same nurse returned and asked, "Are you driving?" She was and the nurse went away again. "Mrs Kayita?" Nnam looked up. "Come with me." It was an African nurse. "The doctor working on your husband is ready." She led Nnam to a consultation room and told her to sit down. "The doctor will be with you shortly," and closed the door behind her. Presently, a youngish doctor wearing blue scrubs came in and introduced himself. "Mrs Kayita, I am sorry we could not save your husband; he was dead on arrival." His voice was velvety. "There was nothing we could do. I am sorry for your loss." His hands crossed each other and settled on the chest. Then one hand pinched his lips, "Is there anything we can do?" In Britain grief is private - you know how women throw themselves about howling this, screaming that back home? None of that. You can't force your grief on other people. When Nnam was overcome she ran to the toilet and held onto the sink. As she washed her face to walk out, she realised that she did not have her handbag. She went back to the consultation room. The African nurse was holding it. Her name was Lesego. Was there something she could do? Nnam shook her head. Is there someone you need me to call? You cannot drive in this state. Before Nnam said no Lesego said, "Give me your phone." Nnam passed it to her. She scrolled down the contacts calling out the names. When Nnam nodded at a name, Lesego rang the number and said, - I am calling from Manchester Royal infirmary . . . I am sorry to inform you that . . . Mrs Kayita is still here . . . yes of course . . . I'll stay with her until you arrive. Leaving the hospital was the hardest. You know when you get those twonamasasana bananas joined together by the skin and you rip them apart and eat one? That is how Nnam felt. *** Nnam starts cleaning in the bathroom. The floor has been replaced by blue mini mosaic vinyl. Rather than the wash basket, she puts the toilet mats in the bin. She goes to the cupboard to get clean ones. Instead she picks up all the toilet mats there are and stuffs them in the bin too: Kayita's stomach died on one of them. Then she bleaches the bathtub, the sink and the toilet bowl. She unhooks the shower curtain and stuffs it into the bin too. When she opens the cabinet, she finds Kayita's anti-beard-bumps powder, a shaver and cologne. They go into the bin. Mould has collected on the shelves inside the cabinet. She unhooks the cabinet off the wall and takes it to the front door. She will throw it outside later. When she returns, the bathroom is more spacious and breezy. She ties the bin-liner up and takes that to the front door as well. Kayita had had two children before he met Nnam. He had left them in Uganda with their mother but his relationship with their mother had ended long before he met Nnam. On several occasions Nnam asked him to bring the children to Britain but he said, "Kdt, you don’t know their mother; the children are her cash cow." Still Nnam was uneasy about his children being deprived of their father. She insisted that he rang them every weekend: she even bought the phone cards. When he visited, she sent them clothes. Kayita had adapted well to the changing environment of a Western marriage unlike other Ugandan men, married to women who emigrated before they did. Many such marriages strained when a groom, fresh from home, was "culture-shocked" and began to feel emasculated by a Britain-savvy wife. Kayita had no qualms about assuming a domestic role when he was not working. They could only afford a small wedding, they could only afford two children. At the end of the month they pooled their salaries together: Kayita worked for G4S so his money was considerably smaller but he tried to offset this by doing a lot of overtime. After paying the bills and other households, they deducted monies to send home to his children and sometimes for issues in either family - someone has died, someone is sick, someone is getting married. Nnam had bought a nine-acre tract of land in rural Kalule before she met Kayita. After decades in Manchester, she dreamt of retiring in rural Uganda. But when Kayita came along, he suggested that they buy land in Kampala and build a city house first. "Why build a house we are not going to live in for the next two decades in rural Kalule where no one will rent it? The rent from the city house will be saved to build the house in Kalule." It made sense. They bought a piece of land at Nsangi. But Nnam's father, who purchased it for them, knew that most of the money came from his daughter. He put the title deed in her name. When Kayita protested that he was being sidelined, Nnam told her father to put everything in Kayita's name. Because they could not afford the fare for the whole family to visit, Kayita was the one who flew to Uganda regularly to check on the house. However it was largely built by Nnam’s father, the only person she could trust with their money and who was an engineer. When the house was finished, Kayita found the tenants to rent it. That was in 1990, six years before his death. They had had the same tenants all that time. Nnam had been to see the house and had met the tenants. Nnam is cleaning the bedroom now. The windowsill is stained. Kayita used to put his wallet, car keys, spectacles and G4S-pass on the windowsill at night. Once he put a form near the window while it was open. It rained and the paper got soaked. The ink melted and the colour spread on the windowsill discolouring it. Nnam sprays Muscle cleaner on the stains but the ink will not budge. She goes for the bleach. She clears out the old handbags and shoes from the wardrobe's floor. She had sent Kayita's clothes to a charity shop soon after the burial, but she finds a belt and a pair of his underwear behind the bags. Perhaps they are the reason his scent has persisted. After cleaning, she drops a scented tablet on the wardrobe floor. Ugandans rallied around her during that first week of Kayita's death. The men took over the mortuary issues, the women took care of the home, while Nnam floated between weeping and sleeping. They arranged the funeral service in Manchester and masterminded the fundraising drive saying, "We are not burying one of us in snow." Throughout that week, women who worked shifts slept at Nnam's house looking after the children then going to work. People brought food and money in the evening and prayed and sang. Two of her friends took leave and bought tickets to fly back to Uganda with her. It was when she was buying the tickets that she wondered where the funeral would be held in Uganda as their house had tenants. She rang and asked her father. He said that Kayita's family was not forthcoming about the arrangements. "Not forthcoming?" "Evasive." "But why?" "They are peasants, Nnameya; you knew that when you married him." Nnam kept quiet. Her father was like that. He never liked Kayita. Kayita had neither the degrees nor the right background. "Bring Kayita home; we'll see when you get here," he said finally. As soon as she saw Kayita's family at Entebbe Airport, Nnam knew that something was wrong. They were not the brothers she had met before and they were unfriendly. When she asked her family where Kayita's real family was they said, "That's the real family." Nnam scratched her chin for a long time. There were echoes in her ears. When the coffin was released from customs, Kayita's family took it, loaded it on a van they had brought and drove off. Nnam was mouth-open shocked. "Do they think I killed him? I have the post-mortem documents." "Post-mortem, who cares?" "Perhaps he was ashamed of his family," Nnam was beginning to blame her father's snobbery. "Perhaps they think we're snobs." She got into one of her family's cars to drive after Kayita's brothers. "No, not snobbery," Meya, Nnam's oldest brother said quietly. Then he turned to Nnam who sat in the back seat and said, "I think you need to be strong Nnameya." Instead of asking what do you mean, Nnam twisted her mouth and clenched her teeth as if anticipating a blow. "Kayita is . . . was married. He has the two older children he told you about, but in the few times he returned, he has had two other children with his wife." Nnam did not react. Something stringy was stuck between her lower front teeth. Her tongue, irritated, kept poking at it. Now she picked at it with her thumbnail. "We only found out when he died but father said we wait to tell you until you are home with family." In the car were three of her brothers, all older than her. Her sisters were in another car behind. Her father and the boys were in another; uncles and aunts were yet in another. Nnam was silent. "We need to stop them and ask how far we are going in case we need to fill the tank," another brother pointed at the van with the coffin. Still Nnam remained silent. She was a kiwuduwudu, a dismembered torso - no feelings. They came to Ndeeba roundabout and the coffin van veered into Masaka Road. In Ndeeba town, near the timber shacks, they overtook the van and flagged it down. Nnam's brothers jumped out of the car and went to Kayita's family. Nnam still picked at the irritating something in her teeth. Ndeeba was recognisable by its mouldy smell of half-dry timber and sawdust. Heavy planks fell on each other and rumbled. Planks being cut sounded like a lawnmower. She looked across the road at the petrol station with a carwash and smiled, You need to be strong Nnameya as if she had an alternative. "How far we are going?" Meya asked Kayita's brothers. "We might need to fill the tank." "Only to Nsangi," one of them replied. "Don't try to lose us: we shall call the police." The van drove off rudely. When the three brothers returned to their car they informed Nnam. "They are taking him to Nsangi, Nnam; I thought your house in Nsangi is rented out?" Like a dog pricking up its ears, Nnam sat up. Her eyes moved from one brother to another to another, as if the answer was written on their faces. "Get me father on the phone," she said. Meya set the phone on speaker. When their father's voice came Nnam asked, "Father, do you have the title deeds for the house in Nsangi?" "They are in the safe deposit." "Are they in his name?" "Am I stupid?" Nnam closed her eyes. "Thanks father thanks father thanks thank you." He did not reply. "When was rent last paid?" "Three weeks ago. Where are you?" "Don't touch it, father," she said. "We're in Ndeeba. We're not spending any more money on this funeral. His family will bury him: I don't care whether they stuff him into a hole. They are taking him to Nsangi." "Nsangi? It does not make sense." "Neither to us."
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. This is a wonderful collection. The narratives are satirical By B. A. Pitt This is a wonderful collection. The narratives are satirical, tragic, compassionate and humorous, but all are wonderfully expressed and compelling to read. Taken together, they form a remarkable portrait of the world we live in, with all its pathos, absurdity and delight.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. A Lot to like in this interesting collection By Susan Drees When I found this book listed at NetGalley, I requested it immediately. An opportunity to read international, prize-winning stories was too good to pass up. And the reading began. The initial stories were very much a mixed bag with 2 of the first 3 being so terribly bleak that I found them difficult to even complete. But it is rare for me to stop reading.Then the book opened up as it began to move around the world to other Commonwealth nations, to the islands of the Caribbean, to nations in Africa, to the South Pacific, to Asia. So many voices speak in so many ways of so many different cultures.My favorite stories, now that is a difficult task: The Night of Broken Glass; Next Full Moon We'll Release Juno; The Ghost Marriage; Let's Tell This Story Properly (one of my top favorites, set in England and Uganda); Antonya's Baby Shower on Camperdown Road; Cowboy; Sending for Chantal; and Devil Star.In a wonderful section from Next Full Moon We'll Release Juno, there is a description of a taxidermy shop:I found the shop an eerie place--a ghoulishgathering of the ghosts of caracals, leopards, eagles,buck; some whole, some just heads poking through thewall like they were trapped in two different worlds.Or zombies sent to spy on us with their glazed eyes,to take notes of human cruelty and stupidity to passon to the God of abused beasts. (loc 2432)There are stories set in the present day; some set in the past; some set in nebulous times that are difficult to ascertain and probably of no account. Overall I found this is a strong and interesting collection for those interested in international fiction and short stories.A copy of this book was provided by the publisher through NetGalley in return for an honest review.
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