No conspiracy, this book’s doomed

The book’s biggest problem is editing.

Several things about The Doomed Conspiracy & other Short Stories by Kenyan and Ugandan authors say missed opportunity — beginning with the cover. Four decades ago there were numerous complaints about the drab orange, black and white covers of Heinemann’s African Writers Series, the one that introduced us to Achebe, Ngugi and other African greats. One would have hoped that the successor to the British imprint, East African Educational Publishers, would have sought to improve the visual appeal of their books.

Appearances aside, the major problem is editing. The book, and more specifically, the first half, appears to have been thrown together in a hurry. The temptation is great to just set it aside after reading the first couple of stories of the 26-item collection. One explanation could be that the two editors, Barrack Muluka and Tobias Otieno, hadn’t gotten into the groove of it. Letting “break paddle” pass for “brake pedal” can’t just be explained away as a minor typo. The smartest spellchecker invented in Silicon Valley couldn’t spot it; it takes a human editor’s eye. A good editing manual would also have come in handy.

For some reason, the best stories in the collection come towards the end. I was particularly impressed by those by authors living outside the region. They have a freshness about them that is rarely seen in local publications. Frankly, if I were the gatekeeper, I would resend the first 13 or so stories back to the writers for reworking, or I’d just drop them altogether.

The table of contents lists an introduction, but it is nowhere to be found in the book. An introduction provides an insight into how the project was conceived and how the material included was chosen. A keen editor would even round off the collection with brief bios of the contributors. Although I wouldn’t call myself conservative, I still believe stories should be arranged in a certain manner according to the content and style. There should be a certain pattern in their readability that will gradually weave us in, then take us to the crest, and finally bring us back down to a soft landing. It is a skill that great producers employ when compiling memorable music albums. Verbosity is one reason why a reader will toss aside an otherwise good book. It is one of the most difficult traps to avoid in writing, and I should know. Arthur Gakwandi needs to grow out of this phase and tell us the story.

A few more technical errors could have been ironed out at the editing: The mixing of first and second person narration in Muchugu Kiiru’s Capturing Space leaves us hanging in that space. The story is equally disjointed. Or is it I who is not open-minded? The elements of a story are lacking in Susan Kiguli’s In the Closet. It reads more like recollections of past happenings. Kiguli fails to take us on the journey stories are supposed to. We don’t hear the melody.

With all its capitalisation and staccato sentences Christopher Odhiambo’s I Want to Write a Letter should have been a poem. On the plus side, it is very vivid. In Nancy’s Secret, T. Odongo Otieno falls victim to what is commonly called direct translation from local languages into English: ‘… “Okay,” she said slowly, “blow out the lamp we sleep.” I blew the flame off after raising the chimney…’ Unless used as a stylistic device as in Amos Tutuola’s The Palm-Wine Drinkard, when a writer chooses to bring a mother tongue voice into an adopted language, they had better pull it off or abandon the effort altogether. The rules of engagement are rigid, and they haven’t changed.

On content and style, Okoiti Omtatah’s Let There Be Light, a preachy piece about a woman squaring up to the elders about her rights as a widow, makes us yawn. He should spare the reader the activist rhetoric and serve us up a story. Powerful stories, like The Great Duel, his second piece, subtly pull the reader in, causing them to feel they are reading about a brother or sister, or a close friend.

Where is the drama in J. Simiyu Wegesa’s Weakness? You mean an African woman, regardless of whether she has studied and lived abroad, can walk into her own house unannounced and find her husband with the other woman — and who clearly spent the night in their bed— and be so civil as to prepare them breakfast? Give us a break, Wegesa. Muchugu Kiiru’s The Boy Who Learnt to Play Ball is an irritating piece that can best be discussed at the local beer den.

Some of the pieces in this collection are a little dismembered. They are often about other people, and the best we can do is simply observe. Why can’t we see Okumu in Oloo Nyamwaya’s Poor Husband as the chauvinistic African male whose wife must serve his guests beer without question? Why do we have to be told that he is the man of the house? Good stories make us aware of what is going on without the need for explanation.

On the positive side, Amollo Maurice is a good storyteller who has a good sense of the narrative. The Reincarnation was one of the best pieces, even though I couldn’t understand if it was the hominids or the mzungu accident-survivor who was being reincarnated. All the same, Amollo could benefit from wide reading and careful observation of how other writers use language.

Gitura Mwaura’s The Request masterfully tackles the near-taboo subject of lesbianism. We are given useful insights into feminism and helped to understand how people in same-sex relationships think. T. Odongo Otieno’s Mr Brian Philemon is a sobering tear-jerker. All those married men who have discreet affairs with the house-help should read it. And Cliff Lubwa P’Chong’s English English will guarantee a good laugh. These stories could have benefitted from a writing workshop in which these short-comings could easily have been ironed out. (stangazemba@yahoo.com)