The Moon Has Eyes and Other Stories – Published!

When, in 2010 I was told by a strange voice in my phone that I had won the Bessie Head Literature Award for the short story category, I wasn’t sure of what to do or say. I remember that I was in the post office, about to send my sister some money – around P200. I doubled the amount! This was my first literary award. I’ve heard of people winning Grammies and other huge titles but a Bessie Head for an aspiring writer like me was, honestly, a breakthrough. 

When I wrote The Moon Has Eyes, I had not planned to take it to a competition. The win was, therefore, quite a surprise. As part of the prize package Pentagon Publishers has just published the book. Since this is a short story, it has been compiled together with stories by other writers. To see story summary/blurb of The Moon Has Eyes, go to my April 2011 posts on this blog. 

The Moon Has Eyes - Front Cover

The Moon Has Eyes - Back Cover

Below is an excerpt from the story;

…It was a Sunday morning. The room was cool and silent. Save for a gold chain around her neck, she was naked. Sunlight splashed in from the open window and bathed her with a golden illumination. She lay on her back, her body twisted slightly in a teasing posture. A pillow was stashed underneath her upper back to maintain specific form. Her elbow was pinned on the bed, palm supporting her cheek. The face was angled a little upwards, features bright and sharp with eyes gazing unseeingly at the roof. The silkiness of her skin against the rough texture of the wall created a stunning contrast – a pleasure for the pencil. A couple of meters from the bed, Kagiso’s head tilted constantly from the drawing board to the subject on the bed. He sat on a stool, the easel lowered to a comfortable height and position. He swallowed hard as his hand stroked marks on the pad. He drew with vigour and absolute focus. The image on the pad was coming to life as he hatched a rendering technique.  Sensitive and delicate pencil marks formed a duplicate of Refilwe’s figure. He felt like a god of creation and he knew his teacher would be proud of him. In a couple of hours, the monochromatic drawing was complete. He sat next to her on the bed, showing her the masterpiece. That was Kagiso’s best, a replacement of the destroyed painting.
            ‘Oh my,’ she cried. ‘Oh my, it’s fantastic. It’s too precious, Kagiso. This belongs in a gallery.’
            ‘It belongs to you, my love,’ he said, enveloping her in his arms. They kissed passionately…

…Stephen swung his rocking chair back and forth. He blew thick cigarette smokes into the air. He was sitting on his porch, looking at the night village scene with an accusing scorn. The village had swallowed the only woman he loved. Refilwe had made it clear to him that she did not love him. Stephen was convinced that she was bluffing. She had been given to him by her family and there was no way he was going to lose the opportunity. She was royal and rightful for him, a perfect partner to sail through life with. He picked a glass of wine and gulped a mouthful before he dragged himself to bed. Early in the morning, he lifted his head from the pillow with unbearable agony. Then a thought struck him. He picked his car keys and the Range Rover roared in the dark streets…

Other stories in the anthology are The Evil Messenger of God (Atang Mogome), The Rise and the Fall in All of Us (Jelena Ivancevic), A Motsetse School Girl (Puseletso Elizabeth Kidd), The Storm of Life (Sethobogwa Dorcas Sefo) and Invicible Scars (Tidimalo Motukwa).

Surgery – Unpacked.

“Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest,” so said Friedrich Nietzsche. A few weeks ago I was one of the Maun visual artists who took part in the first group exhibition by Maun based artists.  

Each work in the gallery was strong yet different enough to stand on its own.  A number of artists sold their pieces during the show. Some of them are Keamogetswe Meralo, Sonja Raats, Gurudev Korvi, Thitaku Kusonya, Mike Smith and Ompatile Sebuelo. However, about two or three works in the exhibit were tagged NFS. Surgery, my artwork – or a part of my artwork since I believe it’s still in the making – was also labelled ‘Not For Sale’. I learnt, however, that quite a few visitors were interested in it. But you see, Surgery is not the kind of artwork one would like to hang on his office or home wall. It is an artwork sourced from deep within my emotions. In fact, like I once said, fine art, just like poetry, happens to be able to reveal my true feelings. Surgery is supposed to be a triptych – and it will be. I am currently working on two other panels.

Now, here is the Surgery story – at least what I can read of it;

Highly conceptual two-dimensional and mixed-media piece, Surgery is. Based on tea-stained and mono-printed fabriano paper, molten bees-wax is pasted almost haphazardly, yet somewhat controlled, over subtle and fading prints of illegible words. The shape formed by the paste is stitched painfully on the edges in black and white embroidery thread. Crimson acrylic had been squeezed though cracks in the wax, giving an impression of clottedblood. More careless stitches can be seen around the artwork, creating an unpleasant border. 

The eligible words, when given a microscopic look, can be vaguely read. Most of these words don’t seem to make much sense, even as they force the viewer squint painfully in order to read them. They fade into the dark background, the voice of a man who seeks to be heard, yet, somehow his words don’t seem to tell the ‘right’ story. A few words on the artwork are pretty much large and bolded (as though highlighted) indicating those few moments when the speaker would actually shout in attempt to forcibly drive his words through the ears of whoever could be listening.  

 But he is trapped. He is trapped in a mud of sorrow, like a fly stuck in wax. Memories bring to him nothing but pain, hence the blood-like creaks through the wax. It’s a memory of black and white, or white and black, or a black and white memory, stitched in his brain by a careless surgeon. He is trying to recover, to be mended, but what the surgeon does, alas, is to increase the pain. The medical gauze/bandage stitched over the wounds does little impression, however. 

…the complete meaning of Surgery can be fully comprehended when all the pieces of the triptych are seen together. So, for now, this is what one may decipher from this pretty gruesome artwork.  

Water, Water, Everywhere, Nor any Drop to Drink

A third week is now beginning since we last had water in Maun. There hasn’t been much explanation to the crisis except that ‘the boreholes had been washed away by the flooding Thamalakane River,’ or ‘water pipes are still being cleaned.’ It’s been way too long for one to go without such a vital need in human, animal and plant life. Now you can imagine what that means. 

As I write, my body is aching for a good bath – and I can’t remember the last time I had one. Think of water system toilets, they hadn’t been working for weeks! Take a look at my beloved garden. It was such a great sight that supplied me, my friends and my neighbours with enough fresh produce. You see, I’m vegetarian – and I really depend on this garden. It is my life support. Now someone is depriving us - me and my garden - the lifeblood of survival; water. I was merely following the president's initiative and I don't think he will take this kindly. The first three photos show my garden in full health, and the rest, gosh...

Very ironic that this region is in abundance of water – yet we don’t have any in our houses. The rivers are flooding, bridges and culverts breaking down. Lake Ngami and other delta tributaries are, in fact, over spilling. We don’t know as to when the remedy to the situation will be.  

I’m reminded of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem;

"Water, water, everywhere,
     And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
     Nor any drop to drink."

Sometimes it can drizzle at around 0200hrs. Only in the outside tap. So I would set up my alarm at such times of the morning just to check if there is anything dropping off the tap. Dazed from heavy sleep (2am isn’t a very friendly time. More so when one has to go to work in the morning) I’d stagger outside, trip on my own feet in the darkness as I wander to the tap. Many a time, I come back disappointed – not even a breath of air from the pipe. At those times when there is something, I’d fill my containers including all the cups and glasses in the kitchen. By the time I try to pour a couple of buckets on at least one of my vegetable plots, the pipes would run dry, or, the eastern horizon would brighten up – an indication that it’s time to get dressed for work. Yes, that’s how it has become of late; I dress up for work and there is very little bathing – so sad.