African Texts

When Josh and I had lunch while I was home, he asked me to give him the names of some well-known African authors so he could find and read some African texts. I finally started writing some stuff down...then I went a little crazy. But I decided it was a good list to post. Enjoy!!

Key:
** Books I've read and recommend
* Books by authors I've read, but not this particular text
Boooks by recommended, well-known authors

Books originally in English :
**Chinue Achebe (Nigeria) : Things Fall Apart (the most classic African text…ever !)
**Buchi Emecheta (Nigeria) : The Joys of Motherhood (a very interesting commentary on the practice of polygamy)
**Tsitsi Dengaremba (Zimbabwe) : Nervous Conditions
*JM Coetzee (South Africa) : The Life and Times of Michael K.; Disgrace
*Wole Soyinka (Nigeria) : Death and the King’s Horsemen; Ake : The Years of Childhood (nonfiction) (remember him being a rather complex writer)
Ngugi wa Thiang’o (Kenya) : Grain of Wheat (always meant to read this one…!)
Naguib Mahfouz (Egypt) : The Cairo Trilogy (African Noble Laureate)
Nadine Gordimer (South Africa) : Burgher’s Daughter (African Noble Laureate)
**Amos Tutuola (Nigeria) : The Palm-wine Drinkard (a classic comedy piece)
Alan Paton (South Africa) : Cry the Beloved Country
Chenjerai Hove (Zimbabze) : Bones

Books originally in French…I gave the English-translated title where I know it exists. Those written in French include my "translation" of the title, yet I’m not sure that a translated text exists
**Mariama Bâ (Senegal) : So Long a Letter
*Assia Djebar (Algeria) : Algerian White (she’s the only non-French born citizen in the Academie Nationale, the governing body responsible for maintaining the integrity of the French language)
**Franz Fanon (Martinique) : Black Skin, White Masks; The Damned of the Earth (both nonfiction)
**Ahmadou Kourouma (Ivory Coast) : Les Soleils des Indépendances; Allah n’est pas obligé (both fantastic! Maybe translated, The Independent Sun, and Allah is not Obliged…the second is about child soldiers in the civil war in the Ivory Coast)
*Albert Memi (Tunisia) : Portrait du Colonisé suivi de portrait du colonisateur (Portrait of the colonized followed by the portrait of the colonizer)
**Azouz Begag (born in France to Algerian immigrant parents) : Le gone du Chaâba (The kid of the Chaâba)
**Tahar Ben Jelloun (Marocco) : La nuit sacrée (The Sacred Night)

Le Chalet

"Chalet rue St. Denis" has been re-designed...at least re-arranged, making possible sing-alongs and Les Miserablés interpretive dance sessions. So we did. And luckily, I think my only neighbors are away for the weekend. If it wasn't Javert, it was George Michael.

Antoinette

Toast, Milk and Honey, Damon Avenue and Mill Street, Wicker Park corners the market on great breakfasts but DeO'Mallys pizza can hold its own next to antique shops and Antoinette in downtown Plymouth. Nowhere else are the stars more plentiful than Sportsman's Lane, the sound of seagulls more soothing than Prospect Avenue, and nothing compares to the feel of my grandma's soft yet bony hand grasping mine. As much as I love the kiss on each cheek, the hug is home and lasts long enough to hold in or let go of tears.

With cousins, aunts and uncles, friends, brothers, parents, I always compose a menu much too large for what's possible to enjoyably digest when I go home. And I still feel guilty about people I didn't call or see or see again...and maybe that will continue to be a dilema as long as I live outside the country, but I simply didn't want to trade one minute of knitting with Leah in front of the roaring fire at my mom and Paul's house. I wouldn't have traded discussing with Josh the status of our hearts in relation to Africa, coming to conclusions about the future of butchers and bakers with Molly and Jon, debating the Middle East with dad, or accompanying my mom to her office and running fun errands with no regard to the time. There's always next time.

Mon quartier

On first day back in Paris, I crashed on my bed for an hour after getting home from the airport. Because it was so mild, I a window open and fell asleep to the sounds on rue St. Denis....trucks and high heels clacking and clothing carts rolling across the cobblestone street. It sounded foreign, and like every time I return from the States, I feel like I don't belong; I know I am foreign, I feel out of place. I needed to venture out and reacquaint myself. Instead of walking the cute and Frenchie rue Montorgueil, I just went straight down St. Denis. It may be the "red light" street, but it's my street. While I've passed the same man who stands outside one of the peep show on my side of the street nearly every single morning going to class, I've never spoken with him. But on that day, he looked at me, smiled, said, "Bonjour", and I returned it with "Bonne annnée" (happy new year.....the imperative first greeting after the new year has commenced). He wished me good health (the second imperative in this round of one-time-a-year greetings) and I wished him the same. Then a few days ago I went into the African bookstore just 2 blocks away. The owner is an older man from the Ivory Coast, and we spoke one other time when he invited me to come back on the Sunday of that week. Now that was a solid 4 weeks ago, but when I walked in, he knew me, even though he couldn't remember my name, and said he was looking for me that Sunday when I never showed up. Little did I think my presence--or lack thereof--would even be noticed! He helped me choose two books for my friend Molly....pointed out several events--author speakings, discussions, etc. that would be going on. Then he poured me a glass of fresh hibiscus juice. It was as thick as apple cider and a dark purple-red color. And it was delicious. He said another Ivorienne imported all kinds of fresh plants and fruits from Africa, and she made the juices. He then had me try a juice made just from ginger, lemon, and a little sugar. We spoke some more about literature and then I paid for my books (on which he gave me a discount), and he wished me a good day and said he hoped I'd come in the evening some week to hang out at the tables where people convene for coffee, juice and discussion. And then today I went to a store just down the street that carries everything imported from India. I bought a small end table from them over a year ago, a glass-paneled kitchen cabinet, and some Christmas presents. The guy who works there has always delivered my things, and we've talked about the time he spent in Martinique, India, and my studies. The last two times I've walked out of there not only with discounts on my purchases but also with packets of incense, little wooden boxes, or anything else he sees to give me. So today I went in to find a coffee table that will also serve for eating on (currently I sit on the floor and eat on my lap, but since rearranging my apartment, I now have more than enough room for a decent sized table to eat on by sitting on cushions on the floor). I told him what I wanted and he told me he had something to show me if I could wait 5 minutes. He ended up taking me to another nearby store (these are all located in one of the "galleries", the beautiful, old, original/first "malls" of covered shops in Paris) to show me the first table. It was great...but he said I had to see the second. So we went through a completely second jewelry store, through a door, and downstairs into a basement storage room. There he uncovered an old, turquoise blue table that was the perfect size. It had heavy layers of wax coating on it, slightly altering the color, so he got a bucket of warm soapy water and scrubbed away the wax on one corner to show me the layers of brown, green, and turquoise that reveal the true nature of the table. Another guy was down there, and all three of us were squatting around this table talking about it....and he told me the price, altered it....and then said I could come back when he was finished working (I have to leave in 30 minutes, in fact!!) and he'll help me carry it back to my apartment. When he took down my mobile number just in case it wouldn't be ready, he even knew my name.

It didn't take long to stop feeling like a foreigner here. The second night back, I got together with all the girls in the café...saw all the guys....and since then we've all hung out numerous times...planned and celebrated our friend Laetitia's 30th birthday last night....I have another birthday party tonight, and then all the girls are coming to my apartment on Saturday night for "cocktails" and then dinner in my neighborhood. But besides my friends, who always remind me that I do belong, it's nice to know there are others who I wouldn't even expect to make my neighborhood so very much mon quartier. Even this evening, when I passed the peep show again, the guy not only said hello, but mentioned that I had been gone for a long time. 15 days? 3 weeks? He's observant. So we chatted about Christmas and what I'm doing in Paris...and then wished each other good evenings. On this street, it certainly can't hurt to have him in my corner!