Palapala Magazine

Palapala Magazine #5 - Kongossa! A New Word Order

LA MAISON DE L’ECRIVAIN

Patrice Nganang

L’écrivain essaie tout simplement de devenir humain. Peut-être a-t-il beaucoup plus que certains, la conscience que ce n’est pas si facile, encore moins dans notre monde d’aujourd’hui, et surtout sur ce continent dont il parle de préférence, l’Afrique, dont un à un les pays sombrent dans le chaos. Il essaie de devenir humain à travers le langage, parce que ce sont les mots qu’il a choisis comme ses instruments de prédilection. Il a choisi les mots et pas, par exemple les briques, car il serait alors un maçon. Et pourtant l’exemple du maçon est édifiant, parce que l’écrivain essaie de rendre le langage qu’il utilise le plus humain possible. Il le fait, un peu comme le maçon concasserait du gravier pour en faire du sable, malaxerait du sable pour en faire du béton, infiltrerait du béton entre des briques pour faire des murs, et monterait des murs pour faire surgir une maison.

To Memory

Kangsen Feka Wakai

Before I made the choice of becoming a writer, I was enthralled by oral expressions, by mind-bending riddles, by witty proverbs, by nursery rhymes, by idioms, by the treble of language, by fairy tales, by Roger Milla, kongosa, by folklore, by myths and legends, by history’s sardonic laughter, by rituals, by colonial and postcolonial literature, by the relentless hollers of street peddlers, by sanctified choral hymns, by Boney M, by the echoing timbre in political rallies, by Zebrudaya, by presidential decrees, by motions of support, by protest songs, by music, by Mandela, by impassioned Sunday sermons, by Achebe, by Beti, by Wa Thiongo, by Lapiro, by BB, by Petit pays et les sans visas, by Gobata, by Tutuola, by L.T. Asong, by Ako-Aya, by loitering ghosts, by the footwork of possessed masquerades and by the spectacle of everyday life, its tragedies, comedies, laughter, cries, quietude and noise.

My Encounter with Writing: Evolution and Philosophical Perspectives

Wirndzerem G. Barfee

Writing in Cameroon, especially Anglophone Cameroon, does not easily figure as one of the dream vocations or pastimes that youngsters espouse in their early reveries and visions of what they aspire to be or do in life. Our material and immaterial values framed within historical and contemporary practices and models explain much about this alienation from the culture of the written word and discourse. 

Composing and Desire

Joyce Ashuntantang, Ph.D.
 
When it hits me, my pupils dilate, my breathing doubles in speed, my heart races. I can't contain myself; I smile and sometimes notice the onset of perspiration. At this juncture, I must rush to the object of my desire. I get there with my left hand on my bosom trying to stop my heaving breasts from tearing through my blouse.

Then I grab it, pause for a minute to see what my opening action should be because what I do first, matters...no it's not what you think—this is what happens to me when an idea hits me and I have to write, especially poetry. It is like labor, the urge and pain, and the idea itches to come out. I become restless as I churn the lines in my head.

Book Review: The Spirit Machine and Other New Short Stories from Cameroon

Emma Dawson (ed). The Spirit Machine and Other New Short Stories from Cameroon. Nottingham: Critical, Cultural and Communications Press. (Publication date: June 1, 2009.

Excerpt from Intro by Emma Dawson:

Until recently the Cameroonian short story in English has often interested itself directly with postcolonial Cameroonian society. But things are changing, and as this anthology will hopefully demonstrate, many of the themes explored in the short stories are not directly linked to a sense of postcoloniality, but reach beyond that experience and into the lives of ordinary Cameroonians today. The stories do reveal the past that Cameroon has known, whether it is through the code-switching or the variety of language used or the themes that, when unravelled, lead back in some way to a legacy of colonisation...

A Ripple From Abakwa (An Excerpt)

Johnnie MacViban

CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HARDWAY

Garba Mallam Dogo whose profile curved at a certain angle, was at the helm of the ship of state. He was the Gaulists’ little Macaque who led a simulation of a government whose foundation was based on the super-structure of fear. Authenticity of all things was the national religion while the cult of mediocrity had become the median for national survival. Presidentialism, whatever the HEXAGONE uncles meant by it was a terminal illness that left political pundits searching for a vaccine.

Dante's Corner: Somali Pirates

Incidents at a Writers’ Conference*

Who
Anglophone Cameroon Writers Association (ACWA)
Motto: Creativity for Humanity

Where
 University of Yaounde I
 
When
 Saturday 4th April 2009

Quotable Nyamnjoh* - The Politics of Scholarship

The Politics of Scholarship
“…The person who has the power to define has that power not only to define the Self, but also to define Others. That means that Western scholarship tends to determine who is going to be included and who excluded, and that does not always have to do with the quality of scholarship being produced. A journal that is based in the UK, run by somebody who has assumptions about the world and North/South divisions, might take positions about which papers will be published. Those decisions have very little to do with science, but more with the politics of scholarly production.

Djobu Mask Society

Richard “Gbagbo” Curtis is a Chicago born visual artist, drummer and mask maker.  He is the founder of the Djobu Mask Society.   
 
   
1.What is the Djobu Mask Society?

Djobu Mask Society was created to remember  and represent the spirits of those Africans from Africa through the diaspora. We act as a bridge between the ancestors and the living.  The Djobu mask society is represented by 3 spirits. Djobu which represents a more contemporary face of the african spirits in the diaspora.

Selected Poems by Dzekashu Macviban Charles

Existence

We fought back, with light, the endless night
You imposed on our existence
As the day had left the day, never to return
It seemed—
Had it all ended there
In that primeval darkness of genesis?
You tailed us— through time and space, alas! —
Remember Alexandria, and the dung-heap of lies
Which, like crumbs, you left behind. 

Selected Poems by JKS Makokha

Poem Without Name

There is no cheery chirping of weaverbirds
when long silver rays a new day’s sky split
in the land of no life.
There is no sunlight.
No sunrise is there.
There is no sunshine.
No sun is there.