African True Stories

There is something about the generality of African literature that seems to set them apart from the others. It is hard to tell what that is exactly. They're earthy, surgical and brutal, I'll say, and sentient in a way that threatens to drown you wholly in the writer's world. You know, Africans do things with a kind of crushing finesse, like the way we make our food- spicy, thick with variety and then, simple. Chris Abani, he's modest, so to refer to him as a legend in African literature, one has to make sure his or her mouth is cupped. But that's what he is.     Abani is a Nigerian poet and novelist currently residing in the United States. His first novel, Masters of the Board published in 1985 when he was sixteen is a political thriller about the events surrounding a coup carried out by 'neo-Nazis' in Nigeria. The plot proved uncomfortably close to actual events as a coup was attempted in the country not long after the novel was published, and so at eight...

Knowledge is freedom. And there's nothing developing nations are more starved of than the freedom and power of knowing. But that's just likely, seeing as individuals and governments of poor countries do not seem to be paying adequate attention to the proper issuance of knowledge.     Fred Swanniker is among those few Africans that are really enthusiastic about education, that business most people do not take to be sufficiently rewarding. He is one of the co-founders of the African leadership Academy (ALA) which has branches in Mauritius and South Africa, and hopes to open twenty-five more campuses around Africa by 2060. The institution, launched in 2005 teaches leadership skills to high school age African students as part of a highly innovative curriculum. It's vision is to impart strong leadership abilities and entrepreneurial skills to the next generation of Africans.     ALA was named one of 2016's most innovative companies by Fast Company. Swanniker a...

Cold voyage on a splintered blade, A passage through silt. You'll pump my turquoise veins With mud coloured life And deck my raw feet in breathing iron. The messenger on steed of Gossamer wings saying, I come to wet your thirsty tongue With diesel from the pit. I'll light up your cage with twinkles From the dark forest. A poem that should not be spoken. Sweetness that must only be glimpsed. Would you unlock your pale gates? I bear urgent tidings. The sky burned a deep red, On an unremembered day. Something has come to haunt and To save us from this heat, Like the tall masquerade we used To call danger as children, Bearing on us with bright machete And a thing we never grasped. Our smile is beautiful like The velvet covering of an Old key that would open no door, Splendid like new pride. The man in white suit, white shoes said Lack is a defiler. I know. I hate the way he says it, But you should have seen the barefoot Little boy spit blood-specked saliv...