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>> Joan Weeks: Well, good afternoon everyone. On behalf of all my colleagues in the African and Middle Eastern division, I'd like to extend a very warm welcome to everyone. I'm the assistant chief of the division. And we are very pleased to present this program in celebration of the 2018 Caine Prize winner, Makena Onjerika. Who will read from her prize-winning short story, Fanta Blackcurrant, followed by a moderated discussion. And, however, before we start today's program and introduce our speaker, I'd just like give you a brief overview of our division and its resources in the hopes that you'll come back and use our collections. AMED, as we call it, is a custodial division, which is comprised of three sections that build and serve the collections to researchers from around the world. We cover over 78 countries and 33 languages. The Africa section was formerly established in the Library of Congress in 1960. And includes countries in all of Sub-Saharan, Africa. The section continues to advise and collaborate in the Library's acquisitions program through the Nairobi overseas office. It provides reference and bibliographic services and maintains liaison with other research and teaching institutions in the United States and abroad. The Hebraic section is responsible for Judaica and Hebraic worldwide. And the Near East section covers all of the Arab countries including North Africa, the Middle East. And then, we cover Turkey, Turkic Central Asia, Iran, Afghanistan, Armenia and Georgia. So, if you're interested in research in any of those areas, you would come into our reading rooms in the Jefferson Building. Now, I'd like to invite Ambassador Bridgewater, who's representing the Africa Society today. And also, is the sponsor of the African Poets and Writers Series that we're celebrating today. So, Ambassador Bridgewater. Thank you. 
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>> Ambassador Pamela E. Bridgewater: Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm delighted to be with you today to represent the Africa Society. We are so pleased to be partnering for several years now with the Library of Congress, with the African and Middle Eastern division, for the conversations with the African poets and writers. The Africa Society believes it is essential to educate and advocate for Africa. And what better way to do this than through listening to the literature and the writings of African writers and poets. And we have a distinguished individual today that we are so pleased to have. She's the 2018 Caine Prize winner. And we are so pleased that she will be sharing and informing us about Africa through her very important work. We think that it is just so key to be able to understand about cultures and people through the writings of those who know it best. And, of course, our winner here today, Ms. Makena Onjerika, is just a wonderful example of many that we have partnered with over the years. We would like to also inform you that the Africa Society has an important Teach Africa Program with young people, which we feel is so important in helping them to understand and to demystify the continent. So, the conversations with African poets and writers is very important in our portfolio. And we are delighted to be with you today. I now invite the head of the Literature and Poetry Century, Dr. Casper, to come to the podium. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. 
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[ Applause ] 
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>> Robert Casper: Thank you, Ambassador Bridgewater. And much thanks to the Africa Society of the National Summit on Africa and the African and Middle Eastern Division at the Library of Congress, as well as the Center for African Studies at Howard University. It has been an honor to work with all of our partners on this series. Also, I want to give a special thanks to Mary-Jane Deeb, who was until recently the longtime chief of the African and Middle Eastern Division. Mary-Jane's vision and commitment made this series possible. This particular program is also possible thanks to the Lannan Center for Poetics and Social Practice. And the Department of English at Georgetown University, as well as the Caine Prize staff. And I would like to thank all. Before we begin, let me ask you to turn off your cell phones and any other electronic devices you have that might interfere with our event. Second, please note that this program is being recorded for webcast. And by participating in the Q&A section, you give us permission for future use of the recording. Before I talk about today's speaker, let me tell you a little bit about the Poetry and Literature Center. We are home to poet laureate consultant in poetry, who will be giving her final event on April 15th. Not very far from now. And we put on 20 to 30 public programs like this one each year. To find out more about the series and our other programs, you can visit our website, www.loc.gov/poetry. You can also find out more about the Library's African and Middle Eastern Division and view webcasts in our Conversations with African Poets and Writers series at www.loc.gov/rr/amed. The Library of Congress has been hosting the Caine Prize winner since 2014 when we welcomed 2013 winner, Tope Folarin. We are excited to extend the same welcome to Kenyan writer, Makena Onjerika, the 2018 winner for her story Fanta Blackcurrant. Dinaw Mengestu, the Chair of the 2018 Prize jury, praised the story in his remarks. Saying, quote, the winner of this year's Caine Prize is as fierce as they come. A narrative forged, but not defined, by the streets of Nairobi. A story that stands out as more than just witness. Makena Onjerika's Fanta Blackcurrant presides over a grammar and architecture of its own making, one that eschews any trace of sentimentality, in favor of a narrative that is haunting in its humor, sorrow and intimacy. End quote. Onjerika is a graduate of the MFA Creative Writing Program at New York University. And has been published in Urban Confustions and Wasafiri. She lives in Nairobi, Kenya. And is currently working on a fantasy novel. We're delighted to have her here to read from her story. And, as Joan said, to be followed by a moderated discussion with AMED specialist, Eve Ferguson. And we'll have time at the end of the event for your questions as well. We'll have a mic to pass around to you. So, we can make sure we record you for the webcast. Without further ado, please join me in welcoming Makena Onjerika. 
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[ Applause ] 
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>> Makena Onjerika: Thank you everyone for coming. There's so many of you. And thank you for inviting me here, as well. So, I'll be reading from my story. And I think we have enough time for me to actually go through all of it, which is awesome. And here goes. She was our sister and our friend but, from the time we were totos, Meri was not like us. If the Good Samaritans who came to give us foods and clothes on Sundays asked us what we wanted from God. Some of us said going to school. Some of us said enough money for living in a room in Mathare slums. And some of us, the ones who wanted to be seen we were born again, said going to heaven. But Meri, she only wanted a big Fanta Blackcurrant for her to drink every day and it never finish. God was always liking Meri. In the streets when we opened our hands and prayed people for money, they felt more mercy for Meri. They looked how she was beautiful with a brown mzungu face and a space in front of her teeth. They asked where is your her father and where is your her mother? They gave her ten bob and sometimes even twenty bob. For us who were  color black, just five bob. All of us felt jealousy for Meri, like a hot potato refusing to be swallowed. We thieved things from her nylon paper. Only small things. Her bread. Her razor blade. Her tin for cooking. But some of us felt more jealousy for Meri and we wished bad things to fall on her head. And then one day Meri was put in the TV. It happened like this. A boy called Wanugu was killed by a police. This Wanugu he was not our brother. He was not our brother or our friend. But some boys came to [inaudible] where we were staying carrying sticks and stones. 
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They said all chokoraas, boys and girls, must go to the streets to make noise about Wanugu. Fearing them, we went and shouted, killers, killers, even chokoraas are people until TV people came to look our faces with their cameras. All of us wanted to be put in the TV. Quickly, quickly we beat dust out of our clothes. We stopped smiling loudly to hide our black teeths. We pulled mucus back inside our noses. All of us told the story of Wanugu, how he was killed with a gun called AK47 when he was just sitting there at Jevanjee gardens, breathing glue and hearing the lunchtime preacher say how heaven is beautiful. He was not even thinking which car he could steal the eyes or mirrors or tires. All of us told the story, but at night when we went to the mhindi shops to look ourselves in the TVs being sold in the windows, we saw only Meri. She was singing Ingrish. Meri hada ritro ramp, ritro ramp, ritro ramp. Some of us looked Meri with big eyes because we had not heard that before she came to the streets she had been taken to school, from standard one to three. We said, Meri, speak English even us we hear. We beat her some slaps. We laughed. But inside all of us started fearing that someone was going, was coming to save Meri from the streets. All of us remembered how last year people came to save a dog because it found a toto thrown away in the garbage. We felt jealousy for Meri. She was never thinking anything in her head. Even if she was our sister and our friend, she was useless, all the time breathing glue and thinking where she could find a Fanta Blackcurrant. If anyone came to save Meri, all of us were going to say we were Meri. Some of us started washing in Nairobi river every day to stop smelling chokoraa. Some of us went to the mhindi shops to listen how people speak English on the TVs. Some of us started telling long stories about how long ago even us we had lived in a big house. But no one came to save Meri. Days followed days and years followed years. We finished being toto and blood started coming out between our legs. And Meri, from staying in the sun every day, she changed from color brown to color black just like us. Jiggers entered her toes. Her teeth came out leaving ten spaces in her mouth. Breathing glue, she forgot her father's name and her mother's name. Every day her head went bad. She removed her clothes and washed herself with soil until we chased her. We caught her. We sat on her. We pinched  her. We beat her slaps. We pulled her hair. We didn't stop until tears came out of her eyes. All of us were now big mamas. When we prayed people for money in the streets, they looked how we had big matiti hanging on our chests like ripe mangoes. We felt shame because they were seeing we were useless. In the end, all of us stopped praying people in the streets, even Meri. She followed us at night when we went to see the Watchman at the bank. He said, me, I am only helping you because I feel mercy for you. He said, you only pay me ten bob and remain with ten bob. He said, I will give you good customers. He said he was our friend, but when we asked him how to remove the toto inside Meri's stomach, he chased us away, calling us devils. He said, who told you I know how to kill totos? All of us felt mercy for Meri. Maybe one time after a customer finished, she had forgotten to wash herself down there with salt water. Some of us said we knew a way to remove the toto using wires. Some of us knew a way using leaves from a tree in Jevanjee gardens. Some of us started crying, fearing even us we had a toto inside. But Meri, she was just breathing glue and singing a song to herself. In the mjengo where we were staying, with two walls and one side of the roof removed, she sat the whole day under the stairs going nowhere, telling us which man had put the toto inside her stomach. First it was a man walking with a stick who gave her a new one hundred bob. And then she said it was a mzungu talking English through his nose. And then, she scratched the jiggers in her toes and the lice in her hair and said no, it was the man who took her in a new car to a big house and washed her body and applied her nice smelling oil, asking her, does she see how she can be beautiful. We asked ourselves if she was thinking to find that man. If she was thinking he was going to marry her and take her to live in that big house, eating breads and drinking milks. All of us pulled air through our teeth to make long sounds at her because she was thinking like a broken egg. But some of us, looking how Meri was happy, we gave her presents. Soap remaining enough for washing three times. A comb broken some teeth. A mango still color green. We wanted that when the toto came out she could not refuse for them to carry it and touch the stomach to make it laugh. Some of us started telling her which name was the best for the toto. We wished it to be a girl, even if boys are better, because boys can search inside garbage for tins, papers and bottles and take them to a place in Westlands to be paid some money. But girls are beautiful, and you can plait their hairs and wear them clothes of many colors. All of us thought like this, but all of us could see the troubles coming to fall on Meri's head. We prayed the Watchman for her again, but he said, no, no, no. Customers don't want someone with a toto in her stomach. We had helped her the most, could not share our moneys with Meri. She started standing outside a supermarket following the people coming out with nylon papers full of things for their totos. Milks, breads and sugars. She opened her hand for them, saying, Saidia maskini. Some of the people threw saliva on the ground, thinking Meri was wanting to touch them. But God was always liking Meri. Looking how she was wearing a mother-dress with holes and no shoes, Good Samaritans felt mercy for her. Before lunch, she was given forty or fifty bob. But outside that supermarket, there were also beggars sitting on the ground showing people their broken legs and their blind eyes. They felt jealousy for Meri. When people were not looking, they stood up and chased Meri away beating her. From there, Meri went to open her hand for people sitting in traffic jam at the roundabout near Globe Cinema. She showed them crying eyes, saying, Mama, saidia maskini. But they did not feel mercy. They closed their windows and looked at her from the other side, thinking she wanted to run away with their Nokias like a chokoraa boy. And sometimes cars came  very fast almost knocking her. And then heads came out of the windows and shouted, Kasia, get out of the road or I will step you. Breathing glue, Meri did not feel bad in her heart. But in that. But that area was for beggar mamas and their totos. These beggar mamas everyday their walk was looking at the people passing and telling their totos which people to follow and pray for money. When these mamas saw Meri being given a ten bob, they caught her and beat her some slap, saying even them they needed to put food in their mouths. We said, Meri, stop fearing those women. We said, Meri, Nairobi is not theirs. We said, Meri, in the streets it's a must to survive. But all of us knew Meri was not Doggie who if you tried to take her things, she could eat your fingers. Meri could not kick a chokoraa boy like Kungfu between his legs when he came to look for her at night. All of us felt mercy for Meri, but we had helped her the most. She stayed sleeping on her sacks for two days and then her food finished. She put her things inside a nylon paper and tied them with a shuka on her back, like a toto. She didn't say where she was going. One day, two days, three days we did not think about Meri. Sleeping on our sacks, washing our faces at night and applying powders. Waiting in the streets for customers to stop their cars and say kss-kss-kss for us to come quickly. Counting our moneys and looking at the presents we had been given -- plastic bangles, a box remaining two biscuits, a watch with the glass broken. All that time, we were thinking our own things. Some of us were thinking if we had jiggers in our toes. Some of us were thinking how they would be if their mothers and fathers had not died in Molo clashes. All of us breathed glue and counted on our fingers the day remaining, the days remaining until we finish being chokoraas. Four days, five days, six days, and then we started fearing for Meri. We asked ourselves what if chokoraa boys had found her staying alone? What if City Council had caught her and thrown her inside a lorry to be taken to the police station? Some of us, who had never been inside a police station, closed their eyes and ears when we told them our stories of being put in a cell with cockroaches and rats and big people criminals and one bucket for doing toilet in front of everyone. They asked us, how did you come out of the police station? We told them the story. We said, those police they do not even give you ten bob, not like customers. 
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And then Meri came back. She was wearing a dress we had never seen and on top, a bigger sweater that could hide her stomach. She had washed with soap and clean water. We could see her nylon paper was not full the same way it was when she went away. We saw she was not just carrying the normal things for surviving in the streets. Plastic Kasuku for keeping food given by Good Samaritans, bottles for fetching water, papers and sticks for starting fire, cloths for catching blood, salt, and tins for cooking. She was not just carrying things collected in the streets like shoes and slippers not matching each other, one earring, a cup broken the handle, a paper written interesting things. Long ago, she had lost the things she brought when she came to the streets. Her mother's rothario, the knife that killed her father, a song her brother sang for her. We only wanted to see inside her nylon paper. We did not do something bad, just seeing. Even her she had seen inside our nylon papers many times before, but now she was sitting alone under the stairs going nowhere, singing to her stomach. Lala, mtoto, lala. Some of us said her head had gone bad. Some of us said she was selfish. The way she was holding her nylon paper, we asked ourselves, was she thinking we wanted to thief her things? Even us we had our things, our moneys, our food. When she went to toilet, we went quickly, quickly and looked inside her nylon paper and said, waa, waa. Meri was carrying three breads, four milks and two sugars. She was carrying sweets tied in a handkerchief and cabbages and rice. We could smell chicken and chips she had not shared with her. In the bottom, she had two soaps, and a plastic flower for putting in her hair and three Fanta Blackcurrants, remaining only the bottles. We did not do something bad. But she shouted at us, thieves, thieves. She removed the breads from our mouths and put everything back in her nylon paper. Remembering the way we helped her, we wanted to beat her slaps, to pull her hair and to bite her. We wanted to pinch her and put soil in her mouth. But because of the toto in her stomach, some of us felt bad in our hearts. We went to say sorry to Meri and sit with her under the stairs going nowhere. We said, Meri, we were not going to tell anyone. We said, Meri, do you remember who shared with you her toothbrush? But Meri refused to tell us her story. At night when we went to see the Watchman, Meri was left sleeping in our mjengo, not even fearing chokoraa boys could find her alone. In the morning, when we came back, she was not there and when she came back, she was carrying more things. All of us knew Meri was thieving somewhere. Days followed days. And then a week. And then, Meri was caught. It was January and the sun was smiling loudly in the middle of the sky. The wind was chasing nylon papers and going under office women's skirts. Makangas were shouting for people to enter their matatus and be taken to Kahawa, Kangemi and other places. People were refusing to enter the matatus because the fare was forty bob instead of twenty bob. Some of us were sleeping and feeling we were dying. Some of us were starting fires to cook our food. Some of us were jumping a rope and remembering the days we were totos. Some of us, breathing glue, were seeing dreams of eating chips and chicken. We heard Meri running and then she passed under the mabati fence surrounding our mjengo. All of us saw she was not carrying her nylon paper and then four men entered behind her. There was a tall man, a short man, a man wearing a red shirt and the leader carrying a big stick. They did not say to us anything. They went where Meri was hiding under the stairs going nowhere and covered her mouth for her not to scream. Some of us breathed glue and looked far away. Some of us closed our ears and covered ourselves under our blankets. Now we knew where Meri was thieving. From office women wearing nice clothes that shaped them a figure eight. She was following them behind slowly, slowly, looking everywhere in the streets if there were any police or City Council. Office women do not walk fast, wearing those sharp shoes and looking themselves in all the windows of shops. At the place for crossing the road they stopped because they did not want to be splashed dirty water by cars and matatus. This is the time Meri went quickly, quickly and opened her hand and said, Saidia maskini. If the office woman gave her some money, Meri did not do anything, but if the woman said something bad to her, calling her a malaya or asking her what she was thinking when she opened her legs, Meri removed a nylon paper she was hiding under. Sorry. Let me do that again. If he office woman give her some money, Meri did not do anything, but if the woman said something bad to her, calling her a malaya or asking her what she was thinking when she opened her legs, Meri removed a nylon paper she was hiding under her sweater. Every day Meri was carrying under her sweater what she toileted in the morning. In a small voice she told the office woman to give her money or be applied toilet and go back to the office smelling badly. And because office women fear toilet, they gave her ten bob or even. They gave her a hundred bob or even two hundred bob. And then, Meri was very clever. She did not run away. Before the office woman could shout, she was a thief, Meri started talking to herself and falling down and applying toilet on her face until people started thinking she was a mad woman. God was liking Meri, but she did not know that area was the area of big criminal thieves. They felt jealous how Meri was thieving cleverly. Four big criminal thieves came to our mjengo to beat her with the big stick. They kicked her with their big shoes, pom, pom, pom like a sack of beans being removed their dry skins. They cut her new dress and her sweater. Blood came out from her head, her neck, her hands and between her legs. They did not feel mercy for Meri. All of us wanted to help Meri. All of us were hearing the screams inside her covered mouth. All of us wanted to run and call the people in the streets, the police and the City Council. But all of us were thinking, if the big criminal thieves did not feel mercy for Meri, with her big swollen stomach, how much would they feel mercy for us. Days followed days, and Meri was sleeping on her sacks, not moving or talking to us. We brought for her water. We put food in our mouths to chew and then put it in her mouth soft, soft. [Inaudible] her head was an empty egg. She was our sister and our friend. We removed her dress and her sweater and washed them in Nairobi river. We poured soil where blood had come out of her body. We put her dead toto in a nylon paper and threw it in a garbage far away. Tears came out of our eyes for Meri. Some of us said in a small voice Meri was dying. They said we go find another mjengo where to live, far away from Meri. We beat them slaps. We pulled their hair. We put soil in their mouths. Meri was our sister and our friend. We said, Meri, it is better like this, you will see. We said, Meri, now the Watchman can find customers for you again. We said, Meri, this is the life of chokoraa. But Meri was not hearing. Days followed days. And every day she was talking to herself. And then one day, she put all her things in her nylon paper and tied it to her back with a shuka, like a toto. She passed us, and the mabati fence surrounding our mjengo. She closed her eyes a little because the sun was jumping everywhere, on the windows of cars, on the heads of passing people, on the roads shining black. She passed matatus blowing their horns and splashing mud-water on people. She passed hawkers running away from City Council. She passed watchmen outside banks and offices. She passed chokoraa boys climbing on garbage to find tins, papers and bottles for selling in Westlands. She passed streetlights looking down with yellow and black eyes. She passed a man being thieved his shoes, his pockets, his clothes. Everywhere, we followed her asking her many times, Meri, where are you going? Meri, where are you going? Days followed days and then years followed years. Some of us were caught by police and City Council. We were taken to the police station and from there, to the Jaji who looked us through the mirrors in front of his eyes to see if we were good or bad. He beat his table with a wood hammer and sent some of us to Langata to stay with big women criminals and some of us to a school to cut grasses. Some of us were killed by police with a gun called AK47. Some of us were killed by people we do not know. Some of us decided to become the wives of chokoraa boys. Some of us, after many years, we had enough money for living in a room in Mathare slums and we started finding customers for ourselves. And some of us, because of breathing too much glue, our heads went bad and we started removing our clothes and chasing people in Nairobi.  But Meri, she crossed Nairobi river and then we do not know where she went. The end. 
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[ Applause ] 
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>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. Is your mic on? Yes. Thank you very much. I'm glad we were able to hear the whole story. I think it was important to get to the end. I'm going to start with a few general questions that we ask all of our poets and writers. And then, we'll get to some specifics. So, tell me, when did you start writing? And what were some of your earliest ventures? 
>> Makena Onjerika: So, I started writing when I was 15. And this happened because I finished reading Duology by Anthony Hope. You probably have read it. The first one is, it has something to do with Ruritania fantastico place. And I got really annoyed at that book because the very handsome prince died. And so, I decided I'm going to write my own novel. So, my first work was actually a full-length fantasy novel that my mom was very generous and kind. And she self-published it, which is how I got then connected with all sorts of writers in Kenya. And sort of got into the Caine Prize socket then by attending a Caine Prize writers retreat. And from there, just, everything just stumbled on [inaudible]. 
>> Eve Ferguson: What or who are the main major influences on your work? 
>> Makena Onjerika: So, there's several people. I do love my Indian writers a lot. So, Amit Chaudhuri is a favorite. He writes some, quite some amazing stuff. And then, [inaudible] Diaz, of course, because he, his voice feels very familiar. And he's been a wonderful guide for me in my, in my own writing. I do enjoy Bruno Schultz, Polish writer. He writes the most fantastic kind of, just overblown language. And it's quite wonderful. Let's see. And then, there's also the fantasy side of my. So, I write two different kinds of things. My short fiction is usually realist. And interested in plain language. And then, I have my longer work that is actually fantasy. So, my fantastic influences are people like Adrian Tchaikovsky, N.K. Jemisin. And I just discovered a new writer that I really love. S A Chakraborty. So, a lot of all these writers were sort of writing, I'd call it literary fantasy actually. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. So, you kind of answered the first part of my question about writing fiction as a creative outlet. But let me ask you about your upcoming novel. And the genre that's now getting very popular of Afrofuturism. Does your new work fall within that genre? Is that something that you're looking towards in your writing career? 
>> Makena Onjerika: It's a bit interesting to me. But I'll say that my work on my. Well, Afrofuturism to me sounds a bit more focused on science fiction. And sort of imaging futures for Africa. I think I'm much more interested in using sort of all these ideas that I grew up with and influences from, you know, African mythology in as part of my work. So, as sort of a background or a jumping off point. So, I don't know how futuristic it is. I haven't quite yet started writing anything I would call futuristic. But I've seen that there's a lot of that happening within the continent right now. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. You're the fourth Kenyan writer to win the Caine Prize for African literature. Why do you think that is? And does it speak to the state of contemporary literature in Kenya? 
>> Makena Onjerika: That's a tough one. I wouldn't know why four Kenyan's. I think, you know, some countries are very heavily represented in the Caine Prize. So, there's Nigeria. And then, there's South Africa and there's Kenya. And I think that has to do actually with our ability to actually get a lot more of our work posted in by our publishers for the Caine Prize. So, that's a big problem that I would say that has been affecting the Caine Prize. Because publishers are the ones supposed to actually submit the work. But if you don't have, say a European publisher, then you probably would, your publisher may not be able to send an actual physical copy to London. So, I think it's actually a question of our presentation, not so much our production. I'm worried about production in Kenya and among Kenyan writers, actually. I don't think we're yet producing as much as Nigerians. You know, that's, that's supremely overrepresented. It should say like 56 percent of submissions for yet another big prize on the continent, the [inaudible] Africa Prize. Fifty-six percent of that was Nigerians last year. And it's, you know, I was there being like Kenyans we got to defeat the Nigerians in this one [laughter]. But yeah. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. What prompted you to write Fanta Blackcurrant, which seems, I won't say a little gritty and harsh. It's very gritty and harsh. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Yeah. 
>> Eve Ferguson: And can you talk about the story a bit? What was it about the street children in Nairobi that grabbed your creative attention? 
>> Makena Onjerika: So, I would say that Fanta Blackcurrant is actually a product of being in America at the time because I wrote that in America, sort of looking back to home and starting to realize somethings that had never occurred me at all. So, for example, growing up it had never occurred to me that street hood children were actually children. That sort of separation between me, a child, who has a family and them, the others, existed very strongly. And so, I'd say that Fanta Blackcurrant is in some ways sort of penance, sort of trying to show Kenyans that these children exist in the street. And that they are children. And that's why, although, the characters are, you know, teenagers, they do have a lot of childness about them. Because I, as I went to school every morning, I went to school and I had to pass through the city, which is where I got a lot of contact with street children. And, you know, getting to watch them even from afar, you could see that, yeah, they were big bodied, but they had a lot of that childishness in them that I wanted to really capture in my story. Sort of as an indication to my country that something was terribly wrong there. And we need to do something about it. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. And I wanted to ask you about the use of indigenous language. You have a lot of Swahili words in there. I think most everybody could pick up on what toto meant. But maybe not some of the other, like [inaudible] and mzungu. So, what is it about injecting indigenous language or Swahili into your story? How does that? 
>> Makena Onjerika: I really wanted to how these children might, might speak. And again, I'm very focused on creating Kenyan stories that, in this case, Kenyans would appreciate. So, a Kenyan reading that story would really go with it. But also, that the outsiderness you may experience as a non-Kenyan is actually typical of what someone like me would feel reading Walk from Here, for example. So, that that's, that's actually, it's the other side of entering a space that is not your own. So, I'm really very focused on trying to capture that, that, that language because there is a big debate in Kenya right now about us writing in African languages. So, that wouldn't even be Swahili. For me, it would be Meru. But that I, I also feel that, you know, those languages were not written to begin with. Writing them is something that's begun with British colonization. And that we are in the process in Kenya, in Nairobi, for example, of creating a whole new language, [inaudible]. Then there's debates of [inaudible], which is sort of another derivative of Swahili English. There's quite a bit of drama around that. But that. The new culture to me is far more important than sort of trying to salvage a culture that is distance from me, you know. I grew up in Nairobi. I don't know anything about being [inaudible] sort of, the experience of it through my own, my own mother. So, the story is part of one I'd say taking back English or taking up English as our language, as a language of the world. Not of the people who colonized us. And on the other hand, also contributing towards the [inaudible] whole new language that is more unifying than sort of where some of the older writers in Kenya would like us to go. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. And when we look at the use of indigenous language, you know, of course, we went more than 50 years back with [inaudible]. But also [inaudible] was very instrumental. Is he somebody that you look to as an influence or a? 
^M00:40:18
>> Makena Onjerika: No, actually I would say that I, I do not agree with some of his ideas about language especially. Because he's definitely, he. I mean, he grew up in a whole different time. He, he's very attached to, to his African language, which is Kikuu. And they add. He has urged us as African writers to write in that language. But that doesn't seem relevant to me. Simply because I barely speak Meru. And I barely. Like, I don't know anyone who reads it. So, it doesn't make sense to me to actually go that far. And that's why I'm much more interested in supporting sort of lingua franca that is imagined in the last 20 years. I think that's a more relevant mission for me to undertake than trying to make a language that was never written become sort of this global written language. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. When I met you on Tuesday, I promised you I'd ask you this question. Please tell us about your very unique writing workshop in Nairobi. And what makes it stand out from other writing workshops? 
>> Makena Onjerika: Okay. So, I'll start with the second question. The reason it stands out from other writing workshops it's because it's the only, say, university level writing workshop in Nairobi. So, our universities do not actually teach creative writing. So, if you want to go into sort of a 16-week, week program, you'd have to come to the Nairobi Fiction Writing Workshop. And I started it after the Caine Prize because, I mean, that was a really good, good opportunity before I was not like a well-known writer. And it's been an exciting experience for me because I, every sort of season or session of the workshop, I get to work with 10 to 14 writers on their, in their writing. And more, what's exciting about that, again it comes back to this feeling that I have that Kenyans are not producing enough creative writing. The workshop is actually, you know, opening up space for writers to learn the kind of skills that I gained at [inaudible] College and at NYU. And I believe that's going to really push up our, you know, production and finally we're going to be able to conquer the Nigerians. [Laughter]. It's extremely important. There's so many. [Laughter]. 
>> Eve Ferguson: There's heavy competition there. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Yes. 
>> Eve Ferguson: And my last question before we open it up to the audience. And. How do you see the future for African and African diaspora writers? And what steps need to be taken to broaden the readership of African literature to the international community? 
>> Makena Onjerika: I mean, exciting things are happening in that space for African and African-American writers. I mean, having someone like N.K. Jemisin win the Nebula three times for, like her entire trilogy, is such a great entrance. Because that, now you have a, sort of a new genre of within the fiction space coming up that was started by people like Octavia Butler. And that's very exciting to me. It just means that we can finally enter into that space with, you know, with both legs. Then, your other questions was? 
>> Eve Ferguson: What steps do you think it needs to, need to be taken to broaden the readership of African literature to the international community? 
>> Makena Onjerika: I think one of the things that needs to happen is that African writers need to stop being put in a different corner of book stores in the UK and the US, which is what is really happening. It's. I mean it's exciting to see people like Tomi Adeyemi being considered a best seller. And being read just across the board. But I think this is sort of like separating us into a different space for marketing purposes or whatever, which means then access to agents here is very limited. Because they're like, oh we can only take African book this year to cover their quota. I think sort of being able to look at African writers and writers who are non-western writers in sort of the same plain would be one of the things that would start that. Because there's some really exciting work coming out from just everywhere in the world. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Excellent. At this point, I want to open the questions to the audience. I think somebody will bring you a mic if you have a question. Just raise your hand. You can take mine. Thank you. 
^M00:45:18
^M00:45:23
Questions. 
>> I have a question about what it was like to go to the Creative Writing Program at NYU and engage with young American writers. And how that might have influenced the workshop you're doing now in Nairobi. Or if there's real differences that you can talk about between those two experiences. 
>> Makena Onjerika: I think that the main difference between my creative writing, my [inaudible] program and my own workshop is that we read African novels in mine. But otherwise, I really follow a lot of the things that I learned here. I think the, the structure or sort of the exploration of craft is very important. I had a very stressful time at NYU. It's a great program. I was in class with some amazing people, like Lady Smith and Junot Diaz and David Lipsky. This was an amazing experience. Then, I think I took it too early. Is there any writers out there who are thinking of going for the MFA, I would tell you don't go into the MFA before you have like a complete manuscript or, of like a novel, or short stories? Because what happens in the MFA is that you're editing. You're not writing. So, if, if you start editing, then you start having this editing process. And I think I was telling you the other day that I actually quit writing for five years after I left my MFA because it was just, I couldn't write a sentence without thinking about every word in it. And it just wasn't fun anymore. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Any other questions? 
^M00:47:00
^M00:47:05
>> Hi, Makena. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Hello. 
>> So, because production has been a big thing that you've been talking about. What do you think can be done to increase production? And not just for Kenya. If you can think, you know, continentally originally. And I understand when it comes to Meru, I understand [inaudible] languages are more spoken than they are written. But how about Kizwali [assumed spelling] as a, as a written language of work? 
>> Makena Onjerika: I couldn't write in Swahili to save my life. Despite the fact that I studied it for 12 years, it's, I mean, it's a really beautiful language when you see it written properly. And I'm not at that level. I found that because I've spend most of my life speaking English and studying English, it's become the language that I can talk about having mastery in. And so, I've dedicated myself just sort of writing in that language. And doing what [inaudible] talked about, which is bringing English to say the things that we want, want to say. So, that's, that's my sort of decision that I've made around those languages. [Inaudible]. Production -- what can be done around production? I mean there's some amazing things that are already happening. SSDA, the short story, The Africa, for example is going round and, and across just Africa all the cities they have sort of one day workshops going on. [Inaudible] Institute, the [inaudible] Center is doing that as well. The British Council used to be very big on sort of doing workshops and putting together writers from the UK and Kenya, for example. But I don't think they have that kind of program. The Americans are definitely not doing that. It should be useful because honestly, I think the MFA program and sort of those kind of writing workshops are much bigger, more developed in America than they are anywhere else in the world. So, that's something you could think into. 
^M00:49:22
^M00:49:28
>> Hi, Makena. Thank you very much. My name is David [inaudible]. I'm the Deputy Chief [inaudible], Kenyan Embassy. What I wanted to ask you is how can we at the Kenyan Embassy help people, writers like you, to spread their wings. And also, to link up with existing African writers here, like [inaudible], to try to, to showcase your work. Thank you. 
>> Makena Onjerika: I think, I think it's the same, same thing. It would be wonderful to. Well, I would say that I don't know how much the American Embassy in Nairobi has been involved in helping festivals like the Story [inaudible] Festival, which is where a lot of, you know, African writers or Kenyan writers get to meet a lot of foreign writers. 
^M00:50:19
I mean [inaudible] has, he's a point here. He's. I can't really get his name right now. He's come to Nairobi also to the Story [inaudible] Festival. So, I think sort of supporting those kind of initiatives where you have American writers and American writers who are teachers coming into the country to give some sort of festival and participate in that kind of retreat would be quite helpful. Young, young people in Nairobi are really hungry to, to study writing. My workshop is actually a paid workshop. And people pay me about 250 dollars for the program, which is 16 sessions, which is quite pricy. But people pay that. My class is always full. And I have people asking for more. So, there is that hunger. It's just that we don't have that many programs of people doing that. 
^M00:51:20
^M00:51:26
>> Eve Ferguson: I'd like to thank the DCM for his question, which now has led to me to want to be able to try to help facilitate some things with the US Embassy in Nairobi. I don't know if you have any contacts there. But I will be flying out to Kenya in about a week or so. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Oh, cool. 
>> Eve Ferguson: I'll be at the Embassy for some activities. And I know the head of the Public Affairs section. We have a Cultural Affairs section there too that is involved in these kinds of activities. And if you so desire, I would like to setup an opportunity for you to engage. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Awesome. I love that. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Super. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Thank you. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Super. On that note, talking about the Embassy, I did want to add that the Library has an, a Nairobi office located in the Embassy. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Okay. 
>> Eve Ferguson: I'm quite sure there could be some good collaboration there to encourage Kenyan writing. To encourage East African writing. We have to beat West Africa. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Yes. [Laughter]. 
>> Eve Ferguson: And I wanted to in the last couple of minutes, I wanted to ask if there is anything you would like to say as a closing statement before we end up? I do want to apologize to people for our lack of books. We really tried to get them here. You know, we tried to get them here. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Yeah. 
>> Eve Ferguson: But things just didn't come together. But I would encourage you to go onto Amazon where you can probably get the book that includes Fanta Blackcurrant, as well as the other runners up for the Caine Prize. And support African literature. So, I'm going to let you have the last word. 
>> Makena Onjerika: I guess I'll say two things. One -- the Caine Prize definitely needs more support. It's not as well funded as it used to be. And it's really been a great avenue for exposing African writers to the rest of the world. And two -- thank you for having me. And, you know, thank you for listening to my story. You know, I started reading it and I was like, wow, this is really depressing. And look at all these people [laughter] just sitting here and taking it, you know. I think I haven't done like a run, read through the whole thing for a while. So, I was like, oh my god. [Laughter]. And last and third thing -- this is not the only side of Nairobi that exists. This is just a small side. So, not, don't be scared. You can please come visit us despite the travel advisories. We're pretty okay now [inaudible]. [Laughter]. We're okay. 
>> Eve Ferguson: Okay. I want to thank Makena. And wish her the best in your time in the United States. I know that you will also be reading at the Lannan Center at Georgetown next Tuesday evening in connection with Africa Imagine. It's a day long symposium, which will give people a lot of information about Africa. What's going on. Not just the literature. And then, we get to end up with some wonderful writers. Yourself, Mukoma Wa Ngugi, who we interviewed a few years back. And, you know, please, I believe it's free and open to the public. And if you want to hear more from Makena, you will have that opportunity to do that at Georgetown next week on Tuesday. I want to thank all of you all for coming out today. I know we're competing with a beautiful day outside. So, it's really great to see all of these people in here. And I want to thank Makena for coming all the way from Kenya. And being very adventurous in getting to the Library of Congress today. We were a little worried. But she's here. And I really want to thank you for your wonderful presentation. 
>> Makena Onjerika: Thank you. 
>> Eve Ferguson: And thank the audience for coming. [Applause].