By Dambudzo Marechera
This explosive, award-winning novella of growing to be up in colonial Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), instructed in beautiful, creative prose, touches the reader's nerve in the course of the author's harrowing portrait of lives disrupted through white settlers, a tender disappointed black guy, and person agony within the Nineteen Sixties and Seventies. Marechera's uncooked, piercing writings secured his position in African literature as a stylistic innovator and insurgent commentator of the ghetto condition.
whereas The residence of Hunger is the center piece of this assortment, readers also are taken care of to a chain of brief sketches during which Marechera, with offended humor, extra navigates subject matters of survival, insanity, violence, and despair.
Other titles via African writers from Waveland Press:
Ba, So lengthy a Letter (ISBN 9781577668060)
Beti, The bad Christ of Bomba (ISBN 9781577664185)
Emecheta, Kehinde (ISBN 9781577664192)
Equiano, Equiano's Travels (ISBN 9781577664871)
Head, The Collector of Treasures and different Botswana Village Tales (ISBN 9781478607601)
Head, Maru (ISBN 9781478607618)
Head, while Rain Clouds Gather (ISBN 9781478607595)
los angeles Guma, In the Fog of the Seasons' End (ISBN 9781478600251)
Mofolo, Chaka (ISBN 9781478607151)
Ngugi-Mugo, The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (ISBN 9781478611318)
Nwapa, Efuru (ISBN 9781478611011)
Oyono, Houseboy (ISBN 9781577669883)
Oyono, The previous guy and the Medal (ISBN 9781478609582)
p'Bitek, Song of Lawino & music of Ocol (ISBN 9781478604723)
Plaatje, Mhudi (ISBN 9781478609575)
Rifaat, Distant perspectives of a Minaret and different brief Stories (ISBN 9781478611288)
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Additional resources for The House of Hunger
But Harry was saying something. ‘… in the evening edition,’ he said. ’ ‘No. ’ Harry stared; wounded. ‘I’ve always liked you, you know,’ he said. ‘Don’t let’s get personal,’ I said, feeling sick. ’ He cleared his throat. ’ He swallowed phlegm. ’ I looked up. The barman’s eyes bored into mine. The laughter was hurting my gums; something was twitching uncontrollably above the barman’s left eye. I got up hastily and, escaping into the toilet, just made it to the bowl where I was violently sick. As I came out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I collided with two massive breasts that were straining angrily against a thin T-shirt upon which was written the legend ZIMBABWE.
They had built ‘offices’ of mud and tin and cardboard, offices about two and a half feet high. They had a children’s typewriter. They were the Chairman and General Manager. I was the office boy. We had a library there – of books and comics salvaged from the dump. Every day it was the rubbish dump – and then the offices. Washington typed down meticulous records of each day’s acquisitions. See what I mean? There was the typewriter, there were these books. After school every day that was what we did.
She looked extremely puzzled. ‘A poem,’ I said. But Harry leaned forward and upset my glass. ’ Harry was waiting expectantly. ’ And again that oblique look: ‘You did nothing of the sort. You’ve just been sitting there like something in a trance. ’ I could not for the life of me remember them. Harry clucked sympathetically. He jabbed a finger into my face. ‘Now, poetry,’ Harry began, ‘is the soul of all civilised nations. Verse. Tiger tiger burning bright. In the forest of the night. The falcon cannot hear the falconer.