Easter Note

Dear Reader,

On this Good Friday, I find my sentences splintered, as if the words themselves refuse to hold each other, refuse to make a complete thought. Perhaps it is because I want to sound strong and not weak, sweet and not sour, intelligent and not stupid, happy and not sad, cultivated and not rural. I am a boy who learned English from a teacher who could not spell her own Christian name—Paulina.

I am afraid. My heart races in a way that feels like pursuit, as if something unseen is chasing me. I cannot tell if it is the fear of doing what matters most, or the fear of taking a big step—publishing THE REWARD, my novel. I am afraid it will fail, that no one will read it, that it will vanish quietly into the category of “another African novel nobody read.” The what-ifs multiply.

I have failed, terribly, at almost everything. And yet one thing I do right: I serve the cat. I wake in the middle of the night to feed her, to rub her, day after day. That, more than anything, feels like my highest accomplishment.

Why does a man write if no one cares? This is Africa—Southern Africa, not Great Britain. Reading is rare; it is boring to most people. And when it happens, it is often in a foreign language. How does one write for a people who speak eleven languages and none completely in common?

All I ever wanted was to write, to write Africa up to her potential. And yet I do not know how to make it work. I wish my words could reflect people to themselves, so that they see themselves, not my sentences. But not everyone had the privilege to learn English.

As I said, I have many stories. They refuse to cohere into a single piece. Perhaps that is the point. Perhaps that is me. I hope you do not mind.

HAPPY EASTER

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