#african writers

[b4evaa]

still ugly, still ugly.

Ugly!

they said when pointing my direction,

younger me may not have understood

what ugly is

but i knew it meant unacceptable

i knew it meant rejection

i knew it meant i should shut up

i eventually knew what it meant

the word ugly was used to describe me

but all it did was dehumanise me

i became a creature

not only was i ugly,

my persona tasted unfamiliar

it tasted strange

i was no stranger to me

i did not see a fault in my authenticity

until i heard the words

“unusual, but not in a good way”

used to describe me

awkwardness was acceptable

in only the ones favoured by the

privileged afforded to them

by their genetic makeup

their beauty bought them the world

while rejection sold my world

when the coin was tossed,

i experienced the opposite side of the coin

i was now the ugly girl

clothed by beauty

i was acceptable as ideal

not as who i am

i apologize,

for i am not your idealisation

but i am still the awkward girl

now dressed in a costume

a costume made with

pretty privilege and white beauty standards

i am still ugly,

still an unfamiliar taste,

still unpalatable,

just dressed in a suit.

sorry if i don’t accept your compliment,

or if i’m too loud

i’m still ugly inside,

just a little prettier outside.

(((b4evaaa)))

[african-international-magazine]

Brazilian news caster with a traditional facial tattoo, in Africa we call our own similar such traditions primitive, evil and/ or prostitution

https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaCXOgqADTONlOAE4z1m

[adannamdi]

I'm in love with my main character's design. PANDRA MORBRO'S is just beginning, stay tuned!

[afrotumble]

Man, I love this one. Ngugi originally wrote Matigari in his native Gikuyu while he was in political exile from Kenya in London. When it was published in Kenya 1986, people were talking about this fictional Matigari guy like he was a real person. The government wasn’t too happy about it, and they issued a warrant for Matigari’s arrest. They felt pretty stupid when they found out he wasn’t real, and in February 1987, the dictatorship raided every bookstore in Kenya to burn all copies. It is a great story of one man’s quest to restore justice to his homeland. Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s The River Between is a much more serious book dealing with Christian influence on two African tribes and the controversial issue of female circumcision. Petals of Blood is also one to put in your TBR pile.

-- Emily Gatlin

[lesgensdeslivreslisent]

My childhood can be measured easily, in pools of light spilling onto

pages and books blanketing the surfaces of our house in Aba. When

the electricity died, as it often did, I read by candlelight or with a torchlight

balanced against my body. Both my parents had been heavy readers; they

dragged their libraries into their marriage and kept them separate, distinct,

as if they both knew their relationship would end. My father had a

collection of Reader’s Digest condensed novels on the top shelf of the

bookcase in my brother’s room. In one of them, a little boy called his sister

stupid because she was seven years old. I took it personally when I first

read it, bristling with rage, because I was seven, too. That didn’t mean we

were stupid.

When my parents discovered I’d started reading the sex-advice columns

in my mother’s magazines as a child because I had run out of material, they

quickly bought me more books. Stories became my entire world, unchecked

and unrestricted; I was nine when I read V. C. Andrews’s Flowers in the

Attic, which I think is entirely too young for a child as lonely as I was. My

sister and I rummaged through my mother’s trunk, a steel tomb tucked in a

corner of the house, and we found a copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca,

with that haunting first line: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley

again.” My father’s library had a copy of Ken Follett’s book The Key to

Rebecca, which I’d read before, and eleven-year-old me was in awe at

finding a book that I’d first read about inside another book; worlds eating

worlds, all made by words.

By the time I started college in the States, I’d read every book in my

childhood home. The white dean of my school kept introducing me as the

sixteen-year-old freshman from West Africa who’d already read Dickens

and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, as if any of that was surprising or special. I’d

only read those books because they were there; the awe associated with a

certain European literary canon wasn’t relevant. I’d also read Cyprian

Ekwensi, Ayi Kwei Armah, Buchi Emecheta, Chinua Achebe, the secret

copy of The Joy of Sex hidden away in my parents’ room, every

encyclopedia entry in my school library on Greek mythology, labels on

shampoo bottles, the sides of cornflakes boxes and Bournvita tins during

breakfast, countless contraband Harlequin and Mills & Boon romance

novels bartered with secondary-school classmates, narrative interludes in

my brother’s video games, and all the parts of the Bible that referenced sex.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized that there was a canon I was

expected to prioritize, especially if I wanted to consider myself a writer, that

the work of dead white men could be a type of currency.

Akwaeke Emezi, Dear Senthuran, A Black Spirit Memoir

[aslisjournal]

Before I start I’ll say I have a lot of flaws A couple of fears, And some deep rooted issues But there’s this dream that I have One that I fall asleep to every night One that’s so deeply woven in my heart I don’t care if I’m inadequate 

I don’t care if I’m not enough A life with out my art I lived it, I can’t fathom it It’s like I’m walking around with two weights on top of my heart And that’s not exaggerate I have to reach the life of my dreams By any means Even if I have to fight the earth Cause I’m only here this one time And I probably lived more than half of it So even if the earth decides I’m not enough And raises the standard above the clouds Above my reach Then I’ll go the longest route I’ll build day by day I’ll scavenge for pieces Finding new ways And if along the way I spill it all Fall on my face Even If the earth decides to laugh I’ll start again from scratch The reality is I’m not gonna stop So if we got to go back and forth then so be it It’ll be that way with me until the curtains close And when I die And the earth swallows me whole It will say this one...this one put up a fight I will leave on it a scar or two And when it is asked about it It will tell the story of a girl With too much heart Too much grit Too much love I promise you It will tell the stars and echo into the universe The story of our fight

[a-fool-beloved]

In that moment, I can only describe what happened as that the feeling gripped me. I did not notice it had taken hold and flooded all my senses until I had to force myself to breathe.

— ac

[unfilteredpointofview]

Are you an African wondering if you should move abroad, but you are not seeing any honest information. Go to my blog I have written 9 reasons why Africans should not think there is greener pastures in countries abroad.

Website: unfilteredpointofview.wordpress.com

[panafrocore]

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: A Pioneering Nigerian Writer's Impactful Journey

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie stands as a literary icon whose captivating storytelling has left an indelible mark on the world of literature. Born on September 15, 1977, in Enugu, Enugu State, Nigeria, Adichie’s childhood was shaped by the enduring impact of postcolonial rule and the profound imprint of the Nigerian Civil War, which claimed the lives of both her grandfathers. This early exposure to…

[deadassdiaspore]

[afrodytis]

"Woman is a curved line. Curved are the movements of the sun and moon. Curved is the movement of the wooden spoon in the clay pot. Curved is the resting position. Have you noticed that all animals bend over when they sleep? We women , we are a river of superficial and deep curves in every inch of the body. The curves move things in a circle. Man and woman unite in a single curve in the meandering paths. Curved are lips and kisses. Curved is uterus. Egg. Celestial vault. The curves contain all the secrets of the world."

— PAULINA CHIZIANE (b. Manjacaze, Mozambique, on 4 June 1955)

[luzingu]

Ijeoma Umebinyuo, such a powerful poet.

[african-international-magazine]

RWANDA EMERGENT OF A GREEN ENVIRONMENT

Rwanda has stood out to be one of the world's most green economy/ society. The country governed by President Paul Kagame continues to advance environmental protection. Some of the country’s green movements that are reducing eco anxiety include;

Every month in Kigali Rwanda🇷🇼, there is a car-free day which promotes physical activity and environmental awareness, employing the social environment to prioritize health while reducing pollution and congestion on the streets.

Considering these challenges posed by climate change, the Rwandan government prioritized a model of economic development that is low-carbon and climate-resilient balancing environmental sustainability with economic growth thereby achieving poverty reduction and social inclusion in its development vision and strategies.

Rwanda’s policy framework for the building and construction sector underscores the benefits of green/ sustainable buildings. The country has since leveraged the development of green buildings in order to promote environmental protection. In the context of Rwanda, green buildings are buildings that promote energy efficiency, water efficiency, promotes indoor environmental quality and makes use of the country's water efficiency and countries industrial productivity.

Looking ahead this year, 2024, Rwanda’s solar energy roadmap envisions a substantial increase in installed solar capacity. The country aims to generate a significant percentage of its total electricity from solar sources, further reducing its carbon footprint. The widespread adoption of solar energy is expected to drive economic growth, create jobs, and enhance energy resilience.

Rwanda has enforced the ban importing plastic bags and second hand clothes in order to reduce pollution. The ban on Second hand clothes is also aimed at promoting the country's textile industry and boosting the economic environment at large.

[adannamdi]

I'M A WRITER

My friend, you see,

I write stories—

Lots of stories.

Short stories,

Long stories,

Even series.

And yet, I write poetry.

“Why?” you ask.

Because I can.

Why the classification?

I can have several categorizations,

For it’s merely a harmless rhyme.

Words are words;

They're all the same—

Written, typed, or said.

Why so glum?

Don't be dumb!

I remain still

A writer.

I don't confine to labels,

For I create these fables—

With my own imagination.

You can do it too!

Don't be a prawn;

Let your thoughts run wild

It's fun, you'll see soon.

It’s fantastic to me

To not be confined, you see.

It's all in good fun.

For I'm a writer indeed;

I cannot deny.

I am a writer, you'll see,

In the works of my hand.

You can do the same;

You don't have to hate,

For it's all in good fun.

Soon you'll see

That a mere Jotter

can make you a Writer.

A proud writer.

[afrotumble]

[manifestingtheythem]

All I want to be is vulnerable and it just so happens that I’m naturally a really openly vulnerable person but everything I want to actually say doesn’t come out and it’s just a watered down version of vulnerability I end up sharing with the next person all from fear of sharing too much.