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Fractured flowers

- Cunningham, Cornelia

Alien crosstalk

- Stuart-Watson, Andrew Joseph

Diski 9 Nine and Other Stories (and Things)

- Mahlabe, Stoffel Seshia

Gray

- Fouché, James De Clerque

Praying mantis

- Kenene, Thobeka

  • Authors: Kenene, Thobeka
  • Date: 2022-04-07
  • Subjects: Creative writing (Higher education) South Africa , Diaries -- Authorship , South African fiction (English) 21st century , South African essays (English) 21st century , Portuguese fiction 20th century History and criticism , Russian fiction 20th century History and criticism , Zimbabwean fiction (English) 20th century History and criticism , American fiction 20th century History and criticism
  • Language: English
  • Type: Academic theses , Master's theses , text
  • Identifier: http://hdl.handle.net/10962/292726 , vital:57010
  • Description: (Prologue) I could only see in black and white as if I had travelled through time. I was the star of the medieval people who waited on me. The city was Johannesburg where strange faces called me a traitor because I was an educated black person. I hid between the skyscrapers and ran into a mirror image of myself as a man. “I write this book,” he said to his readers, “To invoke a yearning in our youth to awaken from slumber. To set examples for them to desist from characters like Velesazi and Nongendi, and imitate Nomsa and Themba. And also, to contribute to Xhosa literature.” He signed off by calling himself our servant. These are the words from the note my great-grandfather left me. We walked together across a barren field and past a graveyard. I was feeling tired and lost; I wanted to get home as fast as possible. We quickened our step and entered a church site. Inside the church were all my close relatives. I saw myself on stage looking down at them, and when I opened my mouth to sing, they began laughing at me. I imagined him in his 1917 suit, as a writer, penning down his first novel that is dedicated to his mother. His round cheeks enveloped in a haze of candle light. He visited my dream in 2012 and in the dream he asked me, “Do you see?” I said, “Yes, I see.” My great-grandfather hummed a song from his belly. I inhaled deeply into my belly and then exhaled a sound. Together we hummed this song that made everyone fall silent and listen. In the dream I could feel my lungs expanding and deflating along to the rhythm of the song. As my great-grandfather and I sang it, the night lamps shone brighter. I had become my great-grandfather, wearing his suit and black leather shoes. His friends were my friends. They turned and asked me what my clan name was. When I told them, they whispered something among themselves. One of them said to me, “Unogcwabevu.” I saw a white unknown woman who was afraid of me. I told her it is going to be okay, and that I would not harm her. But the colour of my skin frightened her. , Thesis (MA) -- Faculty of Humanities, School of Languages and Literatures, 2022
  • Full Text:

The memory altar

- Alexander-McKenna, Hilary Jane

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