Caine Prize Material by Nathan Hensley

The entries arrived to me in a box that had been destroyed in transit.  It was a cardboard container about the size of a small TV set -- maybe two feet cubed, and heavy.  Someone must have dropped it (more than once?) during its long journey between London and Washington, DC, because holding it together now were layers of packing tape, new strapped over old.  You could see stacked papers through a split running down the side; a corner had been torn apart.  It was a massive, imposing thing, this demolished box.  My back strained as I heaved it toward my office.

I don’t think I will ever forget opening it -- I remember feeling anxious (had all the stories arrived?) but also excited (would they be good?) and, most of all, tingly with a sense of responsibility.  (They had all arrived, and more remarkable, nearly all of them turned out to be gripping reads.)  It was humbling that these 100-plus stories had come to me at all.  What an honor, I thought, to have been vaulted into a group charged with doing the work of cultural consecration, separating “good” literature from “bad” and, inevitably, enforcing the standards that might determine what counts as good in the first place.  It is, to say the least, a big job. 

In a chapter called “Prizes and the Politics of World Culture,” literary critic James English explains that conferring global prizes like the Caine Prize always exposes a delicate problem.  That’s because “to honor and recognize local cultural achievement from a declaredly global vantage is inevitably to impose external interference on local systems of cultural value.  … There is no evading the social and political freight of a global award at a time when global markets determine more and more the fate of local [literary cultures]” (298).  The asymmetries of cultural and economic power that English references, familiar to anyone who follows debates about what he calls “prize culture,” resonated in my unconscious, even as my conscious mind paced through riveting stories of village life, urban violence, river journeys to rebel camps.  My double-consciousness was yet more pronounced when I read in the Library of Congress’s European Reading Room, which looks out on the U.S. Capitol, and whose ceiling lists the four universal elements -- air, water, earth, and fire -- as though it had the power to contain them all:

Ceiling of Library of Congress

The Caine Prize is awarded from a center of global prestige, Oxford, but lends that prestige to writing from an area that, as many of the submissions themselves attest, can seem far removed from airy cathedrals of leisure like the Library of Congress or the Bodleian.  Reading these stories produced, in me at least, a sense of disconnection between where they took place and where I was evaluating them. 

Some of the stories were funny; many found a place for redemption; others played irreverently with form; and not a few dealt movingly with feelings of dislocation I felt I could recognize, having come from no global metropolis but a California city best known for raisins.  Some of the most polished stories conformed to the mostly unwritten aesthetic rules of consecrating institutions like The New Yorker.  Others, to my mind better, took less familiar shapes, and elaborated vocabularies and images foreign to me: a plane crash caused by magic; infidelities rupturing a patriarchal North African home; a breathless ambulance chase through an urban zone; and episodic, first-person narratives of sexual violation, unconsoled by formal resolution. 

In his own blog post, John Sutherland writes convincingly of the material circumstances that make art possible.  My broken box of African writing made such material circumstances uncannily palpable.  Some stories had been printed on office paper – 8 ½ x 11 and A4 variously— while others arrived in bound and printed formats of all sizes: in literary journals from three continents, in Nigerian glossies, in a men’s magazine published from London.  Who had sent them?  From where?   From what material situations, in other words, had these documents been imagined, composed, and typed -- but also printed, stapled, mailed?  

The most important “matter” of art is ineffable: human experience, translated into form and made legible to another human being across time and space.  To access this kind of matter you can download the stories now, from wherever you happen to be sitting.  But there is another kind of matter, too, one I am glad to have accessed, if only for a time, in the piled-up jumble of these astoundingly good submissions.  I am referring to the physical fact of the stories in their material forms.  These artworks were created in any number of countries, in who knows what concrete circumstances; promoted by editors equally various in situation; received in a small office in London by staff members; reboxed there and shipped across the ocean to be handled by innumerable postal workers, dropped, and re-taped along the way.  Finally they arrived to me: a mass paper on which the experiences of other human beings have been transformed, as if by magic, into aesthetic form -- an amazing process of connection that is also, and in some final way, physical.

Whoever wins this year’s Caine Prize will experience both immaterial and material benefits: a feeling of profound accomplishment, perhaps, but also £10,000 and (we hope) exposure to a wider audience.  She or he will also visit Georgetown, as a Writer-in-Residence at the Lannan Center for Poetics and Social Practice.  My colleagues and I look forward to welcoming the author in Washington and to inhabiting briefly the same space with him or her.  And I hope the winner’s journey is less bumpy than that of the document that won the ride.

Reference

English, James F.  The Economy of Prestige: Prizes, Awards, and the Circulation of Cultural Value.  Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2005. 

A private conversation with this year’s submissions by Sokari Douglas Camp, Caine Prize judge, 2013

As an African woman and artist living in London, I have always loved reading stories about the continent, and what a privilege it has been to read the stories submitted for the 2013 Caine Prize. I was taken to so many places without getting on a plane.

 

'Pink Head' Galvanised Steel  H 193 cm. Location  ARTZUID
 Amsterdam 22nd May - 22nd September 2013

I am used to admiring works of art, especially sculptures, all over the world. The museums and shows I frequent are designed to have character and to tell the viewer a story. As an observer, one takes in a lot when you see beautiful or ugly objects, one is able to imagine all sorts of scenarios as a result of what the artist and curators have created.  Taking the time to go to an exhibition or event is not as instantaneous as opening a book. The process of being a judge and keeping one’s opinions to one’s self has resulted in a very private conversation with this year’s submissions.

It has been captivating to read and concentrate on what characters are seeing and feeling.

Viewing works of art is often a public experience; it is in front of you, one can walk around or walk away. As I read the Caine Prize submissions in various locations - London, Venice, Amsterdam - it was wonderful to carry a story around with me, which I could dive into where ever I was. The descriptions of locations and textures were so vivid; when I looked up I expected to feel heat and to swipe at mosquitoes.

It was a hedonistic process to feel so much of what the characters felt; running on dusty roads and holding weapons bigger than a child’s hand - all from within the peaceful, wintery landscapes of the Western cities I visited.

My lasting memory of this batch of stories is reading about the predicament of so many girls and women on the continent. Is this the plight of my African sisters? Or is it the story of all women in the world? Survival for girls in so many of the stories was tough. In many ways it is a wonder that African women rise to the to the top anywhere in the world.

I salute these authors that have brought contemporary life and visions of the future into text. Beyond all else, it is great to be publicising something other than the Eurocentric view which is not everyone’s norm – not even in Europe. 

Interview with NoViolet Bulawayo on her recently published novel 'We Need New Names'

Former Caine Prize Winner NoViolet Bulawayo’s searingly powerful debut novel We Need New Names has been greeted with widespread critical acclaim.

NoViolet Bulawayo (credit: Smeeta Mahanti)

She talks to Irenosen Okojie about being a writer in diaspora, her writer’s process and the importance of the Caine Prize.

Irenosen Okojie (credit: Samantha Watson)

Your novel is a powerful depiction of the fractured lives of children living in a shanty in Zimbabwe. How important was it to tell their story?

The book was written during Zimbabwe’s lost decade. If you follow Zimbabwean politics, that’s when the country really came undone for the first time since Zimbabwean independence.

For me that was really shocking because I had a beautiful childhood, so to see what was happening was devastating. My family’s still back home. We’ve heard those stories of there being no food in the stores, violence because of government elections, activists disappearing, some of them turning up dead. It just became important, especially to parallel the media narrative. I was living in the west and seeing things through the internet. I felt someone needed to tell an intimate story that showed what was happening on the ground and captured the full essence of characters. Having kids really allowed me to do that, they’re kids but disconnected from what’s going on. They still lived, laughed and played despite what was happening. It became a big, necessary project for me.

Ten year old Darling as a narrator rings authentic and true. We’re reading about these children having to cope with horrible circumstances yet because it’s told through a child’s eyes there’s an other worldliness about it. How hard was it to get her voice right?

                                                                                                                                   

It wasn’t hard, probably because I emerged writing through craft and the child narrator. As a creator, it’s something that I’d worked on since I started writing. When it came to Darling, I was a bit more seasoned. You have to play on your strengths and that’s what I did. I come from a culture where we just have character. Put a bunch of kids together and they shine, they survive. I had to go back to my own childhood and my childhood friends for that voice. It’s honest and that’s important. You don’t want somebody to read it and think that doesn’t sound right.

There’s bleakness in their circumstances but it’s also very funny. How did you strike that balance and was it deliberate?

I come from a place of laughter, absence of humour is not normal. Whatever we were doing, laughter was a constant dynamic in our lives no matter the circumstances. I was talking to my cousin about a recent funeral back home. And she said people were funny, even at a funeral. It doesn’t have to be depressing. I needed to make that conscious decision to remember to bring in humour. Although it was partly deliberate and partly not, that’s how I am in my everyday life. I’m not a serious person. My personality also comes through my writing, I have to be pleased. Also, I was aware that I was working from a politically charged space, very dense material. I needed to find a way to make it tolerable to read, that was important. Not just with this book. For me it’s important that whoever starts reading my work doesn’t put it down. Laughter carries you through and I have to connect to the reader. Humour allows me to do that.

The second half of the novel is set in America where Darling finds herself facing a different set of challenges. Did you draw on your own experiences?

I think all fiction is drawn from real experiences, people will tell you it’s fiction but it’s real. It’s either your own reality or somebody else’s. My moving to America is even more recent than my ten year old self.  It had to be convincing, some of my personality needed to appear on the page but also stealing from others, family, friends, people I knew. It’s interesting, when my family members read the book; I get phone calls saying so I saw such and such in the book! It’s one of those things; if it comes into my writing I don’t resist it.

What do you think the reaction to the novel will be like in Zimbabwe and what sort of dialogue do you hope it sparks?

In Zim, I have no idea. I can’t really say one way or the other but I know Zimbabweans have been reading my work. I blog, on Facebook they read bits of it. Mostly they’ve been supportive and there’s nothing like being supported by your own people. Especially now, sometimes you think they’re not reading but some of them are. In terms of reaction, what matters is that they read. I’ve written and they’ll read. Whether good or bad, as long as the work is read. My only prayer is that the work is available for people. I just went home, first time in thirteen years. I was surprised they were selling just stationery in what used to be the biggest bookstore, no books. If they’re no novels available, people aren’t accessing books and that’s dangerous. The genealogy of our literature has always been engagement. It means there’s a disconnect somewhere. I’m hopeful, people on the ground are asking me for the book and on Facebook. I’ll be releasing it in Zim so there are ways they can access it. I hope we can work something out to make the book affordable and available in libraries.

How has being a writer in diaspora shaped your writing and how do you think it’s affected your sense of identity?

It’s quite interesting that I had to leave home to discover myself as a writer. I come from a culture where I never saw writers growing up. I read books and most of the books were by western writers. But beyond that, writing was never a career option to me. You had to be a nurse, doctor, a lawyer, which I went to the US to study or an engineer. I know that being in the diaspora for me meant I was given the golden opportunity to come into myself, to study creative writing which I wouldn’t have done in Zimbabwe. I would have studied a Masters in Finance. With the cost of leaving home came the benefit of discovery. For me it was when I embraced my Zimbabweaness more. At home, it wasn’t necessary; you’re surrounded by Zimbabweans so it was never an issue. Your race is never an issue because you’re living in a space where everyone looks like you. Then going out, you realise, I’m not from here. I’m this other thing. This other thing is not always at home in a space that can be both welcoming and marginalising. Which is why I’m obsessed with my homeland in my writing. It’s certainly made me fall in love with my roots even more. I can’t find that grounding sense of identity where I am which is why when it comes to identifying myself as a Zimbabwean writer, I feel I am. I don’t just want to be called a writer. For me that identity is important, it meant survival and grounding. We’re living in a time where technology’s so prevalent. This book wouldn’t have been written without that. I was getting on Facebook, seeing people and teachers updating about what was happening back home and that fed into the whole process.

You won the Caine Prize for Hitting Budapest. How did that help as a launch pad for your career?

When the Caine Prize is mentioned, I remember I’ve spent all the money. On a serious note, it gave me confidence especially because it happened at a time when I was just starting out. In as much as I love writing and know it’s what I’m supposed to be doing but when you’re young you really think about things. You know you’re expected to be doing something that’s more secure. You live in a practical world of bills, of supporting family especially those of us in the diaspora. You have to be sensible but it showed me that I could make it.

How important do you think the Caine Prize is for profiling African writers?

It’s the biggest prize in Africa, it’s very necessary. There aren’t so many things happening on the continent itself. It’s a western prize in a sense but that doesn’t undermine it. It’s still important, whether you’re looking at people who’ve been short listed or won, they’ve gone on to do amazing things. I’d like it to be more engaged on the continent. I know there was a workshop run which is cool. It gives people the opportunity to workshop when we don’t have a strong workshop culture. But I’d like to see a Caine Prize winner do a residency in Africa. Send that person to a school to work with kids. Young people are very impressionable and I think that would make a difference.

From Hitting Budapest, the story then evolved into a novel. Tell us about the trajectory.

It’s the first chapter in the novel so people think that it actually came first. The thing is, it actually came while I was working on the novel. It was in a different form then. When I got to Hitting Budapest, the story found its pulse. Then I had to rework the book and I reworked it a million times. Moving it forward and shaping it around these kids.

What’s your writer’s process?

I don’t have a fancy, high sounding process myself.  I try and envision a story in my head. Write as much as I can inside my head. Maybe that’s because I was brought up on hearing stories. I think of a story first versus it written down. Then I’ll write it in my notebook, edit as much as I can to get the language right. Then I bring it to the gadgets. I’m laid back and I don’t write every day. Writing isn’t always writing in terms of doing the physical act, I’m processing things in my head all the time. I’m an observer of life. I think about things and my characters. So I’m always in one way or another, involved in the process. I try not to stress, I’m not a serious person. I don’t take things seriously. There are times when I look at my work and think, that’s interesting or that could have been better! I think it’s necessary to be objective but the main thing is to enjoy what I’m doing. I enjoy it more if I don’t over think it. I just work from instincts. It’s interesting to hear intelligent people or critics discuss things I may not necessarily have worried about. You know things that just happened.

What sort of stories are you interested in telling?

I’m interested in stories that say something about who we are and engage with social issues. My art has to have meaning; it has to have people talking about things that matter. Like We Need New Names, there’s so much about that that I wanted to say. That’s what drives me for now, you never know what will come in future but to have a dialogue going and people talking about things.

Who are some of your literary influences?

The storytellers in my life, our literature is oral. There was a time when I read nothing but literature in my native language which was still for me a form of engagement. I learned so much about storytelling from those and about language itself. Then there were people like Yvonne Vera, Toni Morrison, Edward P Jones, the usual suspects. Young writers now are just creating brilliant work. Writers like Justin Torres and then you have people online who may not necessarily be published. I’m creating at a very vibrant time. It’s a good time to be a writer and of course I’m connected to young writers, Africans and otherwise. We’re having interesting conversations.

Which book do you wish you’d written and why?

I wish I’d written the bible! Seriously, everybody reads the bible. I approach the bible as a storybook. I don’t come from a seriously Christian background. As kids you didn’t have the whole picture and we were told these bible stories and they were just stories to us. I would have made it NoViolet’s bible. I may write a novel in that kind of style. Look me up in five or six years and see!

What are you working on next?

I’m working on recovering from writing and promoting We Need New Names. I’m working on a collection of stories. I’m not trying to force it, sometimes there’s this pressure to go straight onto the next book. In as much as I want something to come along, it will come along when it does.

  

John Sutherland, Judge 2013; columnist and Lord Northcliffe Emeritus Professor at UCL

Why is the standard pop music track around three minutes? Because, on the old wind-up gramophone that was as long as the steel spring could keep the disc revolving at 78rpm.

Why do films have musical ‘soundtracks’ and theatrical plays don’t? Because silent films (i.e. those before 1925) had either little orchestras, or pianists. It’s another ‘cultural inertia’ which just, somehow, hung about long after its time had gone.

Why do people dress up, and behave more ‘correctly’ at the theatre than the cinema? Because, for 200 years, theatres operated under ‘royal’ licence.

My point---one I believe in fervently---is that material circumstances condition art.

Which leads to the question I’d pose here. Why are African writers so damned good at short stories? Short, where narrative is concerned, is not easy: it requires more art.

Having just read 100 entries (the bulk of them short stories) for this year’s Caine Prize I’ve been struck by this almost universal mastery (is there a word ‘mistressy’---there should be) of the short form.

Two things particularly constitute that mastery. One is the ability to grab the reader from the first sentence. I’ll give one example, from Elnathan John’s Bayan Layi:

The boys who sleep under the Kuka tree in Bayan Layi like to boast about the people they have killed.

Twenty-five words, and the hook is in the jaw. I would defy anyone not to read on.

There’s no room here to go into the intricate techniques of short narrative. But the other thing which strikes me (and, to put my cards on the table, I come from a different literary tradition) is the control of ‘voice’. One hears, rather than reads. It’s a powerful---at times overwhelming---effect. The ears ring.

Returning to my little riff on ‘material circumstances create art’ there seem to me to be two factors at work here. African writing (it’s a strength) still has roots firmly in oral traditions. If you tell a story orally, you can’t go on too long---it’s cut to the chase from those first 25 words. The other factor is that Africa, until recently, has never had the publishing infrastructure that Europe has built up over 500 years. No HarperCollins, no Viking-Penguin . There is, I think, something uneasy-making that every major work of Chinua Achebe was given the world by courtesy of a British or American publishing house. Colonialism of the imprint. Short stories can slip past that barrier.

Having thought about this year’s Caine entries (would, incidentally, there were ten ‘first prizes’) two things give me pause for thought. Large African states do now have their own publishing industries. And a surprising number of entries for this year’s Caine are from graduates (in some cases instructors) in the thriving ‘creative writing’ classes in the US / UK. 

These two factors will, I think, bring new creative pressures onto African fiction.  How that works out is for the judges in the 2023 Caine Prize to report on. 

Leila Aboulela, Judge 2013; writer and winner of the inaugural Caine Prize in 2000

Today I finished reading all the stories submitted for this year’s Caine Prize. In February the postman had delivered a sumptuous box full of books, journals, magazines and photocopied sheets.  I opened it straight away. Inside was the future winner of the 2013 Caine Prize and I was going to play a part in discovering him or her.  What struck me first was the practicality of running a prize.  Each book, for example, had a typed label on the front cover with the name of the submitted story and the page numbers. A spread-sheet, three pages long, listed each entry by title, author, country of origin, publication and whether the story was included in a book, journal or as a photocopy (most of the photocopies were internet publications). Each of the five judges must have received an identical box.  A lot of hard work had gone into this, I thought. Running a prize was not an easy matter.

            

And would judging it be any easier? At first I dug in and read haphazardly but I had to develop some system. I decided to grade the stories.  I gave a D to those stories that should not have been published in the first place, let alone submitted. I gave a C to the mediocre ones. And I gave an A to the exceptional, outstanding ones, the kind of stories I would want to pass on to friends, the kind of stories I would be keen to recommend. As for the Bs, they intrigued me the most because here was talent that needed development, here were shy voices that needed to be raised a notch, here were first drafts that needed more work and here were flashes of brilliance bogged down by clumsy skills and what I suspected to be lack of sufficient exposure to critical reading and editorial support. Perhaps the As would forge ahead no matter what but the Bs were the ones in need of encouragement    

In conclusion, the statistics were as follows:

            A s      19 stories        18.4%

            B s      26 stories        25.2%

            C s     36 stories        35%

            D s     22 stories        21.4%

I made notes on the As and Bs and I am now looking forward to reading them again. But before I started on this next stage, I decided to jot down the top ten stories that made the biggest initial impression on first reading, the ones that stood out in my memory.   It turned out that six of them were ones I had given an A grade and four a B. Perhaps they would be the stories I would take with me to the judges’ short-list meeting, perhaps on a second reading I would swap them for others.  Have I steered away from the more brutal themes? Am I more inclined towards the domestic and emotional?  I am looking forward to discussing my choices with the other judges.  I am sure my own tastes would be challenged at times but hopefully, too, my instincts would be confirmed.

Nearly every submitted story reflected the economic, political and social difficulties of life in Africa.  The writers did not shy away from sensitive issues or gruelling realities.  But serious subject matters do not guarantee a good story.  There are other qualities that are more important – creative imagination, skills, the ability to invoke delight,  plough depth, stir drama and chart connections, a sense of place, history and culture,  characters who intrigue, an individual vision. Here are some of the notes I jotted down on the entries I judged worth re-reading, the ones that scored As and Bs

Earthy, confident writing with a sense of integrity

Poetic and strange

Chilling with a neat ending

No-nonsense rending of a familiar tale of tragedy

Spirited, universal

Creepy

Vibrant, great opening line

Confident, superb pacing

Wacky, gripping,

Fluid narrative, touching

Bold…. I want to read more from this writer.

  

Throughout the past two months I have read approximately one hundred stories and kept company with the diverse voices of African writers. A literary prize such as the Caine confers recognition, exposure and an international stamp of approval.  African writers deserve their place in the sun.  Whatever their themes, regardless of their chosen setting,  at the end of the day it is excellent writing that makes the powerful impact, it is the cream which rises to the top.

"The Africa I recognise and love" by Augustus Casely-Hayford, Chair of Judges 2013.

When earlier this year Ansar Dine fled Timbuktu pursued by the French contingent of the African-led International Support Mission, it seemed like UN Security Council Resolution 2085 had been fulfilled.

The bad guys were in the retreat, aid and support was forthcoming, and the ancient libraries of Timbuktu and the adobe shrines had been saved with barely a shot fired.

But then came the reports of a traumatised populous, of seemingly ransacked libraries and the abandoned carcasses of empty archive boxes. The unthinkable nightmare had occurred - retreating Ansar Dine had meted out an ideological scorched earth strategy, destroying or stealing some of the most valuable contents of the great libraries of Timbuktu.

They knew the significance of stories, of how libraries can be repositories of identity. If we needed reminding, it showed us again what we had learned from previous conflicts across the continent; the importance of narrative, of stories that can be used like weapons to bind peoples together more powerfully than any contract, as ideological rallying points and totems. It is as true today as when Timbuktu was home to one of the great medieval universities of the world.

In the wake of the liberation of Timbuktu, there are renewed hopes that the stories of archives emptied in the fog of war might not have been wholly accurate. They have been counteracted by new stories of salvaged manuscripts being secreted south, or even carried north to be buried in the desert. The only thing that is clear is the importance of words, the power of ancient stories, the potency of new narratives and the way in which they are charged.

Gus visited Timbuktu when he presented the "Lost Kingdoms of Africa" series for BBC 4. 

For Africans, fighting for the right to tell their stories is something that has been hard won – whether in the form of the establishment of ancient libraries, or the challenging of colonial regimes or repressive governments, words have been our allies.

It is one of the reasons why I have been a long-term Caine Prize groupie.

Over the last decade, I have read the short-listed stories, speculated on who the winners might be and, after the announcement, I have followed the subsequent writing of contributors over the years.

The true impact of this prize is difficult to calculate.

Over its lifetime there have been seismic shifts in publishing economics, distribution mechanics and international book-culture – and African and diasporic authors have been profoundly impacted - but the Caine Prize has stood as one of the few positive constants.

Looking back, the direct benefit to many of the shortlisted authors and eventual winners is clear to see, but I would imagine that Sir Michael Caine (after whom the prize was posthumously named) would have been equally proud of the more ineffable by-product, of simply reminding us of the important and particular contribution of African and diasporic writing to contemporary literature.

As I have begun to read this year’s submissions, I am once again made vividly aware of that particular voice. This is not just cutting edge writing of real quality, but at its best it offers a unique window onto Africa as it confronts the stresses and profound changes that the 21st century has bestowed upon the Continent. Caine writing does not describe the Africa of 24 Hour News, but it somehow captures that little heard voice of the loving, laughing, crying, complex Africa that I recognize and love.

African Violet: "For the beach or for the stocking."

The 2012 Caine Prize anthology African Violet has been featured on page one of WANTED Magazine's 6-page book supplement (December edition). 

"African Violet and Other Stories showcases the Caine Prize for African Writing's five shortlisted stories for 2012. The stories are diverse, veering away from the war torn, poverty stricken image of Africa. Characters have iPhones and iPads, are entangled in complicated relationships, create their own republics and even hoodwink their bosses while in the middle of a three-day bender."

We're delighted that WANTED have recommended this year's anthology as a must buy for the 'beach or for the stocking.' African Violet, as well as all the other Caine Prize anthologies, are available to buy here.

My Caine Prize story by Tolu Ogunlesi

I first heard about the Caine Prize in 2001, when Nigerian journalist Helon Habila won it. It was only in its second year; the debut prize awarded to Sudanese Leila Aboulela in 2000. I remember the Lagos Guardian’s coverage of it – as I write this, a black-and-white photo of Habila - posing next to that now-well-known statuette of the late Sir Michael Caine (former Chairman of Booker Plc, and after whom the Prize is named) - hurriedly assembles itself in my mind. 

It was a big deal in Nigerian literary circles back then; a continental prize coming to a country that, until two years earlier, was aptly captured by the following excerpt (a conversation between the young aspiring journalist Lomba, and James, editor at the weekly magazine where he works and dreams) from the collection in which Habila’s award-winning story, Love Poems, first appeared:

“You won’t find a publisher in this country because it’d be economically unwise for any publisher to waste his scarce paper to publish a novel which nobody would buy, because the people are too poor, too illiterate, and too busy trying to stay out of the way of the police and the army to read. And of course you know why paper is scarce and expensive – because of the economic sanctions placed on our country. But forget all that. Say you found an indulgent publisher to publish your book, someone who believes in this great book as much as you do; and because you are sure your book is good, you’d want to enter it for a competition – what is the most obvious competition for someone from a Commonwealth country? Of course, the Commonwealth Literary Prize. But you can’t do that.”  

 “And why not?” Lomba asks. He stands and moves to the window, away from James, so that they stare at each other, the table between them, like antagonists.

“Because Nigeria was thrown out of the Commonwealth of Nations early this morning. It was on the BBC.”

Following the 1995 extra-judicial execution of writer and activist Ken Saro-Wiwa, Nigeria had earned a suspension from the Commonwealth - only one of the many manifestations of the pariah status that defined Africa's most populous country.

Habila’s win was a huge vote of confidence in Nigerian talent. He lived and worked in Lagos as Arts Editor with a daily newspaper, and locally published the collection of stories in which the award-winning story first appeared. He was home-based in a country whose finest literary talent appeared to have fled into exile in Europe and North America.

Life changed dramatically for Habila from that moment – a two-book deal followed, as well as a fellowship at the University of East Anglia (UEA).

Helon turned out to be the first Caine winner I’d meet in person, at a British Council Festival of African Writing in Kampala in October 2005. Years later he would kindly oblige my request for a reference to accompany my application to study for a Creative Writing Masters at UEA.

In the time since, I’ve met several other Caine winners – Uganda's Monica Arac de Nyeko and Zimbabwean Brian Chikwava at a winter arts festival in Belgium, Kenyan Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor at the Storymoja Hay Festival in Nairobi, Nigerian Segun Afolabi at the Caine Prize workshop in Kenya in 2006, Nigerian EC Osondu on Krazitivity, an internet listserve I joined in the mid-2000s, and Zimbabwean NoViolet Bulawayo on Facebook. Yes, Facebook, long before she won the Prize.

And then Nigerian Rotimi Babatunde, the newest Laureate (2012), who was in Kampala as well for that 2005 conference. I recall Habila, Babatunde and I staying up and talking late into the night. I had no idea back then that I was with, not one, but two, Caine Laureates – one still seven years away from being recognised.

I’ve followed the Caine Prize quite passionately (short of being shortlisted or winning, 'following' is arguably the next best thing), submitted my stories for consideration, and attended a number of events associated with it – the annual writing workshop in March 2006 (I spent my 24^th birthday there) and the Prize dinner in 2011, where I earned the (not-dubious) honour of being the first person (even before @caineprize) to tweet the name of the winner, seconds after the announcement.

No doubt it is one of the best things to happen to writers of African origin within the last decade-and-half. It has brought several writers to international prominence, and has helped maintain the tradition of short-story writing and publishing on the continent. And you cannot tell the story of the Kenyan litmag Kwani? without mentioning the Caine Prize.

Over the next twelve months we will blog once a month – random musings and proclamations about the Caine Prize, discussions of winning stories, comparisons of the Prize to similar prizes across the continent, and random bits of rabble-rousing, if we find myself in the mood for it. We look forward to getting comments and feedback, and hopefully to having some posts inspired by readers’ comments and queries. If you think there’s anything you’d like to see covered, please drop a message in the comments box. 

The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not represent those of the Caine Prize or Raitt Orr. Tolu Ogunlesi

Vox Africa Interviews

Watch an interview with 2012 shortlisted writers Melissa Myambo and Stanley Kenani on Vox Africa with Henry Bonsu here: http://www.voxafrica.co.uk/vod/videos/?v=0_isymw4jd

Looking forward

With the exciting announcement of Rotimi Babatunde's success in winning the thirteenth Caine Prize on 2nd July for his story "Bombay's Republic" a new cycle begins for the Caine Prize.  We start promoting the anthology which includes the 2012 winning story and all the shortlisted stories as well as the ten workshop stories written in South Africa earlier in the year.  African Violet and Other Stories is published by New Internationalist  alongside six African publishers in Nigeria, Kenya, Uganda, Zambia, South Africa and Sub-Saharan Publishers in Ghana, and will soon be published by 'ama Books in Zimbabwe.  

As part of the Prize, Rotimi Babatunde will take part in this year's Open Book Festival in Cape Town between 20-24 September and events in New York to be confirmed later this year.

Rotimi Babatunde, Billy Kahora, Constance Myburgh, Stanley Kenani and Melissa Myambo will all be invited to take part in the 2013 workshop.  For a reminder of the workshop participants who contributed to African Violet here are a couple of film clips shot in South Africa back in March.  

2011 shortlisted author Lauri Kubuitsile talks to Lizzy Attree about the 2012 workshop and her story "Moving Forward" now published in the Caine Prize anthology: African Violet and other stories.

2011 Shortlisted author Beatrice Lamwaka talks to Lizzy Attree in the Book Lounge in Cape Town about the 2012 workshop and her story "Pillar of Love" now published in the Caine Prize anthology: African Violet and other stories.

Watch this space for more from our new guest blogger, Tolu Ogunlesi who will start blogging in September!

pic by Ifeyinwa Uzowulu

Maya Jaggi, Judge 2012, Cultural journalist and critic

I was in the Arctic last week to interview one of Africa's leading novelists. Nuruddin Farah - who now lives in Cape Town - was in Norway's far north to tell a gathering of Ibsen experts by the sea about the impact of the great Norwegian playwright on his fiction. Henrik Ibsen's dramas spoke across centuries, continents and languages to a Somali would-be writer already disturbed by the constraints on women in his own society.

Africa's stories, such as Farah's, now captivate readers around the globe, much as Ibsen's plays have done. They reveal truths to them, not only about aspects of the immense African continent, but about their own lives. As Wole Soyinka responded when I once told him of some critics' surprise at the universality of his writing: "The universal always comes out of the particular, whether you're French or Russian or Nigerian. I'm surprised they're surprised."

As a critic (and previous Caine prize judge in 2006), I don't prescribe - or proscribe - writers' subject-matter. Writers are often chosen by their subjects, rather than the other way round. More at issue are the language, artistry and imagination with which those subjects are handled. As this year's shortlist illustrates, far from being a throat-clearing exercise for the heroic task of the novel, a fine short story can contain a universe.

Chirikure Chirikure, Judge 2012, writer, poet, editor

For me, going through the Caine Prize 2012 entries was a wonderful safari across the width and breadth of the African continent.  With some of the stories set in Francophone parts of the continent, this meant that the safari was not limited to Anglophone Africa only. What an eye-opening trip!

The experience was as varied as the continent is. The textures, tones, flairs and colours of the narratives were a true representation of the diverse and yet comparable cultures of the continent.  The traditional oral approach was as equally represented as the modern, contemporary, experimental voice. The stories were also a sincere reflection of the present-day realities of Africa.

Physical travel from one part of Africa to another is a great challenge. Analysing and awarding points to the different continental voices is an even more daunting task.  But I am grateful to my experience as a publisher, critic and creative artist. And to the wonderful, well focussed panel of judges.  It made it easier to eventually make decisions which, hopefully, celebrate the success of contemporary story writing and also shape the future for the African narrative.

The African story will forever remain a crucial element in the schemes of things artistic. Positive initiatives such as the Caine Prize are invaluable vehicles which deserve as much song and dance to keep them energised and stimulated. The true story of the African narrative is always in conception, developing with vigour. But any smooth, safe birth always requires a committed midwife.

My greatest wish is for the Caine Prize to remain as bold and solid as the baobab tree. Its role in bringing the African experience to the arms of the broader society of the world is noble.  This virtuous initiative also helps in bridging the distances between African nations and cultures.

May the muse keep lighting up the path for the African short story writer!

Nima Elbagir, Judge 2012, International Correspondent for CNN

Whenever I travel around the continent or when I meet fellow Africans elsewhere around the world and they find out I’m a journalist I’m invariably asked the same question; why does the news out of Africa always have to be so unrelentingly bad?

It’s not.

Even just at CNN we have three separate Africa feature strands and so do many of our competitors but I can understand why people still feel this way.

For years it felt like there was only one narrative when it came to Africa and it was not a narrative that we as Africans had any control over.

That has changed as more and more Africans have picked up pens and cameras and taken ownership of their stories.

Reading through the Caine Prize entries really brought home to me what that ownership has brought with it; a conviction that our stories - whether the real or the imagined - have value.

I said at the beginning of the judging that I was looking for stories that were informed by an "Africanness" but managed to avoid the cliched and predictable.

Nebulous I know but I found that and more.

None of these stories carried the baggage of Africa the unfamiliar or Africa the “exotic”.

None relied on the niche or the novel to carry the reader with them. Instead there was a real confidence that their voices – unwatered down to pander to a ”western” palate- were compelling enough, that the truths universal.

Samantha Pinto, Judge 2012, Assistant Professor, Georgetown University

Besides seconding everything that Bernardine Evaristo, in her inaugural Caine Prize blog post, had to say about the Caine Prize and African writing, it is hard to know what to add.  As a second-time judge (my first go-round was 2010), I appreciate her candor and her passion for African writing that does not fit the expected mold.   And as a professor of African literature at Georgetown, an American university, I think about how the West imagines Africa every day.  

Now, challenging others’ ideas about the continent is certainly not the job or primary concern of an African writer. But it is my job, explicitly, every time I teach contemporary African literature and culture. So it is with that in mind that I approach the Caine Prize entries. How are these stories engaging and representing the diversity and innovation of modern African culture?  How do these stories draw in line with the classics of contemporary African literature, and how might they also or instead relate to other forms of media on the continent, from Nollywood to Kwani? to genre fiction?  Where would I place them on a syllabus—and how can I imagine my students receiving them?  Does the writing, in form and/or in content, give us something new and substantial to read, something not easily forgotten?

The Caine Prize has the potential to say “yes” to this last question every year with its shortlist and its winning story.   In this, its generic rules itself are in line with our global, technologically advanced times.  As Jackie Kay, a Scottish writer of African descent, said recently in the Guardian, "I think the short story is perfect for our time, and perfect for people's time . . . You can read a short story in your lunch hour or before you go to sleep and it's a complete experience. You can carry the story around with you in your head and if you put it down in a large field it should still glow because of its intensity."   I hope as a judge to find this intensity in the short fiction submitted for the Caine Prize;  I hope as a teacher that my students learn to carry some of these beautifully crafted stories into a much larger conversation about Africa than the one that exists in mainstream American media.

Bernardine Evaristo, Chair of Judges 2012, writer and poet

The Caine Prize has been instrumental in revitalizing African fiction, through both the prize and its annual creative writing workshops in Africa. We must remind ourselves that twelve years ago it seemed to be almost impossible for new African writers to get published beyond the continent, and certainly not in the UK. I can now think of scores of fiction writers published internationally in the past decade, many of whom have been touched, in some way, by the Caine Prize and its workshops.

So this prize is more than just another award that will sprinkle fairy dust on a single, lucky writer every year  – it is a force for change; it heralds what is new, excellent and exciting in short African fiction, which is usually a stepping stone to the longer form – the novel. This is why the responsibility involved in chairing this particular prize is greater than usual. There are five of us judges from the Sudan, Zimbabwe, the UK and USA and we are currently whittling down the entries. Who knows what stories will gain enough consensus to make the shortlist, a consensus based on our shared understanding of what constitutes top quality literature that, in my previous judging experience, might not accommodate maverick writing and interests.

I’m looking for stories about Africa that enlarge our concept of the continent beyond the familiar images that dominate the media: War-torn Africa, Starving Africa, Corrupt Africa - in short: The Tragic Continent. I’ve been banging on about this for years because while we are all aware of these negative realities, and some African writers have written great novels along these lines (as was necessary, crucial), isn’t it time now to move on? Or rather, for other kinds of African novels to be internationally celebrated. What other aspects of this most heterogeneous of continents are being explored through the imaginations of writers?

I’m also looking for stories that display a strong, original streak, a writer who has a narrative voice, command of craft and ways of seeing that are different, fresh. I’d rather a story is provocative and unsettling rather than familiar, safe and perfectly accomplished. Yet risk-takers are rare. Among the submissions I’ve encountered a lot of uninspired prose that feels so dated, so Middle England circa 1950s, even though it might have been written in Central Africa in 2012. Luckily there are a few adventurers too. But we need more experimentation and daring, stunning image-makers and linguistic explorers who might, for example, infuse English with an African language or syntax. Not necessarily pidgin, but perhaps something else, something new – the English language (and forms) adapted, mutated, re-invented to suit African perspectives and cultures.

The age-old question remains – are too many African writers writing for the approval of non-African readerships, such as the big, international markets in Europe and America? It is understandable, of course, because these are the predominant publishing outlets. Certainly in Britain the taste-makers are, almost without exception, not African in origin. I ask myself - to what extent does published African fiction pander to received notions about the continent, and at what cost? How might this contract the imagination and reduce expectations for readers and writers alike.

For African fiction to remain more than a passing fad on the world stage it needs to diversify more than it does at present. What about crime fiction, science fiction, fantasy, horror, more history, chick lit? To be as diverse as, for example, European literature and its myriad manifestations. Imagine if the idea of ‘European Literature’ only evoked novels about the holocaust, communist gulags and twentieth century dictatorships. I’m looking forward to the time when the concept of ‘African literature’ also cannot be defined; when it equates to infinite possibilities and, as with Europe, there are thousands of disparate, published writers, with careers at every level and reaching every kind of reader.