{"product_id":"the-anchor-book-of-modern-african-stories-isbn-9780385722407","title":"The Anchor Book of Modern African Stories","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe Anchor Book of Modern African Stories\u003c\/b\u003e showcases the most innovative writing to arise from the continent. From internationally recognized authors such as Nigeria’s Ben Okri, to newcomer Leila Aboulela from Sudan, together the contributors offer compelling testimonies of life in the midst of historic upheaval. Rich, dense, and topical, this collection is an indispensable guide to the emerging canon of contemporary African fiction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eContributors:\u003c\/b\u003e Tayeb Salih, Henri Lopès, Luis Bernardo Honwana, Njabulo S. Ndebele, Olympe Bhely-Quenum, Sindiwe Magona, Charles Mungoshi, William (Bloke) Modisane, William Saidi, Abdulrazak Gurnah, Tololwa Marti Mollel, Nnadzie F. Inyama, Sembne Ousmane, Mohammed Berrada, Ali Deb, Mohamed Moulessehoul, I.N.C. Aniebo, Dambudzo Marechera, Ken Lipenga, Ibrahim Abdel Megid, Ndeley Mokoso, Ken Saro-Wiwa, Alifa Rifaat, Leila Aboulela, Milly Jafta, Ben Okri, Funso Aiyejina, Farida Karodia, Salwa Bakr, Gaele Sobott-Mogwe, Makuchi, Hama Tuma, Ossie O. Enekwe, Adewale Maja-Pearce.“Compact tales of present-day realities, joys and hardships across the continent.... In this literary score the elegance of African literature is yours to behold.” –\u003ci\u003eQuarterly Black Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An outstanding assemblage. . . . Required reading for anyone who studies African culture and the human condition.” –\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e “Fascinating and illuminating.” –\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003eTAYEB SALIH\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTayeb Salih was born in 1929 in Sudan. He attended university in  England before working at the BBC as Head of Drama in the Arabic  Service. He later worked as Director-General of Information in Qatar  in the Persian Gulf, and with UNESCO in Paris. He is the author of  The Wedding of Zein and Other Stories, Bandarshah, and the widely  acclaimed Seasons of Migration to the North.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Handful of Dates\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslated by Denys Johnson-Davies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must have been very young at the time. While I don't remember  exactly how old I was, I do remember that when people saw me with my  grandfather they would pat me on the head and give my cheek a  pinch--things they didn't do to my grandfather. The strange thing was  that I never used to go out with my father, rather it was my  grandfather who would take me with him wherever he went, except for  the mornings when I would go to the mosque to learn the Koran. The  mosque, the river and the fields--these were the landmarks in our  life. While most of the children of my age grumbled at having to go  to the mosque to learn the Koran, I used to love it. The reason was,  no doubt, that I was quick at learning by heart and the Sheikh always  asked me to stand up and recite the Chapter of the Merciful whenever  we had visitors, who would pat me on my head and cheek just as people  did when they saw me with my grandfather.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, I used to love the mosque, and I loved the river too. Directly  after we finished our Koran reading in the morning I would throw down  my wooden slate and dart off, quick as a genie, to my mother,  hurriedly swallow down my breakfast, and run off for a plunge in the  river. When tired of swimming about I would sit on the bank and gaze  at the strip of water that wound away eastward and hid behind a thick  wood of acacia trees. I loved to give rein to my imagination and  picture to myself a tribe of giants living behind that wood, a people  tall and thin with white beards and sharp noses, like my grandfather.  Before my grandfather ever replied to my many questions he would rub  the tip of his nose with his forefinger; as for his beard, it was  soft and luxuriant and as white as cotton-wool--never in my life have  I seen anything of a purer whiteness or greater beauty. My  grandfather must also have been extremely tall, for I never saw  anyone in the whole area address him without having to look up at  him, nor did I see him enter a house without having to bend so low  that I was put in mind of the way the river wound round behind the  wood of acacia trees. I loved him and would imagine myself, when I  grew to be a man, tall and slender like him, walking along with great  strides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI believe I was his favorite grandchild: no wonder, for my cousins  were a stupid bunch and I--so they say--was an intelligent child. I  used to know when my grandfather wanted me to laugh, when to be  silent; also I would remember the times for his prayers and would  bring him his prayer rug and fill the ewer for his ablutions without  his having to ask me. When he had nothing else to do he enjoyed  listening to me reciting to him from the Koran in a lilting voice,  and I could tell from his face that he was moved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne day I asked him about our neighbor Masood. I said to my  grandfather: \"I fancy you don't like our neighbor Masood?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo which he answered, having rubbed the tip of his nose: \"He's an  indolent man and I don't like such people.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said to him: \"What's an indolent man?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy grandfather lowered his head for a moment, then looking across at  the wide expanse of field, he said: \"Do you see it stretching out  from the edge of the desert up to the Nile bank? A hundred feddans.  Do you see all those date palms? And those trees--sant, acacia and  sayal? All this fell into Masood's lap, was inherited by him from his father.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaking advantage of the silence that had descended upon my  grandfather, I turned my gaze from him to the vast area defined by  his words. \"I don't care,\" I told myself, \"who owns those date palms,  those trees or this black, cracked earth--all I know is that it's the  arena for my dreams and my playground.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy grandfather then continued: \"Yes, my boy, forty years ago all this  belonged to Masood--two-thirds of it is now mine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was news to me for I had imagined that the land had belonged to  my grandfather ever since God's Creation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I didn't own a single feddan when I first set foot in this village.  Masood was then the owner of all these riches. The position has  changed now, though, and I think that before Allah calls to him I  shall have bought the remaining third as well.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI do not know why it was I felt fear at my grandfather's words--and  pity for our neighbor Masood. How I wished my grandfather wouldn't do  what he'd said! I remembered Masood's singing, his beautiful voice  and powerful laugh that resembled the gurgling of water. My  grandfather never used to laugh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI asked my grandfather why Masood had sold his land.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Women,\" and from the way my grandfather pronounced the word I felt  that \"women\" was something terrible. \"Masood, my boy, was a  much-married man. Each time he married he sold me a feddan or two.\" I  made the quick calculation that Masood must have married some ninety  women. Then I remembered his three wives, his shabby appearance, his  lame donkey and its dilapidated saddle, his djellaba with the torn  sleeves. I had all but rid my mind of the thoughts that jostled in it  when I saw the man approaching us, and my grandfather and I exchanged  glances.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We'll be harvesting the dates today,\" said Masood. \"Don't you want  to be there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt, though, that he did not really want my grandfather to attend.  My grandfather, however, jumped to his feet and I saw that his eyes  sparkled momentarily with an intense brightness. He pulled me by the  hand and we went off to the harvesting of Masood's dates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone brought my grandfather a stool covered with an ox hide, while  I remained standing. There was a vast number of people there, but  though I knew them all, I found myself for some reason watching  Masood: aloof from the great gathering of people he stood as though  it were no concern of his, despite the fact that the date palms to be  harvested were his own. Sometimes his attention would be caught by  the sound of a huge clump of dates crashing down from on high. Once  he shouted up at the boy perched on the very summit of the date palm  who had begun hacking at a clump with his long, sharp sickle: \"Be  careful you don't cut the heart of the palm.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one paid any attention to what he said and the boy seated at the  very summit of the date palm continued, quickly and energetically, to  work away at the branch with his sickle till the clump of dates began  to drop like something descending from the heavens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI, however, had begun to think about Masood's phrase \"the heart of  the palm.\" I pictured the palm tree as something with feeling,  something possessed of a heart that throbbed. I remembered Masood's  remark to me when he had once seen me playing about with the branch  of a young palm tree: \"Palm trees, my boy, like humans, experience  joy and suffering.\" And I had felt an inward and unreasoned  embarrassment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I again looked at the expanse of ground stretching before me I  saw my young companions swarming like ants around the trunks of the  palm trees, gathering up dates and eating most of them. The dates  were collected into high mounds. I saw people coming along and  weighing them into measuring bins and pouring them into sacks, of  which I counted thirty. The crowd of people broke up, except for  Hussein the merchant, Mousa the owner of the field next to ours on  the east and two men I'd never seen before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI heard a low whistling sound and saw that my grandfather had fallen  asleep. Then I noticed that Masood had not changed his stance, except  that he had placed a stalk in his mouth and was munching at it like  someone surfeited with food who doesn't know what to do with the  mouthful he still has.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly my grandfather woke up, jumped to his feet and walked toward  the sacks of dates. He was followed by Hussein the merchant, Mousa  the owner of the field next to ours and the two strangers. I glanced  at Masood and saw that he was making his way toward us with extreme  slowness, like a man who wants to retreat but whose feet insist on  going forward. They formed a circle round the sacks of dates and  began examining them, some taking a date or two to eat. My  grandfather gave me a fistful, which I began munching. I saw Masood  filling the palms of both hands with dates and bringing them up close  to his nose, then returning them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen I saw them dividing up the sacks between them. Hussein the  merchant took ten; each of the strangers took five. Mousa the owner  of the field next to ours on the eastern side took five, and my  grandfather took five. Understanding nothing, I looked at Masood and  saw that his eyes were darting about to left and right like two mice  that have lost their way home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're still fifty pounds in debt to me,\" said my grandfather to  Masood. \"We'll talk about it later.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHussein called his assistants and they brought along donkeys, the two  strangers produced camels, and the sacks of dates were loaded onto  them. One of the donkeys let out a braying which set the camels  frothing at the mouth and complaining noisily. I felt myself drawing  close to Masood, felt my hand stretch out toward him as though I  wanted to touch the hem of his garment. I heard him make a noise in  his throat like the rasping of a lamb being slaughtered. For some  unknown reason, I experienced a sharp sensation of pain in my chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI ran off into the distance. Hearing my grandfather call after me, I  hesitated a little, then continued on my way. I felt at that moment  that I hated him. Quickening my pace, it was as though I carried  within me a secret I wanted to rid myself of. I reached the riverbank  near the bend it made behind the wood of acacia trees. Then, without  knowing why, I put my finger into my throat and spewed up the dates  I'd eaten.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHENRI LOPÈS\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHenri Lopès was born in the Congo in 1937. In 1971 he published his  first collection of stories, Tribaliks, and was awarded the Grand  Prix Littéraire de l'Afrique Noire the following year. He followed  this with the novels The Laughing Cry and The Lily and the Coral  Tree. Also active in political office, he has served in the Congo as  Minister of Education, Minister of Finances, and as Prime Minister.  He is currently the Congolese Ambassador to France and England.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Advance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslated by Andrea Leskes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No good,\" the little girl said, screwing up her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes it is, Francoise. Look.\" Carmen herself swallowed a mandarin  section, then closed her eyes. The little girl looked at her,  impassively.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Eat it all up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike a priest proffering the host, Carmen offered her the orange  quarter. Haughtily, the little girl turned her head away. It was  already seven o'clock. Carmen was eager to finish up her work,  especially since she had not yet asked the mistress . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe spoke more sharply and looked stern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If you don't eat, Francoise, I'm going to tell your mother.\" Still  the little girl did not relent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mistress of the house was in the living room, together with her  husband, entertaining friends they had invited over for bridge. She  had already warned Carmen several times not to bother her when she  was, as she said, \"with company.\" Did Carmen dare to interrupt the  happy group anyway? She did not fear being yelled at. People raise  their voices mostly to relieve their own tensions. And since,  according to Ferdinand the watchman, Madam's husband beat her, she  took her revenge out on the servants. Why feel resentful? It was far  better to just accept it philosophically. But to be taken to task in  front of others, strangers, that was worse than being slapped. So  Carmen preferred to wait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlso, Madam had the annoying habit of speaking to her daughter as if  she were an adult.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Francoise, sweetheart, what did you have to eat?\" And little  Francoise, while reciting for her mother, would delight in explaining  that she had not eaten any dessert because the mandarins Carmen  wanted to give her were rotten. And Madam would admonish Carmen for  not having told her about it. Especially since she had already  explained that without dessert the child might not get a  well-balanced meal, and so on and so forth. Carmen would usually  listen to it all, seriously. In her village, and over in Makélékélé,  what mattered was that a child had a full belly and did not go  hungry. If, in addition, they had to worry about a balanced diet,  there would never be an end to it. Besides, Carmen must not forget to  ask her mistress . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was only one solution. Do as her own mother had done to get her  to eat. With one hand she opened the child's mouth and with the other  shoved in the piece of fruit. As expected, Francoise howled. She  cried and choked with rage. From the hallway came hammerlike sounds  on the tile floor--the footsteps of Madam who came running. Carmen  had won.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's going on in here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"She doesn't want to eat, Madam.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, don't force her, poor little thing. Get her some grapes from the  refrigerator. She likes grapes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMadam took the little girl's head in her hands and kissed her several  times. Carmen went to get the European-style dessert. As she was  returning, she crossed Madam in the hall and almost broached the  subject that was on her mind. But it did not seem like quite the  right moment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrancoise ate the grapes with relish. They must be good because  instead of being her usual, talkative self, she remained calm and  quiet as she ate the fruit. One day Carmen would have to swipe some  of them and see what they tasted like.originally published as African Rhapsody","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233616408805,"sku":"NP9780385722407","price":25.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385722407.jpg?v=1767738080","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-anchor-book-of-modern-african-stories-isbn-9780385722407","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}