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DAWOROThe Vienna African Writers (VAW)

Quarterly Newsletter

Vol 5, Issue 1-2, June 2018

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The Vienna African Writers (VAW) Club, founded and chaired by Prof Adams Bodomo (Professor of African Languages and Literatures at the University of Vienna), will organize monthly African Poetry Slams (i.e. Afri-can poetry readings and competitions), along with oth-er literary activities.

African writing is conceptualized here to be any form of writing or related form of literary arts that address-es and expresses African themes and conditions, and is spoken, written, or performed in African languages or in any other languages.

These VAW activities will take place at various places in the city, including at the Department of African Stud-ies or other places at the University of Vienna, at the Afro-Asian Institute in Vienna, and at various African and general restaurants in the city.

Preface

Content

Preface 3

VAW Monthly Events 4

Poetry Slams 6

Poetry Corner 8

How to submit your work 22

Editorial Board 23

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18.01.2018The first event in 2018 that was attended by 14 participants was chaired by Tomi Adeaga.

It was a rich and fruitful meeting because we wel-comed new members into our midst. Everyone was

invited to talk about their projects and poems. Maxima read her poem called “Tempted to Compare,” and

Selom read poems written by other poets. Prof. Bodo-mo shared three Condensed Sarcastic Evocation (CSE)

poems that are slowly becoming popular in Ghana with the participants. Afterwards, a lively discussion

took place.

15.03.2018The event was attended by 18 participants and it was chaired by Tomi Adeaga.

It was a rich and fruitful meeting because we wel-comed new members into our midst. We were sup-

posed to have held a poetry slam event but we did not have enough participants, so we decided to hold our

usual monthly literary event. Everyone was invited to talk about their projects and poems. Afterwards, a

lively discussion took place.

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19.04.2018This event was held in collaboration with the conference titled: Zugänge zu Forschungen über/in Afrika 4. Tagung des Netzwerks “Afrikaforschung in Ös-terreich. The event was attended by 33 participants and took place at the Afri-can Studies Department. The evening started with everyone introducing themselves. Tomi Adeaga moderated it and welcomed everyone who had come to take part in it. This was followed by a poetry slam competition. The judges of the poetry slam competition were: Mary Bodomo, Immanuel Harisch and Martina Kopf. The competitors were Sophia Stanger, Nadine Taudes, and Jessica Zanner. Sophia Stanger won the first cash prize of 50 €; Nadine Taudes came second and won 30 € and Jessica Zanner came third and won 20 €. Afterwards, as is the VAW tradition, members of the audience were invit-ed to talk about their literary projects and other topics related to the African continent. The conversation went on till the end of the program and beyond it. It was indeed quite a productive evening.

25.05.2018The Poetry Slam took place on the oc-casion of Africa Day and was held af-ter an inspiring talk on Afro-Futurism by Prof. Adams Bodomo.It was chaired by Hasiyatu Abubaka-ri. Shona Bridge won the competition and was awarded 50 €; Anesu Dzvuke won the second prize of 30 € and Og-bodo Onyekwelu Solomon came third and won 20 €. Later we discussed on-going projects related to African litera-ture and celebrated Africa Day.

Report on VAW Poetry Slam Event

Report on VAW Poetry Slam Event

Eindrucke ..

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I’m in love with a black man.Yet, society tells me that I’m only in love with

his black skin,His black body,

And that I see him as this exotic thing.

That it can’t be,It shouldn’t be,

That I’m actually in love with a black man.

When I tell my friends about him, they say:Oh, he seems nice,

And his black beauty and his black style, are nice,

Such an adventure, how nice.But wouldn’t you rather be with someone more

like YOU?And his friends say:

It can’t be,It shouldn’t be,

That she’s in love with one of our black men.

All she sees are his black features,His black pride,

And his blackness as otherness,And can’t he see,

That he shouldn’t be,In love with this white thing?

POETRY

CORNERThat he should rather look for his black queen,With her beautiful black skin,To not abandon his own for this different being.

Yet, all of them can’t see,That it could be,That I’m truly in love with a black man.

In love with his big heart, And that broad smile,His passion for sports and art;With him it’s always all or nothing,And so it is with me,So despite his blackness,Which I do see,And admire too,He might be more like ME, than YOU!

Yet, it can’t be,It shouldn’t be,That I’m in love with a black man.

While I try to ignore all those voices,They make me think,And suddenly, we don’t really seem, the same.I start to see all those differences,I see their beautiful black skin,And their pretty black bodies,Their strong black culture,Carried by this mesmerizing black pride,And I start to feel like,Despite all my qualities,

It can’t be,It shouldn’t be,That I’m loved by a black man.

It can’t be,It shouldn’t be,I shouldn’t be, White.

Dark streets, dark rooms, no electricity;Bright minds, bright ideas, no doubt.

Dark faces, dark hair, black;Glowing skin, braided crowns, beauty.

Dark spirits, dark magic, voodoo;Bright hearts, bright souls, enlightenment.

Poverty, AIDS, lack of history;Communities, vivid rhythms, griots.

They call it: The black continent. For all its darkness,

All its blackness,Its lack of westernization.

The black continent...but is it really?

Bright lights, bright opportunities, low unem-ployment;

Dark thoughts, dark believes, burn-outs. Bright skin, bright hair, beauty standard;

Dimmed characters, extinguished individuality, discrimination.

Bright present, bright future, wealth;Dark ages, dark history, colonization.

Education, health care, freedom of speech;Closed minds, obesity, loneliness.

Nadine Taudes

I’m in love with a black man

Nadine Taudes

The other way around

They call it:The first world. For all its whiteness,All its glory. The first world...but is it really?

If we stopped measuring society by their mate-rial wealth,But by their hearts, souls, and mental health,If we took into account their whole history,Their future and not just today’s misery,If western standards weren’t the norm,And we’d accept growth in all shapes and form,Afrika wouldn’t be called the black continent,And the west the first world,For it is really,The other way around.

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Our world is surrounded by a bubble,Leading to this self-deceiving blindness,So we can’t even see our own whiteness.

Yet, while we can’t,Outside our bubble,

They do see,And they call us:

Mzungu.Mzungu, mambo?

Mzungu, karibuni Tanzania.Karibuni duniani letu, mzungu.

Whiteness is blindness, Towards our own skin,

The privilege it bears,And its impact on others.

We just don’t, can’t see it this way.It takes them to say:

Mzungu, mambo?Mzungu, mbona uko hapa?

Unafanya kazi kwa UNO, mzungu?

Making it clear,That I can’t be here,

Just for the people, the culture, myself.

That my motivation, Must come from an aspiration – for profit,From pity and self-glorification.

Still not aware of the bubble,Enforcing the blindness,Towards the destruction through whiteness.

It takes them to,Only see me as a white stranger;For me to see; myself as such,Breaking the bubble,Lifting the blindness,Off of my own whiteness.

My privilege has tricked me into believing,That I could be anything,But would never be different,The variant,Since skin color was not supposed to matter;Was not supposed to be seen,At least not by the others.And no doubt I could have been,Living in my bubble,

Not recognizing my blindness,Towards my own whiteness,Forever.If they hadn’t said:

Mzungu, mzungu, mzungu;You are white.You are different.You are not the norm, mzungu.

Whiteness is blindness

Nadine Taudes

I wish I could wear your skin for a day,stretching it over mine

for it seems too heavy to carry for youon your own.

Under your touch I become a childeven when sadness is sweeping you away

from me once moreand nights turn darker on you

than they have ever been beforeIn those nights

I wonder if somewhere inside youis the little girl hiding

with cherries in her hairI never met her but it seems like

she was breathing lighter air than youI wonder when she turned so blue

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes

You’re like a sun in my life,hot and bright, healing with light and laugh-

terto let me know I’ll be alright when things fall

apart.

I wish I could wear your skin for

a day

Jessica Zanner

We thought we had wasted our youthwhen all we needed to be young and freewas just you and meInstead we are building coffins for who we used to bewhen we could be happy at least to some degree.Make us a steaming hot cup of tea pleaseto dissolve our fears in it like sugarFor a minute, just for a minutewe will find some peace.

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You were the one who could have but never would have hurt me.

So many who tried to drain my oceansMy feelings overfishedMy depths untouched

Until you came along to mend what was brokenTo fall in love with every splash of me

Every breath of me a reaction to your wordsWhy did I think it would always be like that?

Two children postponing collision for too longthen rushing in and growing up to quickly,

maybeAnd not enough time to fix us.

I am sorry I ruined your day.But what I really mean is: I am sorry I ruined

everythingMe, a ruin myself.

I am sorry I am not what you expected me to beI am sorry I cry so much and you never wanted

to be the causeI am sorry I am not the piece of the puzzle that

was needed to complete us.And you feel like I did not let you be the right

one either.The one who was never there, but always there

for me.

Now it is almost the other way around.The one I never wanted to change.And the one who never tried to smooth my surface.Now I can not be smooth enough for you so you can build wallsto teach me a lesson like I knew you did with other people who weren’t me.I just never thought I would be on the other side of it.City boy, nature girl.Why won’t you let me be both?When you said we are so different, did you mean different like socks and shoesor like fire and water? Unfixable, destructive, our love?Is that what you think of us, I wonder and start writing without you knowingI start to bleed without showing you why.If there is no one else I will blame myselfuntil I am your beautiful ghost again.If only there wasn’t the fact that I love you to bits.You touched the depths of me.Now I wonder how you can dry my tears if your hands are wet.

CHANGE

Jessica Zanner

Roles changed so naturally: A slow shift from you filing my nailsTo me combing your soft hair and slipping on socks to keep you warmEven though looks never mattered to usHow come memories of how I am dancing on your feet,Your love, your tender silence, are shadowed by one single day and the weeks that announced it?You used to be so silent.But on that cold morning there was this sound leaving the black hole that used to speak loving words as I was placing a dispen-sable kiss upon your foreheadStale air leaving your lungsA weak creak like an old door closingShatteringBarely humanIt’s not you.It’s not you.But it’s you.PJs are respectfully ripped by strangers wear-ing black glovesTossed awayFabric, cut from your skin, still warm just minutes agoI watch people waving goodbye to what isn’t you anymoreThinking that I’d rather feel the pain of a hundred people, neglecting, denying my own

A poem that should not be written

in English

Jessica Zanner

As I fear it would topple meAn inevitable truth deracinated me just when I thought you’d be my roots forever,But no one can water me enough to make up for the tears I am sharing with others that dayWhat those people don’t know is: they are never enough.They are never enough.

And no time was enough to prepare the right words to say. A lifetime wasn’t enough.Now I’m speaking to you in a language you would not understandMaybe because I know you are not there.You are not there.

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Beweg dich doch!Hast du das schon mal gehört?

Beweg dich doch,sitz nicht immer nur herum!

Du willst mich zu etwas bewegenWas mich nicht bewegt.

Dabei will ich doch Bewegung,will mich bewegen,will dich bewegen,

Bewegung sein.

Und dann kamt ihr und nennt euch Bewegung.Das soll eine Bewegung sein?

Von oben herab, mit Start-up chic.Wohl eher Start-down.

Ihr macht’s mit Konzept,Macht mit KonzeptKonzept zur Macht,

in türkiser Tracht.Eine Bewegung, die nicht nach vorne geht,

nicht mal zurück,sie rückt nach rechts.

„Tun, was richtig ist“,stand dort geschrieben,

gut, das hätt wohl jede unterschrieben,richtig wollen’s alle machen.

Und ihr richtet nun über jene Sachen,die ihr als richtig wichtig seht,

nur, dass ihr es anders versteht,

denn richtig heißt „Für Österreich“,was das nun heißt,ich weißes schon.Euer richtig ist nicht meins,Euer Recht ist eins,das man mit s schreibt, hintendran.

„Es ist Zeit“. Für was?Zeit zum Aufstehn,Zeit zum nach Hause gehen,Frühstücken, Zähneputzen,Blumen gießen, Uni abschließen.„Es ist Zeit“. Für was?„Ein neuer Stil“Gut, so neu ist ein Anzug nichtUnd auch Haare aus dem GesichtZu gelen ist nichtSo neu.Aber nicht das meint ihr,das ist mirschon klar.Oberflächlich ist euer Stil nicht,er durchdringt Schicht um Schicht,so gut gestylt wie er istsich hinein in die Köpfe frisstund dort verweilt.

Neu ist er dennoch nicht, der Stil,es gibt da nämlich ziemlich viel,was schon einmal gewesen war,nun ist es wieder da.

„Österreich zurück an die Spitze“Make Austria great again.Ja- so gewinnt man Wahlen,in der ganzen Welt.Und wenn nun alle an der Spitze sind,sind es alle, die gewinnen?Im Versuch, die Spitze zu erklimmen,stoßen sich viele gegenseitig hinab.Der Platz an der Spitze ist ziemlich knapp,er wird immer schmälerund der Fehler

BEWEGUNG

Sophia Stanger

liegt im Begehrender Spitze

im Verehrender Wenigen dort oben.

Wenn man zu jenen drobenDazu gehören will,

bleibt man stillbei deren Fehlern,

bleibt man stumm.Man wäre ja dumm

Sinds doch die gleichen Fehler,die man auch begehen will.

Und so stubsen sich alle stumm hinunter,gehen über Leichen,

anstatt sich die Hand zu reichen.

„Für uns alle“ sagt ihr,nur, dass euer wir

schnell Grenzen hatsodass kein Blatt

dazwischen passtsodass jeder, den ihr fasst,

ein schweres Leben hat.Euer „alle“ sind ziemlich wenige.

„Jetzt. Oder nie“. Neija, dann lieber nie!Doch die Wahl ist geschlagen,

von Begeisterten getragensitzt ihr nun ganz oben

und die erzürnten Wogen –bleiben aus.

Türkis, blau, braun, wenn wir genauer schaun

ist die Farbenskala ziemlich schmalund zurück bleibt, ganz fahl,

ein Geschmack in meinem Mundder mir kund

tut, dass es doch alle sahen,alle waren sich im Klaren,

was drin ist, in der schicken Packung.

Doch welche Wahl haben wir noch?Die Qual der WahlDie Wahl war Qual

Wahllos sind viele,mit Stimmzettel und ohne.Nur schonenSollten wir uns nicht,die Schonfrist ist längst – vorbei.

Bewegung. Be-weg-ung.Wohin führt euer Weg?Euer Weg führt zum weg! Weg mit euch! Wir brauchen euch nicht! Wir wollen euch nicht! Weg, weg, weg!Weck mich auf!Das soll ein Weckruf sein, einer ohne Schlummerfunktion.Das soll ein Weckruf sein, einer, der nicht nach Montagmorgen schmeckt.Steh auf, rausAus den türkisen Federn,jetzt wird nicht gekuschelt.Beweg dich doch! Hast du das schon mal gehört?Nein?Lass dich nicht hängen, in den FängenDer Wohlfühlrhetorik.Lass dich nicht gehen, geh selbst,sei Bewegung,lebe Bewegung,begegne dem Leben,lebe Bewegung.Beweg dich doch!Dann bewegst du was.

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There are people who’ve been walkingthese paths for years and years.Back and forth like a river that flows,a cycle on repeat.

Then one day... a strange man came,a man with maps and guns.

He told them to stop walking, he told them to turn around.He told them to stop walking, he told them to turn around. Tu-est qui pour leur dire où ils peuvent aller, ou pas?Tu sais rien, still you command where they have to go?

So these people might have asked the man: „Est-ce que tu connais cette rivière? Est-ce que tu connais les belles mon-tagnes et les fleurs?

No, you don’t, this ain’t your home Ouvres tes yeux et réalises that there’s beauty all around you, there’s beauty in this tree. There’s beauty all around you,nature’s beauty can’t you see?“ Tu-est qui pour leur dire où ils peuvent aller, ou pas?Tu sais rien, still you command where they have to go?

Borders A Journy

Shona Bridge Ogbodo Solomon Ogbodo Solomon

Under our watch

Ogbodo Solomon

Oh! Come watch awhile with me,deep beneath ‘undug graves’ I call,

a nightmare dark and dire.No sky could see nor earattend to my weary voice.

The sky cried torrential tears,melted mountain rocks,

down it came sliding with a crashon the thatch above their heads.

Full of life but sleepingwakefulness beckons on them

yet bloodless muscles lay dumbly dullunder the weight of wet earth

squashing broken bones and mashed mar-rows

deep beneath the ‘undug graves’.Oh! Come and mourn awhile with me

bloated bodies were afloatthe sea crept in with all its mightand disturbed their peaceful rest.

Drifting, their grave -less souls overflew the banks.

Oh! Come, cry and mourn with me,healthy souls struck by nature’s rage,

terrible tragedy trailing a thousand deaths.Even in peaceful sleep, we aren’t at rest.

I heard heart-wrenching sobssaw hands hushing the subdued voicepleading to let her fleeting emotions,

pitch a tent,to quieting the commotion of passions

discontent,of blue eyes swollen from abuse,

of the whites lies repeated to the kidsthat the fault was hers.

Nights there were when the obvious are led bare,

when they wished they were olderto stand up to him

than seat and watch the horrorthat traumatized their childhood

and ruined the adult they have become.

Yet she thought she would pull throughstayed in spite of dissenting voices

begging her to come out whole.The echo of the bang

reverberated the neighborhoodwhen the metal pierced through her

and left her breathless in her anniversary gown.

I heard heart-wrenching sobsWhen I saw her pose in picture perfection

a reminder that she once lived herethat we did not do much

to put the beast behind bars,

A perilous path was Jerusalem to Jerichothe man must walk through to make a

journeybeaten up and breathless on the path

periloushe needs a hand to make an end a journeythe Levite and scribe choose not to woke

up the deadtheir blind eyes shed a dark light on their

way a journeybut the Samaritan who couldn’t resist

anything but temptationsaddled him out of the perilous path and

continued with his journeythe man never reached Jericho, no he

didn’the only found a companion who re-

mained with him forever on a journey.

Black August in Sierra-Leone:

An Elegy

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Es gibt einen Tag im Jahr für FrauenUnd 364 für Männer.

Es gibt einen Tag im Jahr mit RabattenUnd 364, an denen Armut weiblich ist.

Es gibt einen Kampftag im JahrUnd 364 tägliche Kämpfe.

Es gibt einen Tag im Jahr um zu feiernUnd 364, um wütend zu sein.

Vor 30 Jahren wurden BHs auf der Straße ver-brannt,

und nun haben wir uns verrannt,schnallen das Korsett enger,

die Karriereleiter wird längerund während wir sie erklimmen

sind es Kinder, um die wir uns kümmern.In einer Hand die Sprosse,

in der anderen das Kind,

wir steigen geschwindum keine Zeit zu verlierenum nebenbei noch den Po zu trainieren.Die tägliche Last drückt schwer,wir mühen so sehr,dass wir vergessenwas die eigentlichen Kämpfe sind.

Befreiung ist ein altes WortUnd doch weist es zu jenem Ort,an dem es keine Leitern gibt,an dem dich niemand zur Seite schiebt,nur, weil du Eierstöcke hast.Befreiung klingt gestrig und verstaubtUnd doch irgendwie vertraut,weil sie eine Sehnsucht weckt,sie liegt verdeckt,tief vergrabenunter Leitern und alten Narben.Altes ist alt,und manches ist gut,doch es ist Wut,die mich packt,wenn man Altes um des Altes Willensauch heimlich und im Stillennicht zu hinterfragen hat.Eierstöcke hin oder her,eine Frage ist wirklich schwer:Was ist es, das wir wirklich wollen?Es geht nicht um müssen, können, sollen,sondern darum, was du wirklich willst vom Leben.Da muss ich zugeben,ich weiß es nicht,ich hab keinen Plan wos langgeht,auf dem geschrieben steht,was ich mach in den nächsten Jahren,ich bin mir nicht im Klaren,ob ich Kinder haben will,ob ich sie still,oder welche Namen sie tragen.Doch eins weiß ich ganz bestimmt,das ist etwas, das mir niemand nimmt:

Freiheit

Sophia Stanger

Ich bin bereit für die Freiheit,befreit von Schulterlasten,

bereit für Schuld und Laster.Ich bin bereit für die Freiheit,

von der Stelle zu treten,und anstatt zum Himmel zu beten,den Kopf in die Wolken zu stecken.

Ich bin bereit das Maß zu zerreißen,bereit zu schießen,

weit übers Ziel hinaus.Ich hab ein Blumenkleid,

und werf ’s ganz weitweg – ich will unverblümt sein,

ich verschlag mir blumige Spracheund finde klare Worte im leeren Beet.

Aber geht das denn, alleine frei sein?Vermutlich nein,

es ist das Kollektiv, das es schafft,dass uns Freiheit auch frei macht,

uns die Angst nicht am Kragen packt.Angst vor wem oder was,

ist es nur Spaßwenn ich frage

„Wer hat Angst vorm weißen Mann?- Niemand!

Und wenn er aber kommt?- Dann laufen wir davon!“

Dann lauft ihr davon?Vielleicht sind‘s in vielen Fällen

die falschen Fragen, die wir stellen.Vielleicht müssten wir viel eher fragen:Weißer Mann, vor was hast du Angst?

Angst vorm Kochen, putzen, fegen,nicht genug kriegen,Privilegien abgeben?

Wenn du schlagen willst,sei schlagfertig,

wenn du treten willst,dann tret auch mal ab,wenn du Stärke willst,

stärk deine Hemden selbst.Wer Schneid hat,

schneidet sich auch ins eigene Fleisch,

das wär der Beweis für Stärke, Macht und Größe –keine Blöße!

Es gibt einen Tag im Jahr für Frauen Und 364 für Männer.Für jene, dies noch nicht verstanden haben,seid euch darüber im Klaren,364 ist größer 1,altes ist alt,neues ist neu,doch hab keine Scheu,lass Funken sprühen,Gedanken glühen,zünde Ideen und lass sie brennen,bis nichts mehr ist,wies vorher war.Wie viele Tage hat dein Jahr?Ein Jahr hat 365 Tage.Daraus ergibt sich folgende Frage:Bist du bereit, um sie zu kämpfen?

that we should have fought for heror take her in with us to keep her alive.

We watched her abused and batteredand thought it was her business to handle.

How it hurts to stand by her grave sideand shade this vain tears

when all we did was nothing.Her imperfections nonetheless!

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Mein Opa ist ein Hipster, so richtig, mit Bart. Also eigentlich ist er konservativ. Aber er trägt Schafwollpullover, geflickte Hosen und hat einen Plattenspieler. Mein Opa hat das Upcycling erfunden – jedes Mal, wenn er etwas zum Altstoffsammel-zentrum bringt, kommt er mit der dop-pelten Menge an Dingen zurück, die man ja noch gut gebrauchen kann. Und er mag Craft Bier, also eigentlich Craft Cider, den Most vom Nachbarn. Mein Opa steht total auf Apple, den Apfelbaum im Garten be-sucht er jeden Tag.Meine Oma ist eine Feministin, so richtig, mit kurzem Haar und ohne BH. Also ei-gentlich ist sie Hausfrau und hat sechs Kinder. Aber dem Bürgermeister sagt sie wo’s lang gehen soll, am Kirchenplatz, nach der Frühmesse. Und Opas Schnitzel ver-brennt sie, wenn er lästig ist. Meine Oma ist Revolutionärin. Sie war die erste weib-liche Pfarrgemeinderätin in ihrer Pfarre. Und ihr Gebetskreis ist nach ihr benannt. Fünf in die Jahre gekommene Damen tr-effen sich wöchentlich. Empowerment par excellence.Manche Leute sagen, meine Großeltern seien schrullig, irgendwie von gestern.Aber ich sag euch, meine Großeltern sind so 2017, echt lit. Auf ihrem Blutdruck Messgerät steht „Am Puls der Zeit“.

Meine Grosseltern

Sophia Stanger

Namhlanje today, now I am part of the Khumalo family.– oKhumalo, Umtungwa, Mbulazi, Mzilikaze, Kamashobane (Praise of the name, the clan)– in love with a Zuluman, a Makoti, a bride to be.

But his culture is not mine, Zulutraditions new to me. Angazi I don’t know which to follow, ngizozama I will try, we will see.

Izolo Yesterday I was born, I’m german, english, swiss. My love and I look different, in ways one cannot miss. But in difference lies ubuhle Beauty, and with every word I learn, ngiyazi kuzolunga, I know it will be alright blown away is my concern. Kusasa Tomorrow we will be sobabili maduzane. Mina nawe ekugcineni,Together/ us two (again) soon.Me and you finally/ at last

Day and Night have kissed each other,and from this love

Dawn was born.

Dawn is filled with hope and dreams,a mix of two, part of both.

Though neither Day nor Night,but something new, and of its own.

Day and Night have kissed each otherUkusa (Ukusa=Dawn) child of mine.

So I will tell my child...wena umuhle you are beautifulubusisiwe, you are blessedunelungelo lonke you have all/every rightlokuzigqenya, to be proudukuzigqenya ngobuwena nakho konke osazoba yikho emhlabeni you are proud of who you are

Day and Night have kissed each otherand into this world Dawn was born.Ukusa

MakotiI will tell my child

Shona BridgeShona Bridge

but ’til then we wait kancane.

Kwaqala ngombuzo, sathumelana izincwadi.It started with a question, we sent each other letters. Wanginika injabulo, wangiqabula eh kwamnandi.

Sithandwa sami ngifisa umama wakho asinikeze is’busiso sakhe ngoba ngithanda indodana yakhe.My love I hopeyour mother gives usher blessings because I love her son

But ngiyazi i know that she will, even though I didn’t wear a doek, a scarf, a headwrap to cover up my hair.

You know that I grew up nenkululeko eningi. with freedom So to be told now how to dress Makes me feel weird and not truly like me. I know I’m not the only Makoti that is torn–ngaphakathi insumansumane, ukulingana, ukulindela, inkululeko, ukuzigqhenya...–-between tradition, equality, expectations but in difference lies ubuhle! and so we carry on.

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EditorialAdams Bodomo Chief EditorTomi Adeaga Associate EditorAnissa Strommer Assistant EditorHasiyatu Abubakari Assistant EditorMalina Nwabuonwor Graphic DesignerYayra Sumah Graphic DesignerAlexej von Hindte Graphic Designer

How to submit your work!Daworo Guidlines

Daworo is a quarterly newsletter usually distributed in print at the Grand Poetry Slam event organized by the Vienna Afri-can Writers Club.

Deadlines: We take submissions up to 10 days after each literary event. Please take note of our event schedules by liking our Facebook page or by signing up to the mailing list.

Electronic Submission: Submissions to should be emailed to Hasi-yatu Abubakari M.A hasiyatu.abubakari@univie.ac.atDepartment of African StudiesUniversity of Vienna

Please label your email in the subject line as ‘Daworo Submission’ with your name and type. (E.g. Daworo Submission – Type – First Name, Last Name) Physical Submission: If you attend a literary event or perform at a Grand Poetry Slam, and have an an-nouncement, it will be noted down along with your contact information. If you sub-mit a hard copy of your writing or poetry, you will still need to submit an electronic copy before the deadline.

Number of Submissions: You may submit as many items as you wish.

Types of Work Accepted:Poetry, VAW-member announcements, event announcements, literary contribu-

tions (i.e. book reviews, book launches and book readings). Photographs of our events are also accepted.

Types of Work Rejected:Commercial Advertisement, Announce-ments unrelated to African literary arts, Organizational announcements not in partnership with VAW.

Content Standards: All submissions must be your original work and should be related to African literary arts. African writing is conceptualized as any form of writing that addresses and ex-presses African themes and conditions in African languages or in any other languag-es. Work by Africans and non-Africans are welcome. We also appreciate photographs in high quality.

Editing:Corrections made by Daworo will be pub-lished only with the author’s permission.

License to Daworo:Daworo reserves the non-exclusive, royal-ty-free right to publish your work in var-ious formats including digital and print media. Daworo may publish your work without restrictions on access for the bene-fit of the community. Daworo has the right to determine the particular publication date for your work. You as the author re-tain copyright of your work and may pub-lish it on other platforms or by any other means.

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