Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Short Stories
Our next project is a collection of short stories by Botswana women, all subjects, no limits. We'll be finished by the end of April, at which time we'll begin another collection of stories. For now we're just sending our work back and forth amongst ourselves and "panelbeating" them, as Barolong Seboni would say.
Done!
Our play is finally complete and safely in the hands of the publishers. It's a historical drama, based on a true story but with some embellishments, of course, to enhance the story. Stay in tune for more news....
Monday, November 2, 2009
Writers for Hire
If you need writers for anything from articles to plays, you need look no further than the Petlo Artists, who are now available for commissions.
Contact us at petlobotswana@gmail.com.
Contact us at petlobotswana@gmail.com.
Artist News
Cheryl Ntumy's "Silverfish" has just been published in an anthology available for sale on Amazon.com. Check it out at:
http://www.amazon.com/Great-Short-Stories-YouWriteOn-com-Writers/dp/1849235066/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257165984&sr=1-1
http://www.amazon.com/Great-Short-Stories-YouWriteOn-com-Writers/dp/1849235066/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1257165984&sr=1-1
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
His Hands
A poem by Baboki Kayawe
Below is the power of his hands. They can hold, caress, direct and make the brush come. Them hands got brains……….they are not just hands but cognitively charged…………….
Words alone fail to describe them hands
Hands that does wonders
Hands that brings closer any situation explicitly
Be it war, hunger and happiness
Sadness,love. Nothing and everything
I looked at the Pregnant Skeleton and wondered
What the source of all these wonders could be
Now, I know ...
Below is the power of his hands. They can hold, caress, direct and make the brush come. Them hands got brains……….they are not just hands but cognitively charged…………….
Words alone fail to describe them hands
Hands that does wonders
Hands that brings closer any situation explicitly
Be it war, hunger and happiness
Sadness,love. Nothing and everything
I looked at the Pregnant Skeleton and wondered
What the source of all these wonders could be
Now, I know ...
Monday, October 12, 2009
Putting on Faces
This is the story that won Gothataone Moeng first place in the short story category of the 2009 Bessie Head Heritage Trust competition. Enjoy!
Putting on Faces
It was her screams that woke me; pure, unadulterated terror in her voice.
“Let him go! Please let him go,” she was screaming. I stared at her, transfixed and feeling strangely betrayed. Patricia had warned me, I suppose. She had said,
“A Zimbabwean? To look after your baby? Ausi, are you sure?”
Then she told me all the horror stories: about how one Zimbabwean maid had absconded back home, leaving a six-month old baby alone, after stealing virtually everything in the house. She repackaged and retold her favourite story of the Zimbabwean maid who had put somebody’s baby in the oven after months of mistreatment and no pay.
“Just imagine, what kind of person roasts a baby to punish the mother?”
But my desperation convinced her; my three months of maternity leave were slowly drawing to an end. I needed someone. She had contacts; her brother had a Zimbabwean girlfriend who had an aunt whose daughter badly needed any kind of work.
She had seemed like a nice, respectable lady when I met her at Patricia’s. She was young, slim, and had dark skin much like my own. She was clean; she didn’t stink of stale sweat like most of her compatriots with their cheap Chinese clothes and the red-brown dust clinging to their ankles.
She sat comfortably on Patricia’s new sofas, and when my tongue refused to wrap itself around her Ndebele name, she laughed my attempts off and said,
“Call me Auntie.”
Putting on Faces
It was her screams that woke me; pure, unadulterated terror in her voice.
“Let him go! Please let him go,” she was screaming. I stared at her, transfixed and feeling strangely betrayed. Patricia had warned me, I suppose. She had said,
“A Zimbabwean? To look after your baby? Ausi, are you sure?”
Then she told me all the horror stories: about how one Zimbabwean maid had absconded back home, leaving a six-month old baby alone, after stealing virtually everything in the house. She repackaged and retold her favourite story of the Zimbabwean maid who had put somebody’s baby in the oven after months of mistreatment and no pay.
“Just imagine, what kind of person roasts a baby to punish the mother?”
But my desperation convinced her; my three months of maternity leave were slowly drawing to an end. I needed someone. She had contacts; her brother had a Zimbabwean girlfriend who had an aunt whose daughter badly needed any kind of work.
She had seemed like a nice, respectable lady when I met her at Patricia’s. She was young, slim, and had dark skin much like my own. She was clean; she didn’t stink of stale sweat like most of her compatriots with their cheap Chinese clothes and the red-brown dust clinging to their ankles.
She sat comfortably on Patricia’s new sofas, and when my tongue refused to wrap itself around her Ndebele name, she laughed my attempts off and said,
“Call me Auntie.”
Samples
We thought it would be good to show off our talent a little, to whet appetities while our major project is still in the works. Our writers will post excerpts of their work to give you an idea of what we're about. Here's the first: an excerpt from Crossing, the novella by C.S. Ntumy that won in the novel category of the 2009 Bessie Head Heritage Trust competition.
Crossing
Gaborone, Botswana, May 2007
There was nothing special about it. Khumo had come here maybe eight times in the past month, but still she couldn’t see it, whatever it was. She walked towards it, keeping an eye out for passing cars, and took in the surroundings. The woman selling maize by the side of the road. The children running back and forth across the railway line. The stray dog sniffing at litter a short distance away. The red and white warning signs, the large circle that read “40” and the cars, most of which paid no attention to the speed limit. It was just a normal railway crossing.
She heard the whistle and backed away, even though the train was still far and she could have made it across the tracks in good time. She stood beside the maize hawker and watched the immense metal creature roar past. She looked at the cars waiting patiently – a white Toyota Hilux, a maroon Audi, a green Corolla, a silver Nissan March, and a bright yellow monster that looked more like a gadget than a vehicle.
The train screamed into the distance, and the cars continued on their way. She glanced up at Old Naledi, the area beyond the tracks. Everything was as it should be – as it had always been. There was nothing to see. She knew that, and yet she kept coming, in the hope that…
The hope that what? She could change things? She could find a clue, a secret doorway into the past, a way to go back and make everything all right again? She put her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The sun was high in the sky and the chilly winter morning had melted away into a pleasant afternoon, but she was still cold.
Her phone vibrated against her thigh again, and again she ignored it. She glanced at her pocket, detached from the sensation of the small bump in her tight jeans, thinking vaguely that she should have left the phone at home. It was her mother, of course, or maybe her grandmother, or her cousin, or her best friend. It was somebody who didn’t want her to be there, at Benson’s crossing, someone who wanted her to forget. But she couldn’t. She walked across the railway line, quickly enough so she didn’t attract attention, but slowly enough to experience it, if it happened. It didn’t. Her feet moved over the metal, landed on the tar on the other side, and kept going. There was no moment of realization, no funny shiver down her spine, no sense of being watched. Nothing.
Frustrated, she turned around, ignoring the curious stare of the maize hawker, and walked back again, across the tracks. She focused hard. She tuned everything else out and allowed herself to feel. The sunlight on the back of her neck. The slight breeze sweeping into her jacket. The feel of the raised metal lines beneath her feet…
She stopped. There was something. She clung to the gate, pressing herself against it in case a car came by, and closed her eyes. It was a jolt, not like electricity, but like waking up suddenly from a dream, and not knowing for sure whether you were awake. It was like coming out of a reverie and remembering that you were in a lecture, but not knowing what lecture it was or what the person in front of the class was talking about. It lasted a fraction of a second, and then it was gone. Just before she opened her eyes a face flashed into her mind. It was the face of a woman; blonde, pretty, with a vague air of anxiety about her.
Khumo opened her eyes. It was the face of Helen King.
Crossing
Gaborone, Botswana, May 2007
There was nothing special about it. Khumo had come here maybe eight times in the past month, but still she couldn’t see it, whatever it was. She walked towards it, keeping an eye out for passing cars, and took in the surroundings. The woman selling maize by the side of the road. The children running back and forth across the railway line. The stray dog sniffing at litter a short distance away. The red and white warning signs, the large circle that read “40” and the cars, most of which paid no attention to the speed limit. It was just a normal railway crossing.
She heard the whistle and backed away, even though the train was still far and she could have made it across the tracks in good time. She stood beside the maize hawker and watched the immense metal creature roar past. She looked at the cars waiting patiently – a white Toyota Hilux, a maroon Audi, a green Corolla, a silver Nissan March, and a bright yellow monster that looked more like a gadget than a vehicle.
The train screamed into the distance, and the cars continued on their way. She glanced up at Old Naledi, the area beyond the tracks. Everything was as it should be – as it had always been. There was nothing to see. She knew that, and yet she kept coming, in the hope that…
The hope that what? She could change things? She could find a clue, a secret doorway into the past, a way to go back and make everything all right again? She put her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The sun was high in the sky and the chilly winter morning had melted away into a pleasant afternoon, but she was still cold.
Her phone vibrated against her thigh again, and again she ignored it. She glanced at her pocket, detached from the sensation of the small bump in her tight jeans, thinking vaguely that she should have left the phone at home. It was her mother, of course, or maybe her grandmother, or her cousin, or her best friend. It was somebody who didn’t want her to be there, at Benson’s crossing, someone who wanted her to forget. But she couldn’t. She walked across the railway line, quickly enough so she didn’t attract attention, but slowly enough to experience it, if it happened. It didn’t. Her feet moved over the metal, landed on the tar on the other side, and kept going. There was no moment of realization, no funny shiver down her spine, no sense of being watched. Nothing.
Frustrated, she turned around, ignoring the curious stare of the maize hawker, and walked back again, across the tracks. She focused hard. She tuned everything else out and allowed herself to feel. The sunlight on the back of her neck. The slight breeze sweeping into her jacket. The feel of the raised metal lines beneath her feet…
She stopped. There was something. She clung to the gate, pressing herself against it in case a car came by, and closed her eyes. It was a jolt, not like electricity, but like waking up suddenly from a dream, and not knowing for sure whether you were awake. It was like coming out of a reverie and remembering that you were in a lecture, but not knowing what lecture it was or what the person in front of the class was talking about. It lasted a fraction of a second, and then it was gone. Just before she opened her eyes a face flashed into her mind. It was the face of a woman; blonde, pretty, with a vague air of anxiety about her.
Khumo opened her eyes. It was the face of Helen King.
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