The Anchor Book of Modern African Stories


The Anchor Book of Modern African Stories 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.

Contributors: Tayeb Salih, Henri Lopès, Luis ...

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The Anchor Book of Modern African Stories 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.

Contributors: 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.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“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.” –Quarterly Black Review

“An outstanding assemblage. . . . Required reading for anyone who studies African culture and the human condition.” –Library Journal

“Fascinating and illuminating.” –Publishers Weekly

Publishers Weekly
This revised edition of a valuable anthology includes nine new selections by some of Africa's finest young and established writers, offering a fresh examination of the contradictions of colonialism, family conflicts, tribalism, gender issues and the ravages of a rapidly spreading AIDS epidemic. Obradovic, a critic and scholar of African literature, imaginatively ranges the 34 entries by plot, moving from tales of childhood to stories of death and destruction; Chinua Achebe contributes an instructive foreword. In Sudanese writer Tayeb Salih's "A Handful of Dates," a village boy learns to doubt his beloved grandfather's beneficence when the old man mercilessly calls in a debt. "The Advance" by Congolese Henri Lop s is a solemn tale of a maid who loses a beloved son when her insensitive white mistress refuses to grant her an advance to buy him medicine. In "The Brother" by Zimbabwean Charles Mongoshi, a boy comes to stay with his brother, Magufu, in the city, and is stunned by Magufu's dissipation. A wife, one of four married to an arrogant man, waits patiently for time with her husband in "Her Three Days" only to suffer upon her husband's late arrival in Senegalese Sembene Ousmane's stinging attack on polygamy. Egyptian writer Leila Aboulela reflects on culture shock in "The Museum," the artful story of an Egyptian woman studying statistics in England who focuses her resentments and fears on a smitten fellow student. Outstanding in scope, intensity and artistry, these exceptional stories offer a powerful introduction to the pleasures of African literature. (Dec.) Forecast: Another excellent anthology (Under African Skies, edited by Charles Larson; Noonday, 1998) covers similar ground. Students of contemporary African literature will want both; casual readers would do well with either. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
In this expanded version of the 1994 edition, the reader will find an additional nine recent stories from African authors, six of them women. The power of this collection is thus strengthened, and its scope is broadened as the new stories come from countries not represented in the first edition. Reading it cover to cover is an enthralling experience. The stories are arranged not chronologically but by the age of the principal character. Thus the early stories are told by or about children. The first, for example, "A Handful of Dates" by Tayeb Salih, is a brief, simply told but sophisticated story of a child's awakening to the misuse of power. It could be used by a skillful teacher at even a junior-high level. Some of the tales have a moralistic purpose, such as "The Wicked Tongue" by Mohammed Moulessehoul, which teaches a lesson about slander. Others are commentaries on the rigidity of a culture, such as Egyptian Salwa Bakr's "Thirty-one Beautiful Green Trees." Many portray Africa's harsh poverty, others the suffering caused by Africa's many wars. This is a collection of stories by African writers, but to read it is to study the human condition. Rapists, soldiers, aspiring students, bereaved parents, liars, victims and dreamers fill these pages. The tales told here are sophisticated and sometimes raw; they demand careful selection for classroom use, but reward the reader with their insight and their pathos. KLIATT Codes: SA*—Exceptional book, recommended for senior high school students, advanced students, and adults. 1994, Random House, Anchor, 375p., Moore
Kirkus Reviews
An expansive and engaging collection, updated from the original 1994 edition. Thirty-four voices gathered from an entire continent populate this expanded anthology proving that the art of the story is alive and well in modern Africa. One of the most widely read chroniclers of Africa's past, Chinua Achebe, provides the adroit foreword but quickly steps out of the way to allow the newer voices to come center stage. Even though certain countries-South Africa, Nigeria, Egypt-dominate the proceedings, the fiction comes from every possible direction. One of the better selections, Ben Okri's "What the Tapster Saw," is a brash fever-dream about a man who taps wine from palm trees and has a kaleidoscopic night journey through a landscape peopled with visions, death, and the looming specter of the local oil conglomerate. Like many of the pieces, Okri's was written in another country; in fact, a depressing number of the authors here seem to have taken writing and teaching positions in Europe and America. They are also predominantly men. One of the few contributions by a woman, Alifa Rifaat's "At the Time of the Jasmine" (born in Egypt in 1930, Rifaat published most of her work only after her husband died in 1974), is a simple but emotional look into the soul of a conflicted man taking the train to his family's village for his father's funeral. Not surprisingly, there's little presence of joy in these pages-and little humor. As Nadezda Obradovic says in his introduction, "This anthology is not a happy recital any more than Africa today is a happy continent." Still, there are voices of beauty and snatches of wonder amid the folly and despair. Moroccan Mohammed Berrata's "A Life in Details" sails outon this sadly noted example: "We return home to write down this life that we are living by well-rationed portions." Writers in exile, remembering home in despair.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780385722407
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 12/3/2002
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 400
  • Sales rank: 712,241
  • Product dimensions: 5.25 (w) x 8.00 (h) x 0.85 (d)

Read an Excerpt


Tayeb 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.

A Handful of Dates

Translated by Denys Johnson-Davies

I 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.

Yes, 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.

I 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.

One day I asked him about our neighbor Masood. I said to my grandfather: "I fancy you don't like our neighbor Masood?"

To which he answered, having rubbed the tip of his nose: "He's an indolent man and I don't like such people."

I said to him: "What's an indolent man?"

My 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."

Taking 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."

My grandfather then continued: "Yes, my boy, forty years ago all this belonged to Masood--two-thirds of it is now mine."

This was news to me for I had imagined that the land had belonged to my grandfather ever since God's Creation.

"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."

I 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.

I asked my grandfather why Masood had sold his land.

"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.

"We'll be harvesting the dates today," said Masood. "Don't you want to be there?"

I 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.

Someone 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."

No 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.

I, 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.

When 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.

I 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.

Suddenly 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.

Then 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.

"You're still fifty pounds in debt to me," said my grandfather to Masood. "We'll talk about it later."

Hussein 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.

I 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.


Henri 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.

The Advance

Translated by Andrea Leskes

"No good," the little girl said, screwing up her face.

"Yes it is, Francoise. Look." Carmen herself swallowed a mandarin section, then closed her eyes. The little girl looked at her, impassively.

"Eat it all up."

Like 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 . . .

She spoke more sharply and looked stern.

"If you don't eat, Francoise, I'm going to tell your mother." Still the little girl did not relent.

The 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.

Also, Madam had the annoying habit of speaking to her daughter as if she were an adult.

"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 . . .

There 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.

"What's going on in here?"

"She doesn't want to eat, Madam."

"Oh, don't force her, poor little thing. Get her some grapes from the refrigerator. She likes grapes."

Madam 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.

Francoise 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.

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Table of Contents

Introduction to the Second Edition
A Handful of Dates 3
The Advance 8
Papa, Snake & I 15
The Prophetess 28
A Child in the Bush of Ghosts 45
It Was Easter Sunday the Day I Went to Netreg 57
The Brother 68
The Dignity of Begging 94
The Garden of Evil 104
Bossy 119
A Night Out 130
Hot Days, Long Nights 134
Her Three Days 143
A Life in Detail 158
The Three-Piece Suit 164
The Wicked Tongue 167
Four Dimensions 180
Thought Tracks in the Snow 191
Waiting for a Turn 198
The Other City 207
God of Meme 213
Africa Kills Her Sun 221
At the Time of the Jasmine 233
The Museum 243
The Home-Coming 259
What the Tapster Saw 262
The One-Handed Hero 271
The Woman in Green 284
Thirty-one Beautiful Green Trees 303
Smile of Fortune 314
Slow Poison 322
The Waldiba Story 337
The Last Battle 347
Civil War I-VII 354
Acknowledgments 373
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  • Posted August 15, 2009

    Excellent Collection

    Full of classics and some little known gems. Not an exhaustive collection, but very good none the less; a good sampling of African Lit.

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