“…For all those years studying past facts in Dakar, he was yet to learn the role the Senegalese port played in shipping people out. Or not, that the port had no place in the regular route they plied… However, in the sitting room Diouf stood transfixed, more often rendered akimbo, glancing at the screed wall. The wall had been stood for a couple over two decades. They were the borders of their frugally furnished sitting room but for its stylish and artistic wit. He shared almost same age bracket with it. With what seemed an effortless precision one could tell it was one of the attachments to the wall that he was overly focused. Once absorbed into such composed look, it awakened his sinews buried underneath his light chocolate skin, and gushed up his nerves until his capturing gaze came tumbling on another. It seemed implausible but it had happened. It was the tons of chain made to swindle about the ankles of the aborigines as they made their staggering benign exit past the Gate of no Return. Hitherto, everything now stood a profound monument.”
Perhaps, it was merely a colourful graphical representation of the Gate of no Return. Ostensibly, it hadn’t the talking prerogative to tell Diouf only that. Therefore, he was at will with the several meanings he had married to the picture. Likewise, a collection of these words, formed literature creatively hewn and imprinted show a deep ground networking of its host society, in a manner that it recognises, and same time might not be recognised.
One could miss a step at such plump dailies that happen in and about us, circumscribed in the inside of Africa-in focus. And, the very below par word representation of them. These attempts of a chronicle, detailing as fiction, non-fiction and autobiographies not only show. They also accelerate, not necessarily as fast as skirting down from some hillside. But, in their manner diffuse the elements of development and more effective leadership almost reaching its dearth in the inside of Africa.
To this project, there have been people that have walked up to such hilarious challenges to being household names in this endeavour-People whom we easily recognise and stamp the tag of heroes and heroines. Sneaking a peep into the last century, we stand to altogether applaud the catalogue of monumental books in the twentieth century. While appreciating their dogged writers: the Kenyan Ngugi Thiong’o, for his sensitivity of the before of the natives and after effects of a perfected colonialized culture. The Nigerian duo of Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka; in them there is this watchful, prowling eyes that catch loss of values, the people’s inherited heritage, down to their subsequent subjected colonialization. Furthermore, their religious and social structures are also given a barrage of attention. Where Achebe and Ngugi are two strong arms, of the right and left, lying astride the line of latitude, they noted almost same things with special courage at their desperate points of institution.
P. S, where we are not attempting a wake of sleeping events that bring about more of the differences, we favour more a new breath these works bring about.
As an addition, the South-African Alan Paton, a choice amidst the numerous, brings to the world the oppressive system of the time; of a debased humanity that would take ages to be scratched an address. And a whole endless list that goes on.
And in the wake of the present century, one cannot bear not to pay close tabs to something of Taiye Selasie’s Ghana Must Go, Yvonne Adhiambo’s Dust-the swinging in and out of Africa and a sturdy approach to fictional realities, come back! life realities. J. M Coetzee’s Disgrace, Phaswane Mpe’s Welcome to our Hillbrow. And more; Chimamanda Adichie’s flagship Half of a Yellow Sun, Noviolet Bulawayo’s We Need New Names.
But then, touring through Dust, one sees a lot of Kenya compressed into words for the reader to view. “And what is it all about?” what it is about is of the quintessence. If Dust had taken the leisure to draw up all these it had perfectly portrayed. One thing for sure remains-it wouldn’t be to ordinarily mare. Even when not ending with thawing recommendations (unfortunately novels don’t have this talent.) It exposes neglects that should invariably be observed. Serving them in a whole engaging table of details and set in the Republic of Kenya. Dustcontinues on a spree of telling the tale of a perturbed Africa, of almost similar recurrence of anomaly botching these states from all sides. That they have persisted and, is persisting. Accompanied by other menacing rampages in diseases and other horrible things that grotesque subsumed as the dysfunctions of Africa.
Citation culled from @CajAmakor’s Diary