Writing
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i stare at the water. i walk around it. i stare at the water inside. i am bleeding. my water mixes with the water. i am drowning. i ripple like sunshine in the water. i am heated hot enough to be food for fish except they like it cold. i go down deeper. i used…
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the women wet the waterfront with womb water, delivering coral children whose ceilings are fluid and permutable.
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Living in the shadow of Elmina Castle, the first European building south of the Sahara, built in 1482 by the Portuguese and then occupied by the Dutch (and now a UNESCO World Heritage site for its importance in the transatlantic slave trade) was a small community of former Dutch army conscripts who had served in…
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like choppy water, frothy and forthright, she spouts destroying the placidity of my man made emotions structurally unsound deficient of reason wet like woman she is fit only for swallowing
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From the chapter The Language of African Literature: […] African languages refused to die. They would not simply go the way of Latin to become the fossils for linguistic archaeology to dig up, classify, and argue about the international conferences. These languages, these national heritages of Africa, were kept alive by the peasantry. The peasantry…
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Citizen, enemy, mama’s boy, sucker, utter garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht; a scalp so often scalded with boiled water that the puny brain feels completely cooked. Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden rubble which you now arrive to sift. All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven. Also: we didn’t…
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The difference between poetry and rhetoric is being ready to kill yourself instead of your children. I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds and a dead child dragging his shattered black face off the edge of my sleep blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders is the only liquid for miles and…
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I admit it. I bought this book because I like Edwidge Danticat’s books and was very interested in reading her choices. So far I have read two of the essays in the book: Generation Why? by Zadie Smith and Beds by Toi Derricote. Generation Y was devastating in its critique of the Facebook phenomenon and…
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So long had life together been that now the second of January fell again on Tuesday, making her astonished brow lift like a windshield wiper in the rain, so that her misty sadness cleared, and showed a cloudless distance waiting up the road. So long had life together been that once the snow…
Tichaona Chinyelu 
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