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Authors: Charles Larson

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Forty years ago, Abioseh Nicol sent several of his short stories to the
now-defunct
Encounter
, where they were praised for their misperceived quaintness and their humor. In Paris,
Presence Africaine
already existed as a potential outlet for Francophone writers. But other examples of African writers establishing their careers and their audience by publishing short stories in the little magazines or quarterlies and then collecting them in a volume (as many have done in the West) are not found with enough frequency to establish a meaningful pattern. To be sure, Ayi Kwei Armah, Bessie Head, Es'kia Mphahlele and, somewhat later, Ben Okri had occasional stories in highly visible publications at the onset of their writing careers. More typically, the short story in Africa has made only sporadic appearances, largely ignored by critics and academics, as F. Odun Balogun has indicated in
Tradition and Modernity in the African Short Story.
As always—and as in so many cultures—short stories have appeared profusely in newspapers across the African continent, but they tend to be more journalistic than literary, more sensational than subtle. I met a young writer in Zimbabwe who had published more than a hundred such stories in his country's newspapers, but of the dozen or so that he offered me when I asked for his most important work, none was of more than passing significance; nearly all were closer to the news stories found in American tabloid newspapers than to literary fiction. I do not mean to denigrate this kind of writing but simply observe that few writers, historically, have made the transition from sensationalism (exaggerated sex and violence) to aesthetic realism of lasting value. The gap between the two (and the study of popular writing) has been a subject of critical debate in Western literature for years. Perhaps it is no surprise that similar patterns exist within the emergent African literature of the second half of the twentieth century. Again, to quote Nadine Gordimer: “Writers in Africa don't have enough readers; comic-book literacy does not mean an ability to read a story, poem or novel that has more than a vocabulary that consists largely of grunts and exclamatory syllables.”
At the beginning of this introduction, I referred to the resiliency—the indomitable survival—of African fiction in the past half century. Its enormous variety, its versatility, should also be praised. One immediately thinks of the oral tradition out of which Amos Tutuola and the earliest writers began their careers, assuming incorrectly that that fine tradition of storytelling has somehow slipped away during the post-colonial era. But that is not true, as recent works by Ben Okri, Véronique Tadjo, and some of their peers demonstrate. The oral tradition is never lost, as cultures move from
being analphabetic and literature becomes written, as
griots
are complemented by highly educated writers with international and cosmopolitan backgrounds.
As much as possible, the stories in this collection have been arranged to reflect the sequence of their writing, though the date at the end of each story is the date of first publication. Any errors are mine alone. I must say, however, that finding original publication dates for some of the stories included here was very difficult. This arrangement is intended to demonstrate the changes that have taken place in African short fiction in the past several decades, during the transition from colonial to post-colonial, as well as with respect to the other issues mentioned earlier.
If the most recent South African short stories in this volume are any indication, apartheid's long reach would finally appear to be broken. Es'kia Mphahlele's “Mrs. Plum,” the longest story in the collection, was published when Mphahlele was in exile. Bessie Head's “The Prisoner Who Wore Glasses” appeared in 1973, when Head was in exile in Botswana. Though widely different, both stories give pessimistic accounts of black life in South Africa; both also project the possibility that things will change. Don Mattera's more recent story, “Afrika Road,” would appear to be the apex of apartheid horror, though Mattera's stark realism clearly extends beyond the confines of his own country of birth.
With Sindiwe Magona's “I'm Not Talking About That, Now” and Mandla Langa's “A Gathering of Bald Men” (1996), a change is in the works, as South Africa itself moves from apartheid to post-apartheid. Magona's story, the more traditional of the two, depicts the rapid disintegration of family structures and values within her country. But Langa's story—certainly one of the most invigorating in this volume—achieves a total turnaround, not only reversing the situation of blacks and whites in post-apartheid South Africa but, in its fast-paced narration, presenting us with a rare example of African comedy. I mention this because for years readers have asked me to direct them to African comedies (stories, poems, novels), and I have been hard-pressed to find examples.
One other enormous change that I mentioned earlier is the literary limelight shared today by women writers. This change has not been sudden but gradual, and at times has not occurred at all. Of the first generation of African writers—those who emerged during the fifties and sixties—very few were women, since education had largely been denied them. They were, by my estimate, one out of twenty: five percent; and too many were published
solely because of their gender. In choosing the selections for this anthology, I reread stories by many of them and, I am sorry to say, was appalled at how poorly written some were. Consequently, few of the early selections in this anthology are by women writers.
Happily, this situation has changed in the last eight or ten years. The literary silence of African women has come to an abrupt end, as novelists such as Mariama Bâ and Calixthe Beyala have daringly shown us. Beyala's four extraordinary novels to date place her in the first rank of contemporary African writers. Unfortunately, the short-story form has yet to interest her. Not so with Sindiwe Magona, Yvonne Vera, and Véronique Tadjo—all of whom are represented in this volume. Nor is this proliferation likely to subside, as African women writers' networks across the continent demonstrate.
Finally, I must mention the increased presence of female characters in recent works by any number of younger African writers who happen to be men. Mzamane Nhlapo has staked out his identification with women's issues. Is it possible to forget Azaro's incredible mother (as well as her loving portrait) in Ben Okri's
The Famished Road or Songs of Enchantment?
Or Camara Laye's much earlier homage to his own mother in
L'enfant noir
(The Dark
Child
), for that matter? The most frequent theme of Western literature, romantic love, still remains offstage in the works of most African writers. But who knows but that women's increasing presence may soon alter the literary scene in a way that they—or we—have yet to imagine.
The art of African storytelling is no doubt as old as our common paleolithic ancestor Lucy's presence on the continent itself. What this collection hopes to demonstrate is the richness and wisdom of some of the most recent expressions of African writing.
 
—Charles R. Larson
Harare, Naxos, Washington
August 1996
(BORN 1920) NIGERIA
Amos Tutuola's writing career began in 1948, when he mailed
The Wild Hunter in the Bush of Ghosts
to the Focal Press in London. In an earlier letter, Tutuola had described the ghost narrative, claiming that the text would be accompanied by photographs of Nigerian spirits. According to Bernth Lindfors, when the Focal Press received the work, “the 77-page handwritten manuscript had been wrapped in brown paper, rolled up like a magazine, bound with twine, and sent via surface mail. When the sixteen negatives accompanying it were developed, all but one turned out to be snapshots of hand-drawn sketches of spirits and other phenomena featured in the story. Tutuola had hired a schoolboy to draw these illustrations and had photographed them. He had also included a photograph of a human being sitting by the lagoon in Lagos because he felt that she adequately represented ‘the old woman who sat near the river' in the story.”
In Tutuola's enchanting narrative, there are illegitimate and cannibalistic ghosts, a sixteen-headed ghost, and a Salvation Army ghost, plus an educated ghost who teaches the narrator to read and write. More disturbing, the Yoruba afterworld (the domain of the spirits described in the story) has become fully bureaucratic, so complicated in its red tape that it's surprising that anyone ever passes on.
The Focal Press—publishers of photography books—quickly lost interest in Tutuola's novel, which languished until Lindfors edited the work for publication in 1982. Well before that time, Tutuola had become a worldfamous
writer, primarily because of the publication of
The Palm-Wine Drinkard
, in 1952. Reviewing the book, the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas noted: “This is the brief, thronged, grisly and bewitching story, written in young English by a West African, about a journey of an expert and devoted palm-wine drinkard through a nightmare of indescribable adventures, all simply and carefully described, in the spirit-bristling bush.” The term “young English” confused the literary world, which quickly assumed that all subsequent Anglophone African writers would write in a similar style.
Clearly, Amos Tutuola's creative world is bewitching, extraordinarily vivid, and unforgettable. The Yoruba cosmology, which is central in each of the author's seven published books, often springs spontaneously alive when a character opens a door (perhaps in a tree) and enters into an entirely new world. As I wrote years ago, Tutuola's eschatology provides “a bridge between the internal and the external world (the ontological gap), between the real and the surreal, between the realistic and the supernatural.”
Amos Tutuola was born in Abeokuta, Western Nigeria, in 1920. He completed six years of primary-school education, followed by training as a blacksmith, while serving in the R.A.F. in Lagos throughout World War II.
The Palm-Wine Drinkard
was written while Tutuola was working as a messenger for the Department of Labor. “The Complete Gentleman” has been excerpted from
The Palm
-
Wine Drinkard
as an example of oral storytelling incorporated into a written narrative. Other versions of this story exist in many West African languages. (See, for example, “The Chosen Suitor,” from
Dahomean Narrative
, edited by Melville and Frances Herskovits, 1958.)
He was a beautiful “complete” gentleman, he dressed with the finest and most costly clothes, all the parts of his body were completed, he was a tall man but stout. As this gentleman came to the market on that day, if he had been an article or animal for sale, he would be sold at least for £2,000 (two thousand pounds). As this complete gentleman came to the market on that day, and at the same time that this lady saw him in the market, she did nothing more than to ask him where he was living, but this fine gentleman did not answer her or approach her at all. But when she noticed that the fine or complete gentleman did not listen to her, she left her articles and began to watch the movements of the complete gentleman about in the market and left her articles unsold.
By and by, the market closed for that day then the whole people in the market were returning to their destinations etc., and the complete gentleman was returning to his own too, but as this lady was following him about in the market all the while, she saw him when he was returning to his destination as others did, then she was following him (complete gentleman) to an unknown place. But as she was following the complete gentleman along the road, he was telling her to go back or not to follow him, but the lady did not listen to what he was telling her, and when the complete gentleman had tired of telling her not to follow him or to go back to her town, he left her to follow him.
But when they had traveled about twelve miles away from that market, they left the road on which they were traveling and started to travel inside an endless forest in which only the terrible creatures were living.
As they were traveling along in this endless forest then the complete gentleman in the market that the lady was following began to return the hired parts of his body to the owners and he was paying them the rentage money. When he reached where he hired the left foot, he pulled it out, he gave it to the owner and paid him, and they kept going; when they reached the place where he hired the right foot, he pulled it out and gave it to the owner and paid for the rentage. Now both feet had returned to the owners, so he began to crawl along on the ground, by that time that lady wanted to go back to her town or her father, but the terrible and curious creature or the complete gentleman did not allow her to return or go back to her town or her father again and the complete gentleman said thus: “I had told you not to follow me before we branched into this endless forest which belongs to only terrible and curious creatures, but when I become a half-bodied incomplete gentleman you wanted to go back, now that cannot be done, you have failed. Even you have never seen anything yet, just follow me.”
When they went furthermore, then they reached where he hired the belly, ribs, chest, etc., then he pulled them out and gave them to the owner and paid for the rentage.
Now to this gentleman or terrible creature remained only the head and both arms with neck, by that time he could not crawl as before but only went jumping on as a bullfrog and now this lady was soon faint for this fearful creature whom she was following. But when the lady saw every part of this complete gentleman in the market was shared or hired and he was returning them to the owners, then she began to try all her efforts to return to her father's town, but she was not allowed by this fearful creature at all.
When they reached where he hired both arms, he pulled them out and gave them to the owner, he paid for them; and they were still going on in this endless forest, they reached the place where he hired the neck, he pulled it out and gave it to the owner and paid for it as well.
Now this complete gentleman was reduced to head and when they reached where he hired the skin and flesh which covered the head, he returned them, and paid to the owner, now the complete gentleman in the market reduced to a SKULL and this lady remained with only Skull. When the lady saw that she remained with only Skull, she began to say that her father had been telling her to marry a man, but she did not listen to or believe him.
When the lady saw that the gentleman became a Skull, she began to faint, but the Skull told her if she would die she would die and she would follow him to his house. But by the time that he was saying so, he was humming with a terrible voice and also grew very wild and even if there was a person two miles away he would not have to listen before hearing him, so this lady began to run away in that forest for her life, but the Skull chased her and within a few yards, he caught her, because he was very clever and smart as he was only Skull and he could jump a mile to the second before coming down. He caught the lady in this way: so when the lady was running away for her life, he hastily ran to her front and stopped her as a log of wood.
By and by, this lady followed the Skull to his house, and the house was a hole which was under the ground. When they reached there both of them entered the hole. But there were only Skulls living in that hole. At the same time that they entered the hole, he tied a single cowrie on the neck of this lady with a kind of rope, after that, he gave her a large frog on which she sat as a stool, then he gave a whistle to a Skull of his kind to keep watch on this lady whenever she wanted to run away. Because the Skull knew already that the lady would attempt to run away from the hole. Then he went to the back yard to where his family were staying in the daytime till night.
But one day, the lady attempted to escape from the hole, and at the same time that the Skull who was watching her whistled to the rest of the Skulls that were in the back yard, the whole of them rushed out to the place where the lady sat on the bullfrog, so they caught her, but as all of them were rushing out, they were rolling on the ground as if a thousand petrol drums were pushing along a hard road. After she was caught, then they brought her back to sit on the same frog as usual. If the Skull who was watching her fell asleep, and if the lady wanted to escape, the cowrie that was tied on her neck would raise up the alarm with a terrible noise, so that the Skull who was watching her would wake up at once and then the rest of the
Skull's family would rush out from the back in thousands to the lady and ask her what she wanted to do with a curious and terrible voice.
But the lady could not talk at all, because as the cowrie had been tied on her neck, she became dumb at the same moment.
Now as the father of the lady first asked for my name and I told him that my name was “Father of gods who could do anything in this world,” then he told me that if I could find out where his daughter was and bring her to him, then he would tell me where my palm-wine tapster was. But when he said so, I was jumping up with gladness that he should promise me that he would tell me where my tapster was. I agreed to what he said; the father and parent of this lady never knew whereabouts their daughter was, but they had information that the lady followed a complete gentleman in the market. As I was the “Father of gods who could do anything in this world,” when it was at night I sacrificed to my juju with a goat.
And when it was early in the morning, I sent for forty kegs of palm wine. After I had drunk it all, I started to investigate whereabouts was the lady. As it was the market day, I started the investigation from the market. But as I was a juju-man, I knew all the kinds of people in that market. When it was exactly 9 o'clock a.m., the very complete gentleman whom the lady followed came to the market again, and at the same time that I saw him, I knew that he was a curious and terrible creature.
I could not blame the lady for following the Skull as a complete gentleman to his house at all. Because if I were a lady, no doubt I would follow him to wherever he would go, and still as I was a man I would jealous him more than that, because if this gentleman went to the battlefield, surely, enemy would not kill him or capture him and if bombers saw him in a town which was to be bombed, they would not throw bombs on his presence, and if they did throw it, the bomb itself would not explode until this gentleman would leave that town, because of his beauty. At the same time that I saw this gentleman in the market on that day, what I was doing was only to follow him about in the market. After I looked at him for so many hours, then I ran to a corner of the market and I cried for a few minutes because
I thought within myself why was I not created that he was only a Skull, then I thanked God that He had created me without beauty, so I went back to him in the market, but I was still attracted by his beauty. So when the market closed for that day, and when everybody was returning to his or her destination, this gentleman was returning to his own too and I followed him to know where he was living.
When I traveled with him a distance of about twelve miles away to that market, the gentleman left the really road on which we were traveling and branched into an endless forest and I was following him, but as I did not want him to see that I was following him, then I used one of my juju which changed me into a lizard and followed him. But after I had traveled with him a distance of about twenty-five miles away in this endless forest, he began to pull out all the parts of his body and return them to the owners, and paid them.
After I had traveled with him for another fifty miles in this forest, then he reached his house and entered it, but I entered it also with him, as I was a lizard. The first thing that he did when he entered the hole (house) he went straight to the place where the lady was, and I saw the lady sat on a bullfrog with a single cowrie tied on her neck and a Skull who was watching her stood behind her. After he (gentleman) had seen that the lady was there, he went to the back yard where all his family were working.
When I saw this lady and when the Skull who brought her to that hole or whom I followed from the market to that hole went to the back yard, then I changed myself to a man as before, then I talked to the lady but she could not answer me at all, she only showed that she was in a serious condition. The Skull who was guarding her with a whistle fell asleep at that time.
To my surprise, when I helped the lady to stand up from the frog on which she sat, the cowrie that was tied on her neck made a curious noise at once, and when the Skull who was watching her heard the noise, he woke up and blew the whistle to the rest, then the whole of them rushed to the place and surrounded the lady and me, but at the same time that they saw me there, one of them ran to a pit which was not so far from that spot, the pit was filled with cowries. He picked one cowrie out of the pit, after that he was running toward me, and the whole crowd wanted to tie the
cowrie on my neck too. But before they could do that, I had changed myself into air, they could not trace me out again, but I was looking at them. I believed that the cowries in that pit were their power and to reduce the power of any human being whenever tied on his or her neck and also to make a person dumb.
Over one hour after I had dissolved into air, these Skulls went back to the back yard, but there remained the Skull who was watching her.
After they had returned to the back yard, I changed to a man as usual, then I took the lady from the frog, but at the same time that I touched her, the cowrie which was tied on her neck began to shout; even if a person was four miles away he would not have to listen before hearing, but immediately the Skull who was watching her heard the noise and saw me when I took her from that frog, he blew the whistle to the rest of them who were in the back yard.
Immediately the whole Skull family heard the whistle when it blew to them, they were rushing out to the place and before they could reach there, I had left their hole for the forest, but before I could travel about one hundred yards in the forest, they had rushed out from their hole to inside the forest and I was still running away with the lady. As these Skulls were chasing me about in the forest, they were rolling on the ground like large stones and also humming with terrible noise, but when I saw that they had nearly caught me or if I continued to run away like that, no doubt, they would catch me sooner, then I changed the lady to a kitten and put her inside my pocket and changed myself to a very small bird which I could describe as a sparrow in English language.
After that I flew away, but as I was flying in the sky, the cowrie which was tied on that lady's neck was still making a noise and I tried all my best to stop the noise, but all were in vain. When I reached home with the lady, I changed her to a lady as she was before and also myself changed to man as well. When her father saw that I brought his daughter back home, he was exceedingly glad and said thus: “You are the ‘Father of gods' as you had told me before.”
But as the lady was now at home, the cowrie on her neck did not stop making a terrible noise once, and she could not talk to anybody; she showed only that she was very glad she was at home. Now I had brought the lady but she could not talk, eat, or loose away the cowrie on her neck, because the terrible noise of the cowrie did not allow anybody to rest or sleep at all.

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