The Good Book!

Amatoritsero Ede

AuthorOn a homeward trip from the annual African Literature Conference in Tucson, Arizona, I made a bus-detour into Phoenix, had a two-day layover due to delays and later boarded a flight from there for Ottawa via Chicago. On the last leg of the trip I cast around for something to read and finding none in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me, asked the flight attendant if they might, perhaps, have some newspapers on board. No! But there were some magazines. This is how I first came to read about the 21st century wonder named ‘the Espresso Book Machine’ between the pages of the Economist magazine.

As can be easily guessed this particular espresso does not refer to the ubiquitous and famous pressurised coffee brewer or its brew but to a ‘book machine’, literally, which mimics the coffee kit’s speed of execution as suggested in ‘espresso.’ The idea of near-instant availability is emphasised by the description ‘machine’ – in an age where mechanical automation coupled with digital technology has normalised quick-paced modern convenience. It is probably the normalisation of high technology in contemporary culture which has downplayed the revolutionary nature of the EBM invention. It appears to be just another ‘gimmick’ in a gimmick-suffused world:

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Lagos, Culture, and the Rest of Us

Pius Adesanmi
Author

Every generation loves to articulate a border identity in Nigeria. Never mind Wole Soyinka’s dissing of his own generation as a wasted one. In the nature of things, your generation always just happens to be the last best generation before whatever value systems or institutions you are discussing collapsed irredeemably, hence the tendency to dismiss the generation after you contemptuously. For instance, I belong to a generation of Nigerians that is always grumbling about the perverse values of those Facebook and Twitter addicts now in their twenties and their teens. When two or three Nigerians in their 30s-40s are gathered, they abuse Nigeria’s rulers, discuss football, before grumbling about the generation of Nigerians in their 20s and below.

You hear members of my generation gloating about how we were the last ones to be raised by parents with strong moral and ethical values in Nigeria. You hear talk that we were the last who got beaten by our parents if we came home from school with a ten-kobo coin in our pocket whose origin we could not account for (today, a 20-year-old can just drive from Lagos to the village in a brand new Hummer, no questions asked); we were the last who had to read books.

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Beyond the Paper Principle: Interactive Fictions

Tom Ue in conversation with Kate Pullinger
Author

Tom Ue: Let us start by talking about mining. According to your Web site, you “spent a year working in a copper mine in the Yukon, northern Canada, where [you] crushed rocks and saved money.” I confess that I do not know anything about mining. Can you elaborate?


Kate Pullinger: I worked at Whitehorse Copper, in the lab, where I really did crush rocks. My job was to take mineral samples – big rocks – and to put them through a series of grinding machines until they wound up as dust that could be analysed. It was very noisy and dirty work – I used to have to wear a hardhat, a face shield, earplugs, facemask, coverall, steel-toed boots and heavy-duty gloves. It was phenomenally boring. I was by myself most of the time. I used to add up the money I was making by the minute to keep myself entertained. I loved the Yukon though, and Whitehorse was a hugely social town with a great cast of characters – full of drop-outs and runaways and fortune-seekers.

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Dawning

Salim Gold

So now, let’s watch the sun undress the night;
See light—like melted butter—cover us,
While we’re cushioned in Luxury, plush Pomp
Of bed, deathbed of diabolic Chastity.

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Cake – Niger

Donna-Michelle St. Bernard

SETTING

An overstuffed yet bare living room. Fat recliner, rusty radiator, doilied coffee table, gaudy tiffany lamp, bare and dirty floorboards. Once opulent but now stripped piece by piece for cash. There is definitely no oak desk, velvet drapes or leather chair.

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The Return

S. Nadja Zajdman

Renata leaned her head back to have it washed. It was the first time she’d been to a hairdresser in thirty-one years. The water drenched her hair, and soothing hands massaged her scalp. As she succumbed to the sensation, she remembered…Her brother had bleached her hair and pushed her into the sewer with one commandment: ‘LIVE.”…Renata marvelled at the gall of the fifteen-year-old she had been.

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“Painting is a language which cannot be replaced by another language. I don’t know what to say about what I paint, really.”

– Balthus
Featured Artist

Scavengers

–Meghan Hildebrand