{"product_id":"how-to-write-about-africa-isbn-9780812989663","title":"How to Write About Africa","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom one of Africa’s most influential and eloquent essayists, a posthumous collection that highlights his biting satire and subversive wisdom on topics from travel to cultural identity to sexuality\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A fierce literary talent . . . [Wainaina] shines a light on his continent without cliché.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. . . . Africa is to be pitied, worshipped, or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBinyavanga Wainaina was a pioneering voice in African literature, an award-winning memoirist and essayist remembered as one of the greatest chroniclers of contemporary African life. This groundbreaking collection brings together, for the first time, Wainaina’s pioneering writing on the African continent, including many of his most critically acclaimed pieces, such as the viral satirical sensation “How to Write About Africa.” Working fearlessly across a range of topics—from politics to international aid, cultural heritage, and redefined sexuality—he describes the modern world with sensual, emotional, and psychological detail, giving us a full-color view of his home country and continent. These works present the portrait of a giant in African literature who left a tremendous legacy.“Binyavanga Wainaina was many things in his short, frenetic life: memoirist and roving essayist, trailblazing editor and publisher, agitator and activist. . . . Wainaina’s language [is] barbed, playful, inventive . . . his omnivorous brilliance matched by ambition and vision on a continental scale.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e(Editors’ Choice)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s beginning to seem like Binyavanga Wainaina’s satirical essay ‘How to Write About Africa’ might be, after the Bible, the most read English-language text on the African continent. . . . This collection of his writing—the first to be published since he died—makes it difficult not to feel the scale of [his] loss. . . . A fierce literary talent . . . [Wainaina] shines a light on his continent without cliché.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Brilliant . . . incisive . . . each [essay] showcasing Wainaina’s sharp wit and penetrating analysis.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unflagging in his generosity, unflinching and direct in his criticism, [Wainaina] produced work in his short life that will have longer-lasting impact than those whose time here is twice as long.”\u003cb\u003e—Ellah Wakatama Allfrey, OBE, chair of the Caine Prize for African Writing\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eBinyavanga Wainaina\u003c\/b\u003e was a Kenyan author, activist, and journalist, and the 2002 winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing. His debut book, the memoir \u003ci\u003eOne Day I Will Write About This Place\u003c\/i\u003e, was published in 2011. \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e magazine included Wainaina in its list of the 100 Most Influential People in the World in 2014. He died in 2019.\u003cb\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBinguni!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo goldfish were arguing in their bowl: “If there is no God, who  changes our water every week?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAllotropy: (ə-­ˈlä-­trə-­pē) n. The property of certain elements to  exist in two or more distinct forms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDawn, December 27, 1999\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJango had often pictured his imagination as a helium-­filled balloon,  rather than one containing air. As he rose above the wreckage of the  car, a whole-­body feeling came over him. His life had ended, the string  was cut, and his imagination was free to merge with reality. He felt  immensely liberated—­like he was flexing muscles that had not been used  in a long time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, to stretch! His body felt loose-­limbed and weightless, and his mind  poised to soar. How could he have stayed in cramped earthliness for so  long? How could he have forgotten this feeling? Had he not once danced  with stars and had dalliances with gods?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas he dreaming? Or was this part of some spectral past life? He felt no  trauma of the type normally associated with violent death. Right now, he  was rather piqued that he had missed out on the nonstop partying that  was taking place all over the world. He hugged himself and found that  his body seemed intact. He found it odd that he did not seem to feel the  trepidation he would have expected if there was a possibility that he  was destined for Pastor Vimba’s “LAKE OF FIYYRRE!,” which starred a  leering Red Devil and promised “EEETERNALL DAMNATIONNN!” He giggled at  the thought. “Tsk, tsk, Jango,” he said to himself. “You’re getting  above yourself!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOddly enough, right now the thought of going to “Heaven” and spending  eternity dressed in white robes, blissfully ensconced behind Pearly  Gates while drinking nectar or listening to harps, was depressing. After  spending most of his life in Johannesburg, and especially after the  hedonism of the past few days, the “fires of hell” acquired a certain  appeal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was another possible destination, though. His father’s mania—­to  become an esteemed ancestor, as Zulu tradition dictated. Yet he could  not visualize himself tolerating eternity as an “Outraged Ancestor,”  imposing droughts and plagues on disobedient descendants and anybody  else who happened to be in the vicinity. Ancestor worship was a religion  his father had tried to drum (quite often literally) into his head, and  it was one he had discarded with relief. The concept of ancestors  scrutinizing and guiding people’s lives had always inspired images of  power-­mad old voyeurs playing African roulette (giggle, giggle . . .  whom shall we play with next—­Rwanda?).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat if one descended from a long line of assholes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe thought to himself that if he had a choice, he would not mind being  dispatched to some sort of Spectral Cyberspace, if such a fanciful place  could exist. Hmm, yes. Maybe he was on his way to a place where nobody  would dictate to him how to live his life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfterlife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePah! Banish the thought. There were probably harp-­playing Censors  lovingly denying souls\/spirits\/whatever their daily fix of Ambrosia if  they did not conform.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs he floated with a sort of predetermined aimlessness, he delighted in  his new rubber-­bandy self, vaguely wondering why he seemed to have  carried his body with him. Surely his real body was still getting  intimate with the mangled metal of his car?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked down at the surrealistic African vista below him. It was as  if, as the Earth relinquished its pull on him, he relinquished all the  trauma that he expected to have felt after the accident—relinquished  all the weighty emotions and burdensome responsibilities that did not  endear themselves to his new weightless self.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr maybe he was still stoned from the party.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAround and below him, the Earth had decided to stake its claim. A sudden  gust of wind whipped itself up into a frenzy of anger, and lightning  seared the ground. Thunder roared as if backing up the sky’s claim on  him. Massive, engorged clouds lay low and gave birth to reluctant raindrops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis drama had no physical effect on him. It seemed that he was in a  dimension beyond Earth now. He could not remain unmoved by her mourning,  though. As the wind wailed in fury, he mimicked it, roaring his farewell  to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, fast asleep at her home in Diepkloof, Soweto, Mama Jango  moaned as the cloud of unformed premonition that floated past her house  darkened her pedestrian dreams. A shadow of loss chilled her briefly.  Later she would wonder, and trusty Pastor Vimba would come up with a  satisfactory supernatural explanation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, exultation welled in Jango as he looked below him and saw the  grand panorama of the storm-­enlivened city. A powerful love for what  had been his adopted home for twenty-­seven years overwhelmed him.  Wordsworth’s famous sonnet, a personal favorite, came to mind, and he  laughed, stretching his arms wide and bellowing in exultation:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarth has not anything to show more fair:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDull would he be of soul who could pass by\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sight so F***ING touching in its majesty:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis City now doth, like a garment, wear . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly a force lifted the flat veld and highways as if they were  merely a tablecloth and swallowed them. In no time everything earthly  below him—­the mine dumps, squatter camps, towers, domes, theaters, and  temples of Johannesburg—­disappeared the same way. Evaporated by  something that seemed to have no substance or form.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJango found himself surrounded by nothingness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd all that mighty heart is lying still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStasis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilence so absolute, it screamed louder than anything he had ever  experienced.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sensation was terrifying. Utter nothingness surrounded him. There  was no light, no darkness, nothing to feel or touch. Unearthly cold  imprisoned his body. He began to shake and shudder, but soon even his  shudders became sluggish and eventually ceased. He was immobile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the absolute silence, he could not tell whether he was still  floating. An excruciating numbness began to spread all over his body.  Soon his body lost all feeling. He lowered his eyes to see what was  happening, and to his horror saw that something was eliminating it with  a devastating silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if it had never been there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, only the feeling that his mind was present remained, and it  screamed into the nothingness to make itself heard. It tried all manner  of activities to convince itself that it would be all right, but waves  and waves of self-­doubt assaulted it as it found nothing to compare or  process. Nothing to perceive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot even an echo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShutdown began in some areas of his mind, and the rest reacted by  exaggerating their most recent functions. “Oh, shit! This is it!” he  thought frantically to himself. “This is how it ends.” Huge, terribly  distorted images thrust themselves to the forefront of his consciousness  as it tried to resist the terrible finality of its surroundings. Now all  that remained were the screams of tortured metal, flashing lights, his  crazed screams, and the smell of feces and smoke. His mind accepted  these gratefully as evidence that there was existence, that he did  exist. These scenes played themselves over and over as the shutdown  continued undeterred, becoming more and more scrambled and  indecipherable as more functions shut down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen there was just nothing.Introduction by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie","brand":"One World","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299901591781,"sku":"NP9780812989663","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812989663.jpg?v=1767729492","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/how-to-write-about-africa-isbn-9780812989663","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}