I have never been published in the school paper or magazine-not even in some of the daily newspapers to which I have submitted my pieces, and my frustration only goes to prove two things about me; I am persistent and have faith in my writing.

I know that sounds vain, but it is what every writer goes through, is it not? A friend once told me that for my work to be valued, I have to slave till the day a critic with positive comments comes by and falls in love with my work. Simply put, I would not get the recognition I yearn for as long as I am trying to wade through the Kenyan publishing industry. Our society focuses too much on the bad, and in doing so, forgets to acknowledge the good. This is where my grandmother would gladly say that it does this because, if good deeds are given too much attention then the doers tend to grow proud, while on the other hand, if a bad deed is not shunned, it could recur.

Kenyan girls read the much-anticipated books by JK Rowling in the Harry Potter series in the capital, Nairobi.

It is frustrating to want to share your work and be turned down every time, but this is the dilemma of most writers. Those who have made it like Grace Ogot,  Muthoni Garland, Ngugi wa Thion’go, Binyavanga Wainaina, to name a few, have not only published one but several pieces, which are still considered masterpieces.

Breaking through the publishing industry in Kenya is difficult because of two factors; structure and diversity.

The industry, once predicted to grow, has failed to do so as it still employs the traditional structure of publishing. With an increase in corruption, most publishers ask for a lot of money to process a book with the excuse that editors have to be paid, and this trickles down even to already edited books. The royalty rate ranges between 10% and 15%, most of which is not paid due to a delay in sales.

There is also a lack of diversity in the books published. Most publishers are seeking to make a lot of money by publishing text books and self-motivational material. Text books have a market because there are many students who will need the books to further their studies. Very few publishers are like Storymoja or Kwani, and are trying to breakthrough this tradition without much support.

Many have been heard to say that Kenya lacks a reading culture. Kenyans read newspapers daily and regardless of which end of the country you visit, the people have a political opinion, why? Politics, not books has been made the order of the day. Reading newspapers does not denote a reading culture but some “crude” level of curiosity that can be nurtured.

Reading good books means processing information, being good at spelling, and having a strong vocabulary. It means excellent communication skills in both the oral and written aspects of language, but how are Kenyans expected to know this and experience this if the publishers do not provide the books that can help the process happen?

On the other hand, publishers say that most manuscripts submitted for publication are below their standards and that they are not so promising. This could be true, if only the yardstick most traditional publishers used was relevant to what they are measuring. Most publishers expect a first-time writer to produce a manuscript that has the same style as the renowned writers of Kenya, but there is only one Grace Ogot not two or three or a million…so in their attempt to replicate masterpieces; they lose out on the promise of new writers.

I have taken a keen interest in the American and British publishing industries, and I am left in awe at how much they are willing to nurture their young and first-time writers. They get in touch with writers and follow up on their progress before and after publication and this results in an increased and strong reading culture and an awareness of many things that happen around the world. This is beneficial not just to them as countries but also to many Kenyan writers. Most of my colleagues in universities have resorted to online publication or have published their works with houses in either the UK or America-and it is sad to say that they are widely read abroad while the people in their own country know nothing of their works.

For the reading culture in Kenya to be strong, it is up to our publishers to promote creative works–different genres in areas of fiction and non-fiction–to offer affordable rates in self-publishing, and allow online publications and much more. Nurturing young writers who have raw talent will direct their attention towards writing captivating and inspiring books that may appeal to us Kenyans and the outside world.

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okeyo

I am a Psychology major at United States International University-Africa. I have published one book "A FATHER'S PORTRAIT" available on www.i-proclaimbookstore.com

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In the crevice of a falling star yet to touch the ground, be seated. There is so much to see, so much to do but that façade should wash away as a subtraction is beginning to take place.

Enter into another reality….

SLIDE OPEN THE SWAROVSKI GLASS SHUTTER SO LIGHT YOU CAN BEND IT BUT SO STRONG ITS UNBREAKABLE.

It is like magical beauty burning my birth name and yours in the midst of Heaven when your hands start to search the whole of me. Together forever sprawls across the way where there is no starting point and no  end. Suddenly, a heart for a label, so small it is like a birthmark lights up the nape of our necks.
If only for this, would it not be a sin if we never met, never conversated, never loved in a day, in a night, so strongly, and yes, so so deeply.

FREEZE THE STARLIT FRAME.

Trembling as though touched for the very first time, every time we interlock fragranced bodies. Lillies have bloomed here dropping their last colour for the hour. Only he can create this. With my head tilted back, repeats of physical and spiritual sensations, as Angel wings dust me over and over and over again as I wrap my mind around his love.

Sheets of candy become amateur fixes as time slips away.

FREEZE THE STARLIT FRAME.

My love can see into my heart and I can see into his heart at the height of intimacy. Streaming as though we are about to become the next Michaelangelo inspired centrepiece. We may never, no never look at anything out there again.

THE STARLIT FRAME HAS REFUSED TO CONTAIN ANY MORE FLICKS. THIS IS A FADE OUT. TAKE OUT THE STARS, MAKE THEM INTO A BED FOR TWO. SLIDE CLOSED THE SWAROVSKI GLASS SHUTTER SO LIGHT YOU CAN BEND IT BUT SO STRONG IT IS UNBREAKABLE. TUCK AWAY THE TUBE AND PLEASE VIEWERS IN LOVE, THIS NIGHT, LOVE MAJESTICALLY, LOVE DEEPLY.

As you allow your bed to quietly sift away into skies above with you both unmoved as though the bed remained in its place, your Garden of Eden should burn traces of your love as incense, a homage to the beautiful unknown that is yet to re-new your worlds.

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Vera Kufuor

With a background in Media, I have a passion for the arts. I also write poetry and curently have a short feature film in working progress. Other works in progress: Project 2011 Fragrance bottle designs and fashion collection to include a comic strip.

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As a budding or even established writer, you might be daunted by the thought of where to go to find useful advice and information to help you ply your art. You can, of course, try annual self-help titles like The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and other similar goodies for a vast list of literary publications, magazines and organisations to help keep you up-to-date and get a handle on your trade.

Daniel Canodoise Can Themba was a South African short-story writer and political activist.

In the meantime, however, you may like to visit some of the following selected sites to connect with other creative individuals and find out more about the latest happens, competitions, and prizes available to you in your area. This is by no mean an exhaustive list of the places on the Net where you’ll find useful advise and social networks of creative professionals individuals, so please feel free to suggest others in the comment box below:

LITERARYAND ARTS MAGAZINES

POETRY PUBLISHERS

WRITING ORGANIZATIONS

ART GALLERIES/ART SCHOOLS

FUNDING BODIES

Paul Boakye

Writer, editor and marketing specialist who sat on The Power Inquiry. Former editor and CEO of the consumer lifestyle magazine, Drum (UK), and author of five plays published for an academic audience by Alexander Street Press, USA. Recipient of business and writing awards, including prestigious accolades such as advising British government, BBC radio and TV commentator, and invitation to meet Queen Elizabeth II in 2007. Currently works as a communications professional, creating contagious ideas to help great brands change the conversation to their advantage, across the entire Central and West African region.

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My first sight of Diana was when she came to the King Edward VII Hospital for Officers when she was nineteen. I was seventeen at the time.

She had come because the Queen Mother wanted her to be examined to make sure that her hymen was still intact. The whole operation was in total confidence–only the select few knew.

I remember Dion was waiting for me outside the hospital. There was a war going on and my boss, Chief Accountant Johnson, came into my office and asked if I knew who the young man was loitering near the building. Mr. Johnson thought that there was an Arab assassin waiting outside, and he was terrified. I giggled, and explained that Dion was an Afro-Indian from Trinidad, and my boyfriend.

After Diana had been examined, she came to my office to give a donation towards the staff fund. The Matron’s secretary, Lindsey, introduced us and curtsied as she left. I smiled; almost laughing, Diana was not Queen yet.

Diana was indeed a pretty girl and only two years older than I. It was hard to imagine that she was going to marry the old fart.

“I’ve come to give a donation towards the Staff Christmas Fund,” she said. I could tell that she had been coached into doing so. She asked how much she should give. I told her that the Queen always gives £25 per stay. She smiled, a cheeky smile, and said, “I’ll give £50 then.”

We both laughed.

“You have a lovely smile; she said.
I questioned it. “With this big gap–I don’t think so.”
“It’s supposed to bring you good luck.”
“Yeah, I know, I guess it has been so far, lucky.”

She commented on my hair. I had it braided, long plaits, down my back. She asked how I did it. It was too complicated to explain so I just made a joke and said, “My sister held the ends while I ran round the block and it stretched.” We both laughed again.

“So what’s it like?” I asked her.
“What’s what like?”
“Marrying the future King of England, and all that goes with it, Queenie?”

She looked down and shrugged her shoulders. Her smile dropped. I could see that she felt uncomfortable with not only the question but also with the situation, so I changed the subject.

“Look,” I called her to the window facing the street. “That’s my boyfriend over there. His name is Dion Khan. His Dad’s a Diplomat.”
“He’s gorgeous,” she said. “I wish I could marry a black man.” At that, she placed her hand over her mouth, as if to swallow the sentence.
“Really?” I said, in disbelief.
“I should not have said that,” she went on.
“No, that’s all right. The place isn’t bugged. And I won’t tell anyone.”
“Yes,” she said. “Ever since I saw a picture of Bob Marley with Mick Jagger, I said, ‘That’s the man for me.’”

I was just twelve months out of pigtails and white socks. A church girl who, honestly, knew nothing about what Bob Marley looked like; I just knew that he was a Rasta man who sang a song called Jamming. It was not until later–years later–that I came to know the true Bob Marley and all that he stood for. And it wasn’t until then that I realised Diana’s fatal attraction.

It was time Diana went – the bodyguards seemed to be getting restless. I signed and gave her the receipt for the staff fund. As I handed it to her she said, “Jac.” I was surprised, as she had shortened my name.

“Jac,” she said, “can we be friends, close friends?”
“Friends?” I said. “That’s impossible, isn’t it?”
“No, we’ll find a way.”

And at that, she smiled and turned to leave. As she was going I shouted:

“Keep that signature, Miss Spencer, it will be famous one day.”
“As famous as I?” she replied with a quick flash of steely-blue eyes.

IT WAS TWO MONTHS before I heard from Diana again. I was at my desk when the phone rang.

“Hello, is that Jacqui?”
The voice sounded muffled as if she was talking from a pit.
“It’s me, Diana.”
“Hi Queenie,” I said, “How’s life at the Palace?”
She told me to “Shh,” so I did. “I’m in the West End shopping later, can we do lunch or something?”
“Lunch or something–that’s a bit OTT–what will Charlie say?”
“True,” she said.
“I tell you what…I just live around the corner, maybe we can pop into mine for something light to eat and a chat?”

I gave her the address and we arranged to meet at one o’clock. As I turned the corner, I half expected to see a big black stretched limo with bodyguards surrounding it, but there was none. As I got closer to the apartment, there she was, sitting in the driver’s seat of a Mini looking in the rear view mirror. She didn’t see me approach. As I knocked on the window, she jumped. We both grinned.

Diana, being Diana, did not take the conventional exit from the car; she climbed across the passenger seat, legs spread eagle, and came out onto the pavement in a ruffled state.

“Future Queen of England, eh,” I said, jokingly.

We did the cheek kisses and fell about laughing. We linked arms as we went inside, all the way upstairs, just like we had been bosom-buddies since birth. All the way up, we laughed; anyone seeing us would have thought we were drunk.

As soon as I opened the door, Diana said;

“Have you got any music?”
“Now music is my thing. Every weekend I spend half my wages on records. I have done ever since I was a kid.”

There was a market stall on Marylebone High Street where two guys sold my type of music, “Lover’s Rock” and “Rare Groove.” I was a popular customer.

“What type of music do you like?” I asked her.
“Black music,” she said. “Do you have any Bob Marley?”
“Unfortunately not, but if you like Reggae, then you’ll love Lover’s Rock.”
“What’s Lover’s Rock?”
“Lover’s Rock is the most angelic form of Reggae that you will ever hear in your life–old soul songs sung by guys and girls our age–from the streets of Britain. Actually, it’s called “British Lover’s Rock,”  I explained.

I put on a tape that I had recently made. We listened while we made corned beef sandwiches with hot pepper sauce.

“What do you think,” I asked.
“Of the music or the sandwiches?”
“Both,” I said.
“In a word – HOT!”

We both laughed. Come to think about it, we spent many a times during the next few years doing exactly that, laughing. We left the apartment about an hour and a half later. Diana jumped into her parked car, by the driver’s door this time, and as she rolled down the window to say goodbye, I whispered in her ear:

“Remember, always wear a slip under those see through skirts. We don’t want to see any more ex-rated front page pictures of your legs right up to the thighs.”
“Next time I will only be wearing a see through bikini,” she joked.

We did our cheek kisses as I rolled my eyes just before she sped off at about 70 miles per hour in a 30 mile an hour zone.

That was Diana for you!

THE PHONE RANG, “Hi Jacs.”

“Hello, you.” I never mentioned her name again on the telephone, just in case the operator was listening, or worse.
“What are you doing?” she asked.

That was the thing with Diana, she never asked how I was doing, always what. It was good to hear from her. I hadn’t heard from her since before William was born. She did however send me a lovely picture of William, in his christening gown, and on the back, she wrote, “To his Spiritual Godmother,” I was chuffed.

“Not much,” I replied.

Dion had been away in New York for the past four months, so for me it had been just home and work, work and home. Diana asked if I wanted to meet. She said she needed to talk, something about post-natal blues. I agreed, and we met two hours later at the Blythe, the park that backed on to my new house in southeast London.

She arrived wearing a baseball cap, a denim jacket, torn jeans and trainers. When she opened her jacket, her T-shirt had a razor slash right across the chest so that her cleavage showed. She flashed it as soon as she was close enough for me to see:

“Diana, you’re such a slut,” I said to her, jokingly.
“So sue me,” she fired back, and as usual, we laughed – LOUD.

We were so loud that it was a good job the park was always empty, but I’m sure that they could hear us in the valley below.

We went and lay down on the roundabout. It had been a warm summer’s day–but at almost eight o’clock in the evening now–the sky was darkening. The clouds moved slowly across the heavens as the moon began to come out. For a while, we span in silence, laying there looking up at the darkened sky, deep in our own thoughts, but glad to be in each other’s company.

“So what’s new?” Diana eventually asked.
“Motherhood,” I replied.
“Not me, you, everybody knows my business,” she said, grudgingly.
“Well, the only thing new in my life is that I’ve found a new best friend.”

She sat up with a start.

“Who is it? What-is–her–name?” She asked the question slowly as if to spell out each word.
“C-A-N-N-A-B-I-S” I spelt.
“Dope!” she squealed.
“Yeap,” I said grinning.
“Oh, let me try some,” she reached out her hand.
“I haven’t got any on me, it’s over North London,” I said.
“Can we go and get some, please?” she cried.
“If you want, but there is no guarantee.”

She quickly dragged me off the roundabout and started pulling me home towards the cars.

“Come on, we’ll catch up in the car on the way to North London.”
“I’m driving,” I ordered. “You are too wild behind the wheel.”

We got in the car, and as soon as the ignition was on, Diana pushed the cassette into the player.

“Who are we listening to?”
“Gregory Isaacs,” I told her.
“This isn’t Lovers Rock. This is ‘I’m missing you Dion’ music,” I explained.

Diana talked non-stop all the way to Stanford Hill. I felt that I had given birth to William by the time she had finished giving me all the details. But as always, I could tell that Diana was not happy being Princess.

“So, who are we going to see?” she asked.
“My friend Lance…I call him ‘King of the Jews,’ because he lives in a big house in Stanford Hill, amongst all those Jew boys.”
“So what is he like – you know?”
“Tall – six foot four,” I said.
“Nice,” she whispered.
“Behave,” I said, hitting her arm, “Dark,” I said, knowing her preference.
“How dark?” she asked.
“As dark as it gets,” was my reply. “Handsome, too; and he has the body of a God,” I added.
“I cannot wait to meet this friend of yours,” she said, smiling.
“Well, here we.”

I pulled up outside Lance’s house and looked up at his bedroom window. His light was on. “He’s home, so it is not a wasted journey,” I told Diana.

“Jacs,” Diana said, as we got out of the car, her face contorted.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“He won’t say anything about me, will he?”
I knew what she meant–newspapers, television, photos, and blackmail. I took her arm, “Girl, he will not even know who you are,” I assured her. “Come we step.”

She laughed.

“I’ve taught you too much,” I said.

I pressed the intercom. A smooth dark voice said, “Hello, who is it?”

“It’s me Jacqui; I’ve brought my Best Friend with me. I hope you don’t mind.”

He buzzed us in. The house smelt as usual of ‘White Linen’ incense from the Body Shop. Soft candles were burning in the hallway and his tribal masks and statues seemed to come alive in their flickering glow. The place was silent and spiritual. “Come up,” Lance called down.

Diana took my hand and we climbed the spiral stairs. Lance as always was lying on his four-poster bed in his string vest and boxer shorts.

“Hi Lance,” I said.
“Hi, who is your friend?” he looked at Diana.

Even in the dim light, you could see Diana’s cheeks slowly turning scarlet as she began to blush.

“Hello my name is Di,” she said, shyly from under her baseball cap.

“Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you. Sit down,” Lance said. He pointed to a carved stool. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Not at the moment,” Diana replied.

Lance looked at me, I looked at him, and he looked at Diana. Now I knew that I was not supposed to bring no white woman to Lance’s house. Lance was a true Rasta man and didn’t ‘deal with pork,’ but I knew that this was someone special; otherwise, we would not have come.

“We come for de weed,” I said with a smirk. “Di would like to try some, but I’ve tried to tell her that she won’t be able to handle it.”

“Never smoked before, Di?” Lance asked.

Diana blushed again, “No,” she said under her cap.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he announced. “Go on, Jac, you know where it is!”

I looked up at the suitcase on top of the six-foot high wardrobe.

“Ha-ha Lance, I will need to stand on your shoulders to get up there.”

At that, he jumped up, picked me up and lifted me above the wardrobe. Diana sat in amazement. Lance went to the kitchen to check on his cooking and left Diana and me with a ready-rolled spliff each.

“He’s gorgeous, and that voice,” she said.
“I told you! After that spliff, he’ll seem even more gorgeous–guaranteed.”

So we lit up. I had brought the tape from the car so I put it on the stereo. The atmosphere was heavenly. The smell of the cooking blended with the white musk, the Ganja smell blended with everything, and we were feeling irie–well chilled.

Lance came up with a plate of food for each of us. Diana had told me she was starving, so I knew that she was going to have some. She started eating, picking at first, but after seeing Lance and me with all fingers helping, she did the same.

It was nice to see how relaxed Diana could be. That was the thing about Lance, you always felt comfortable at his place, so calm. Food was eaten, hands were washed and after three loud burps, we were all chilled out.

Diana had at last stopped blushing, and although Lance knew exactly who she was, he didn’t let her know he knew. He just kept things pure and simple.

IT WAS DECEMBER 1992 when the shit really hit the fan. Diana rang me early in the morning; she was hysterical, crying, shouting and even laughing at times.

“I must see you, I need to talk. It’s about Him. I have to leave him.” By “Him,” I knew she meant Charles.

My love for Dion was now a thing of the past. And my husband, Mark, was not home at the time. I had married the blue-eyed soul boy, Mark, in February of that year. Mark never knew anything about my relationship with Diana; I never dared to tell him. Mark was a man who loved nothing above money. He would do anything for it, and that, I thought, would have included telling whomever about my friendship with Diana, or rather, Diana’s friendship with me.

I told Diana to come round; I could not go out because my daughter Kailey was still asleep. Diana arrived about an hour later. She was in a real state. She rang the intercom so frantically that she woke both Kailey and my Alsatian dog, Ben. You would have heard his barking all over town. He wasn’t called “Big Ben” for nothing.

I sat Diana down but she would not stay still. She was pacing up and down my living room just saying, “I hate him, I hate him.”

She then took out a bottle of pills.

“Have you any bottled water?” she asked.
“What are the pills for and where did you get them?” I wanted to know.
“I got them from my Consultant, Dr Maurice Lipsedge, they are just for my nerves,” she showed me the bottle; I read it–Clozaril, it said.
“Water,” she asked again.
“I haven’t got any bottled at the moment, but give me five minutes, and I’ll pop down to the shop and get some. The dog needs walking, anyway, and I don’t really want Kailey to see you in this state. Sit down,” I said, “we’ll be back in a minute.”

I kissed her cheek, and my daughter, Ben and I, headed for the shop.

It was just as we got to the Asian Deli that I heard someone call out my name. I looked around and saw two WPCs standing by an ambulance.

“Are you Jacqui Whittaker?” they asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you step inside? We want to ask you a few questions.”

My first thought was “Oh no, what has Mark done now?”

We, all three, went inside the ambulance, Ben included. It was unlike Ben to be so calm; he was trained to attack the Blue Uniform. As the doors closed, Kailey sat close to me, looking terrified. The ambulance began to move away.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked them.

The Officers ignored my question. They just wanted to know my dog’s name. I lied. As we drove past my home, I started screaming;

“You can’t take me away – the Queen of England is in my house.”

By the Queen of England, I meant the future Queen of England, of course, HRH Princess Diana, but I did not repeat that.

The officers laughed, “Oh, The Queen of England is in your house, is she?”

I realised just, then, what I had said and how it must have sounded; I began to cry. The further we drove from the apartment was the more worried I became and the more I cried.

“What must Diana be thinking? Was she OK or was she in danger?”

I wanted to get to a telephone and call her to explain, but explain what, I didn’t have a clue what was happening. When the van stopped abruptly, the cops carted the dog and my daughter off somewhere, and that was the last thing I remembered.

IT WAS TWO WEEKS LATER when I regained consciousness. The news was saying that Charles and Diana were taking a break overseas somewhere and were talking of divorce.

My head was all over the place. My body was stiff and covered in plasters where I had been injected with potions. I was in an acute psychiatric ward at Guy’s Hospital. Brought there on that Saturday, two weeks prior; and placed on a Section Three, which meant that they could hold me for six months.

My god, what had I said, if anything, whilst I had been there drugged and unconscious? Had I said anything about Diana, unknowingly?

Mark came to see me later that afternoon but I had nothing to say to him. For somewhere in the back of my mind, I believed that he had something to do with all this.

It was another two days before I was introduced to my consultant, a Doctor Maurice Lipsedge. It was three more months before I was able to talk to Diana again–three more months of being in that loony bin. I was not in there continuously, because my husband Mark got me out when he wanted sex, money, or both. I felt like a blow up doll with a cash point card. I had to call Diana despite the security risk.

“Hi Diana, it’s me, Jacs. I am so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” she said, “I know all about it, Doctor Lipsedge told me. Listen, Jacs, we must be careful, they know, so we must communicate through Maurice.”

So that is what we did for the next three years.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL SPRING 1996 that I saw her again. We met at the Godden Green Clinic in Sevenoaks near where Diana went to school.

Maurice, I mean you, Doctor Lipsedge, had suggested I needed a rest. I was five months pregnant at the time and a rest sounded good.

I was unaware of your motive until I got to the clinic; Diana was already there. She looked different–not at all the same fresh-faced girl that I recalled from those years ago. She looked surprised to see me. The new prescription you had me on made me balloon out to thirteen stones from my usual one hundred and twenty pounds. I could tell that she was trying not to think about my weight; I could see it in her eyes. She looked tired, drained, but I wasn’t all compos mentis either. Was I?

The new drugs had sent my mind in a blur, and although she was trying to say something to me after you left us alone, I couldn’t quite get the gist of it.

“My ex-husband is planning ‘an accident’ in my car,” she said, “brake failure and serious head injury or something like that.”

But I couldn’t understand why the future king of England would want to kill the mother of his children. It didn’t make any sense to me.

“I’m trying to stay strong, Jacs, to protect the people I love,” she said. “You’ve got to stay strong and hold your head up high, too. You must listen to Maurice. Do as he says. We have to communicate through him from now on. There’s no telling what depths they’ll stoop to next, and whose life they might ruin, as they’ve tried to ruin mine.”

But who did she mean? I wasn’t sure who these “they” were, but that was the last time I saw Diana. Your ploy had worked just fine, you see, Doctor. She dumped me like a shitty nappy, and I became your model patience, after her little talk with me that morning. We both took your advice. But it didn’t do us much good, now, did it? She’s dead, and I’m still somewhere over the rainbow.

BUT I WAS MAKING LOVE TO JASON when the phone rang in the early hours of that Sunday morning. I rushed down stairs to answer it; it was Mrs. Seaward, Jason’s mum.

Her voice sounded cold and tearful.

“I’ve got bad news for you Jacqui,” she said.

I did not understand what it could have been. Jason was fine. He was upstairs in bed.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

It’s Diana, she’s dead, switch on the TV,” she told me.

I pressed the standby button on the remote control beside me. The news was on telling me of Diana’s tragic death.

It was hours before I realised I was still holding the receiver in my hand. The tears rolling down my cheeks.

Verona Bennett

I am a carpenter
Sawing to shape
Planing to smoothness
Hammering into place
Nailing to secure
Pieces of wood
Placed strategically.

I am a potter
My wheel re-evolving
As I shape and caress
Mother Earth’s bounty
Into forms I desire
Or maybe vice-versa
I am moulded by the energies
Of hillside excavated harsh.

I am a painter
My canvas stretched taut
Flashing strokes hither and thither
Vision taking shape
Imagination beckoning reality
My brush birthing masterpiece
Repeatedly.

I am a dancer
Holding my form
Through flights of fancy
Across gilded stage
A thousand flashing fireflies illuminating
Propelled by unseen force
For almost an eternity,
I almost become an Angel.

I am a songbird
Singing sweetsongs
“Of melodies pure and true”
Transfigured and transformed
By voice and musical direction
Produced and packaged
For the masses.

Constructing realities not yet conceived
But like trace elements
Hinting at a bounty undiscovered.

I?
I am the Uni Verse!
But you call me a poet?

Shawn Adderson Forde

Lying there,
Barely conscious of the act -
Her mind turned to other things:
De two pickney dem,
(Smiles to self)
De big boy learning real well,
And de second one…He coming long too…
Too wuffless doh,
Have to stop him spending time pun dat corner.

Note to self: Go down to dat block and embarrass the
Shit outta him.

Hurried dismount!
Over?
Thank God!
Hand over of crumpled bills without eye-contact,
Clock ticks over to the bewitching hour.
Dun wid dat

Have to get home before Claryss kick up a fuss.
Last look over the tiny room…
Got everything?
Ok, then.

She heads for the door –

She heard it before she felt it:
The first blow;
The second one she neither heard nor felt.

Shawn Adderson Forde

No point being mad without showing it, Verona wrote in her diary, underlined. “That’s what mama always used to say,” she added out loud.

She was sitting alone in a hotel room on the south side of Chicago with several of her diaries laid out before her. Many people already thought that she was certifiable and for a time on medication in London, she had questioned whether she had in fact lost it. But now, arriving in America, though she still behaved oddly, she felt hopeful, confident, perceptive and strong.

She had fallen under a spell of writing about her life and everything she could remember. So stirred was she by these journal entries that she moved from place to place with a briefcase full of papers. She had carried this attaché from London to Florida, then back to London to nurse an ailing daughter. Now, exactly one year later, she flew to Chicago, and from Chicago took a taxi to the Chicago Grand Hotel at 7242 South Clyde Avenue where she was currently hold out.

She had found a job nursing an elderly Jewish woman, not too far away in Deerfield, Illinois. The plan, as she set it out from London, was to spend a few weeks getting to know the city, and then, move out to the suburbs of Deerfield to live with her elderly charge.

People on the plane must have wondered why the old fool was crying, but she just could not stop herself. So churned up with emotions was she that she had two Afro-combs in her handbag, yet could find neither one of them. The comb she borrowed from a stewardess was totally unsuitable. So normally particular about appearance, she arrived at O’Hare International Airport with her hair unkempt, and her face shiny because she had left her powder compact in another handbag. For someone who all though her life had been self-reliant and would never have forgotten those things, normally, she had suddenly become very helpless and feminine like some silly schoolgirl.

She had arrived at O’Hare on time, although the plane had left Heathrow over an hour late. She had no dollar cash on her, of course. Fortunately, the trolleys were free. Then she had to call Toby collect, because she had no change for the telephone, either. But it all went smoothly. Toby sent a Cabbie and Verona paid with an American Express Travellers Cheque. Toby, Harry and Sally were all waiting at the hotel to meet her, and as usual with Toby, Verona felt quite at home.

She had not felt tired at all throughout the day and couldn’t go to sleep that first night. In fact, she had hardly slept these past few days and was up bright and early again this morning. The only thing is that something was missing from her life. She woke in the middle of the night sobbing. Her soul ached. Her eyes looked like an old woman’s suddenly. She felt lost and terribly alone. All her confidence had miraculously deserted her. For once in her life, she felt at a loss, unsure of exactly what she ought to do next.

Bristol Drive, Deerfield, was to be a far cry from Catford, South East London. She would always be grateful to Toby for her kind invitation. It was also very nice to see Toby’s mother, Sally, again. If only briefly. Sally was a fine old lady. When she looked after her in Florida last year, they had a lot of laughs.

One day, when things were not going too well for Sally, Verona had tried to convince her that “none of us is perfect.” Sally gave her a big hug, “Thank you for being so kind, Rona,” she said. Verona was touched. It was not a lot that she did for the old woman. After all, she was being paid to do it. Treating Sally the way that she would want to be treated (should she ever lose her memory any more than she had lost it already, at her age) is the least that she could do.

I do hope that Sally will remember who I am, she wrote. I do hope that she will talk to me while I’m here. There is a lot I can learn from Sally. She’s quite a woman as I discovered in Florida, and not a lot of people know that!

Her good friend Ronda had been a real brick, too, on the journey to Heathrow. That Rupert can be such a “woman.” He’s her children’s first cousin, and he gets a bit carried away, quite flustered in fact. So they didn’t even stop off to pick up her son. Getting to Camberwell should have presented no problem for a “real” man, but Rupert couldn’t get there and get back on the South Circular. So, Raymond was left waiting like a lemon wondering if Rupert had crashed the car and managed to get them all in hospital. Raymond took it quite well when she phoned him from the airport, considering how disagreeable he can be sometimes. She underlined ‘sometimes’.

“Would you be an angel, sweetheart?” she had said to him. “And ask some of your social climbing contacts, preferably in the Charity sector, if they could find a job for a kind hardworking divorcee in her forties? She is fond of animals, but she could be persuaded to live and work with people, and like them too. Her only problem is her vast age but she needs the job because she has a mortgage. She has been unemployed since December 1990 – the same as me. Ronda has been such a dear friend to me, Raymond, I wish I could help her. Friends like her are hard to find. Now end of my begging. But you know you can do it, son. I hope you will. I’ll write.”

She had hung up the phone before he could respond. That was four days and three nights ago. She had hot flushes and night sweats again last night. When she woke up this morning with the pain in her back that made her feel as if one side of her neck had suddenly become shorter than the other, she had to turn a full two hundred and seventy degree angle to see behind her in the fell-length bathroom mirror.

The Jeffrey Express had the sort of heating on yesterday that she first experienced at Swimer House in 1986. She had experienced it several times since, too, including in this very hotel room. There was a sort of bluish ray that immobilised her whole body, her joints, and the place over the shoulders at the base of her neck. At Swimers, the pain in her joints and muscles had affected her neck and chest, seized up her body, and held her like a cripple in a vice.

Yesterday was a warm day in Chicago, but in London between November to April, it is not only cold, but it’s wet and it’s windy. In a ten by eight office the size of her double room at The Chicago Grand, her head and body would get so hot that straight out into the cold she would run. Her eyes and ears would itch, and when she looked at herself in the mirror this morning, she could see exactly why the receptionist at Brockley Road Surgery had taken one look at her in London back then, and sent her to see the nearest available doctor.

Dr Tan said she had an allergic reaction to something or other. He prescribed antihistamine tablets, but the joint and muscle pains persisted, alongside new levels of palpitations, mood swings, and panic attacks. The insomnia and disrupted sleep patterns made her feel ever more depressed and miserable. It got so excruciating at times that she thought of taking her life, but she continued to pretend that she was feeling no pain.

The headaches and flashing blue lights left her convinced that there was something very powerful in the air. A poisonous, colourless, odourless gas, she concluded. But whatever it was, it had to do with the heating system in her office. She was certain of that. But how to prove it?

The spells came in fits and starts at first but with a particular vengeance during one excruciatingly hot summer. They were literally coming about every five minutes in her office at work that year, coupled with the heat, nearly drove her insane.

She was then a 52-years old woman. Yet none of her doctors had considered treatment for the menopause. It certainly did not occur to her that her own body could be ‘naturally’ attacking her with such vengeance. She thought she could “ride it out” at first, but secretly, she feared that the pain would eventually kill her. That was when she decided to put her flat on the market, and to follow her dream of moving to America. Maybe that would stop this pain.

A chubby little English fellow named Terry came to see the property on the first day of showing. He made her an offer on the spot of fifty-two thousand pounds. It was a good price. She had paid £32,000 for it two years previously, and although she had spent about £8,000 doing it up, she was due to make over twenty thousand pounds on a two-bedroom maisonette in a quiet part of South East London. It was a good return on her investment for the times. With forty thousand from the sale of her flat, and a little she had set aside, she was ready to relocate to Queens in New York City.

Her friend Nettie was thinking of setting up her own shop in Harlem over there, selling best quality designer jumpers and cardigans, and even knitted dresses for the plus-size woman. They decided to go into business together. Nettie had a friend with a house locked up in Queens, who would rent it to her. Then, Terry got his mortgage from Leamington Spa Building Society, and it seemed as if she was all set.

© Photography by Newton U Brown.

Verona Bennett

It can’t be much fun sharing your name with a famous dead rock star, but Nick Drake came to Goldsmiths’ College and he did not disappoint.

The poet, playwright and novelist turned up at short notice to replace author Jackie Kay who was sick with back trouble. You can generally tell within a minute or two if you’ll like a speaker or not and when our eyes met briefly and he smiled and nodded, I thought, I like you.

Such quick judgements made within the blink of an eye are rarely trustworthy but there in his gaze was still the spark of nervous excitement and the undying joy of a playful child. When I returned his friendly gesture I had no idea who he was, but as he stood up to address a roomful of writers, his easy smile and honesty had us all captivated for two hours.

Born in 1961 of Czech hertitage, Nick Drake lives and works in London.

His first book-length collection, The Man in the White Suit won the Forward Prize in 1999 for Best First Collection.

His first novel Nefertiti: The Book of the Dead was published by Bantam in 2006 and is part one of a triology; Tutankhamun being the second and latest installment.

Other recent projects include a stage adaptation of Philippe Petit’s To Reach the Clouds

And a screenplay for the film Romulus, My Father¹ (see Trailer below).

His most recent collection, From the Word Go was published in 2007.

As the first of a series of visiting writers on this year’s Creative and Life Writing MA at Goldsmtihs, it wasn’t so much that Drake was an electrifying speaker; shaking hands and a sometimes wandering train of thought revealed his nervousness and was, in fact, endearing. His impact was in his search for “truth” in the writing process and the pains he expressed as part of a journey to finding an “authentic voice”.

Often taking upwards of four years to write just one poem, his ode to the “other” Nick Drake, that famous 1970s singer, was pared down from four ages of an overtly self-conscious epic into a haunting one-pager filled with extraordinary pathos and dramatic tensions. The finished poem (below), Live Air, and the story on which it hangs came out of a chance visit to a record shop in Notting Hill Gate. Blake tells an amusing story about stumbling on to ‘A Customer’ review on Amazon of the book in which it appears under the title ‘Not what was expected’;

“I made the unfortunate mistake of thinking this was some newly found material from the 70s singer-songwriter Nick Drake. Needless to say I was dissapointed.” [sic]

It is perhaps this ability to laugh at himself, and connect with “the other” – being the other – that I think I saw in Nick Drake’s eyes. His poetry is often sensitive, at times romantic, funny, sad, honest, and always elegantly constructed. The diversity of his interests and subject matter is probably another thing that connected me with the author: Romania and Eastern Europe; love lost and found; society and politics; a poignant funeral in London.

Similarly, in his first novel, a royal whodunnit, Nick Drake sets his “Nubian” dectective, Rahotep, on the trail of a missing Queen Nefertiti among the Pharaohs of Ancient Egypt. Revealing a deeply held childhood fascination with Egypt and Egyptology, Drake has set himself the task of painstakingly constructing a grand work of histo-fiction in three volumes. By all accounts, it is so far an intriguing tale that entwines the histories and cultures of Africa, Europe and Greece to create an exotic bunch of fictionalised characters and situations based upon real events and people who actually lived. “I wanted to bash my head on the desk and watch my blood drip on to the floor,” he says, when describing the challenge of writing the first book.

“The third section was the hardest. Bringing all the pieces together was very difficult. I didn’t know what I was doing. With the second book, I wanted to map out the journey from start to finish much more carefully.” Did it work? “No! It was even more difficult than the first. But at least I had done my research. I knew exactly what objects were important; who the central characters were; and that this was a book about a family; a Dynasty, and the things that people will do to stay in power.”

Nick Drake’s Tutankhamun is available to pre-order from Amazon. Order it now and it will be delivered to you when it arrives.

Live Air by author Nick Drake
The deserted second hand record exchange;
Just a bald guy and his ponytail
Guarding the memory palace of dead vinyl;
Multiple copies of Rumours and Blue
And the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits in brown and gold;
Pink Moon’s playing on the sound system,
Nick Drake’s last LP; soon he would die
On the night Lord Lucan disappeared, Miss World
Lost her crown as an unmarried mother,
And the sun’s November mercury slipped
Off the indigo horizon at 4.04 pm…
I browse the bins, and luckily I find
Fruit Tree, the deleted posthumous box set -
Five Leaves Left, Bryter Layter, Pink Moon;
Three big black discs, acetate ammonites
Coded for ancient technology.
I offer Bela Lugosi my credit card;
He stares at the name, my face, then up
To the shivering strip light and the obscure ceiling
Where sound waves collide with dust to conjure
Nick’s sad ghost in the live air, whispering:
Know that I love you, know that I care,
Know that I see you, know I’m not there
Then the song fades to recorded silence -
The hushed acoustic of his after-life -
Before the static, the perpetual heart-beat trip
Round the record’s inevitable zero…
Lugosi looks from the dark vacancy,
The tangled wires, the drifting motes
In the creaky auditorium of dust
Where the ghost had sung and disappeared; he grins;
“Oh man, oh man, I thought you were dead…”

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Paul Boakye

Writer, editor and marketing specialist who sat on The Power Inquiry. Former editor and CEO of the consumer lifestyle magazine, Drum (UK), and author of five plays published for an academic audience by Alexander Street Press, USA. Recipient of business and writing awards, including prestigious accolades such as advising British government, BBC radio and TV commentator, and invitation to meet Queen Elizabeth II in 2007. Currently works as a communications professional, creating contagious ideas to help great brands change the conversation to their advantage, across the entire Central and West African region.

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1. Romulus, My Father (Paperback) was adapted for the screen by poet, playwright and novelist, Nick Drake and developed with director Richard Roxburgh over seven years. The book contains an extended foreword by Raimond Gaita which gives profound insight into the process of moving from memoir to screenplay to film. The published screenplay also includes significant scenes omitted from the film which shed further light on both the story and the process. Together they unearth important detail behind this beautifully shot film that ultimately celebrates the unbreakable bond between a Czech father and his young son in the Australian outback.