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.
Monday, November 2, 2009
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.
Progress Report
Last weekend's meeting was mainly about getting down to the business of writing. After months of preparation, planning and practice, we're finally ready to begin work on the play. We've divided the four-Act play between our six writers (three scenes each) and our in-house Setswana writer will also have a couple of scenes to work on, just to keep things authentic as far as language goes. We still can't give away any secrets about what the play is about...but it's looking good!
Monday, October 5, 2009
The challenges writers face in Botswana
By Baboki Kayawe
Petlo Literary Arts Trust lamented lack of support in the arts and literature. The trust's president, Barolong Seboni said a lot of focus is on supporting sports activities, especially football. He said inordinate sums of money is spent in football, and areas such as popular music and literacy are neglected yet they have a potential of putting Botswana in the world map.
Seboni said a book touches many lives and sponsors have to realise that unlike a football match whose publicity ends when the game does, a book has a long shelve life. He pointed out the lack of resources and recognition as major setbacks in the country's literary industry. He said Batswana writers need support from their own people - which is still insufficient. He refuted allegations that Batswana do not have a reading culture, that it is only a myth as evidenced by high sales of newspapers in the country. He said this during a one-day writers retreat in Manyana and Livingstone Kolobeng, the aim of which was to inspire the trust's writers. "As writers there is a need to experience local cultures and traditions, so that as Batswana we can write our stories from a more informed angle," he said. This, he said would help universal readers experience the writers world and other cultures.
One of the artists, Cheryl Ntumy expressed concern about Africans' reluctance to tell their own stories; instead they give the West a chance to tell the world about Africa through their eyes. She added that as much as non-Africans continue to write 'our' tales, Africa will forever be a land of hunger, disease and war through the pages of these books.She also said there is lack of support towards upcoming writers from publishers. "If you don't have a name yet in the industry, you can't get published. You will be told to enter a writing competition first, and they don't even look at your manuscript," she said.
Sidiapelo Babish, an upcoming writer, said Batswana do not take writing seriously like they do other things. She said parents have a tendency of discouraging children who want to venture into the arts, as the sector is seen as incapable of creating an income. "But the arts can really contribute to the growth of the economy," she said.
Another young writer, Gothataone Moeng said the retreat was an eye opener as she can repackage Botswana history better from the experience. She said historic sites are an inspiration to any writer and they help with good story settings and plots.
Petlo Literary Arts Trust lamented lack of support in the arts and literature. The trust's president, Barolong Seboni said a lot of focus is on supporting sports activities, especially football. He said inordinate sums of money is spent in football, and areas such as popular music and literacy are neglected yet they have a potential of putting Botswana in the world map.
Seboni said a book touches many lives and sponsors have to realise that unlike a football match whose publicity ends when the game does, a book has a long shelve life. He pointed out the lack of resources and recognition as major setbacks in the country's literary industry. He said Batswana writers need support from their own people - which is still insufficient. He refuted allegations that Batswana do not have a reading culture, that it is only a myth as evidenced by high sales of newspapers in the country. He said this during a one-day writers retreat in Manyana and Livingstone Kolobeng, the aim of which was to inspire the trust's writers. "As writers there is a need to experience local cultures and traditions, so that as Batswana we can write our stories from a more informed angle," he said. This, he said would help universal readers experience the writers world and other cultures.
One of the artists, Cheryl Ntumy expressed concern about Africans' reluctance to tell their own stories; instead they give the West a chance to tell the world about Africa through their eyes. She added that as much as non-Africans continue to write 'our' tales, Africa will forever be a land of hunger, disease and war through the pages of these books.She also said there is lack of support towards upcoming writers from publishers. "If you don't have a name yet in the industry, you can't get published. You will be told to enter a writing competition first, and they don't even look at your manuscript," she said.
Sidiapelo Babish, an upcoming writer, said Batswana do not take writing seriously like they do other things. She said parents have a tendency of discouraging children who want to venture into the arts, as the sector is seen as incapable of creating an income. "But the arts can really contribute to the growth of the economy," she said.
Another young writer, Gothataone Moeng said the retreat was an eye opener as she can repackage Botswana history better from the experience. She said historic sites are an inspiration to any writer and they help with good story settings and plots.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Watch This Space
We're in the process of creating a major literary work that we hope will bring more attention to Botswana's culture. This weekend we'll go on a two-day workshop where all the bits and pieces of research we have collected over the past few months will come together. We can't say too much about it yet, but it promises to be a great undertaking, so be on the lookout...
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Welcome!
Welcome to the blog of the Petlo Literary Artists, a small band of Botswana writers with big dreams and even bigger imaginations. The group began as a way for us to improve our writing skills, explore new creative writing opportunities and fill the gaps in the local literary industry. Every Sunday we meet to discuss ideas, write, swap stories and critique each others' work, in the hope that we will produce high-quality material that the country, and the continent, can be proud of.
Through this blog we hope to share our journey as writers with the rest of the world, so you can all see how we go about our business, the challenges we face, the opportunities that await us and the work we put into our goal of putting literature from Botswana on the global map. The journey begins here - enjoy!
Through this blog we hope to share our journey as writers with the rest of the world, so you can all see how we go about our business, the challenges we face, the opportunities that await us and the work we put into our goal of putting literature from Botswana on the global map. The journey begins here - enjoy!
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