Writing in the dark: A conversation between Akal Mohan & Mukandi Siame
Akal: First, how are you? How is the frustration from ZESCO taking you? What effects is it having on your writing and your creative writing generally?
Mukandi: ZESCO is costing me hours of productivity. I work a full time job and I like being honest and giving my employers the time they pay me for, but with writing deadlines and personal gratification, it’s hard.
Sometimes I sit at restaurants to write, but miss the intimacy of writing in my own space.
I wrote my most recent story by hand in pencil, I’ve had to trust myself again and just chase the story then clean it up after.
I haven’t figured out what else I can do in those moments of darkness. Eventually I’ll have to make my writing practice more flexible I think.
Akal: I am in Kenya, and KPLC doesn't do us so much dirt, but the electricity bills are crazy. I guess Africa will always be Africa, and our leaders will always be people from the same cloth.
Anyway, recently, Mubanga who is the editor in chief at Ubwali reminded me that there is no God like a mother a quote from Stay With Me by Ayobami Adebayo.Your essay, Like Mother, that got you shortlisted for the Hope Prize, affirms this quote from the way you center her all the way through. She is there in love and in divorce and in grief. You even describe her love as “preserving and persevering and saving.” Talk to us on what was the urge to center her, and by large what writing this piece meant to you.
Mukandi: Electricity wasn’t always expensive here then they started sneaking in higher tariffs ––maybe one day the off grid dream will be achieved and we will live off solar and wind energy outside of the effects of ZESCO and KPLC.
I’ve been writing a poem, it’s not out yet but it juxtaposes how I feel about my body with how I feel about my mother.
It’s a love that comes from dependency and need and a relationship that’s often taken for granted.
I recently moved back home and started seeing my mother as a human being and was humbled to see how much I am like her. I thought I was better than her, because I have my father in me. But I discovered that I’m not––I am just like her and in that, I can only hope that I have all her strengths and manage to evolve past our shared weaknesses.
Writing Like Mother was my way of unpacking those complex feelings of profound respect, compassion, worship for something/someone I’ll never fully understand.
Then something unexpected happened, I found that I couldn’t talk about my mother without talking about my father. He died in 2012 and the raw part of the grief has faded but he is still gone. That’s what brought the feelings of loss into the essay. When you’re robbed, the police ask for a list of what you have lost. So the grief made me list all that I’ve lost: my sister, my father, the homes, the dogs, my marriage––
Akal: This makes sense. You know, in writing your mother, I am awed by the boldness you exude in making her human. To write her flaws and, in certain instances, expose her vulnerabilities. Many nonfiction pieces on motherhood are always a portrayal of mothers being guardian angels - whose lives are covered in perfection. You, in your words, reveal that she has(had) smooth flaws. You also know her secrets that you can't begin to uncover but you enjoy revealing them one at a time.
The question I am leading towards is the idea that parents are expected to be perfect. Their cries should be stifled, they aren’t to fail. How important is it for children to understand that parents are not super-humans?
Mukandi: I think it’s a mixed privilege because I was aware of my parents’ imperfections from day one.
I’m Christian and grew up reading the Bible for fun, when I’d read of a loving God sending fire, flood and being jealous I’d think hmm that’s familiar.
I am aware of the humanity of my parents, the dichotomy of it.
It’s why I’m afraid of being a parent because I know that having a child won’t magically turn me into an angel.
Akal: I recently learnt about the impact of understanding the humanity of our parents and heroes really, when Mukoma came out to talk about the violence of his father on his mother. After trolls, he reaffirmed his statement by insisting that talking about his father beating his mom doesn't mean he loves him any less. A sentence in your piece caught my eyes, true secrets go unspoken. It might be in a different context, but could you talk a bit about familial silences? Do they really provide safety especially in places where there are victims?
Mukandi: Children quickly pick up on what is a good thing or a bad thing to say, while some people learn to lie, I learned how to conceal and keep a safe distance away from the reality of some secrets. Communication in the African context has the cultural layer of fear. When coupled with the need for acceptance and validation, the fear of conflict, loss, misunderstanding and rejection can make almost anything become a secret. In that environment I see how abuse can hide, and I don’t think it’s safety, it’s all just fear of the outcome of secrets being revealed. Sometimes that fear is worse than the secret itself.
Akal: I get what you are saying here. Fear could be that thing that inhibits anyone from revealing a secret, but to elevate this, what do you think happens when secrets lose their mysteries? When that thing that you so afraid of revealing finally is revealed, what is the worst that happens?
Mukandi: Maybe secrets become secrets because of consequences. They get their power from their environment. When I write non fiction, I am always aware of secrets. Firstly I’ve been nurtured to hold things close, secondly, I am aware that something that could be a common knowledge to me could be a secret to someone else.
In Like Mother, I touched on some events, personal thoughts that may have been secrets at one time but aren’t anymore.
That is the thing about secrets, they have time, place, company that creates them. We decide what a secret is.
When secrets come out they give room for discussion, exploration and understanding. There’s more than one side to a story, even a secret one.
The thing that happens when a secret is revealed is the instant freedom. When all parts are exposed there’s a participation, engagement from everyone who has had to carry it. Transparency can build intimacy, a sense of community that wouldn’t have existed in the dark, lonely confines of secrecy.
Akal: I am sure you have received a number of congratulatory messages after being shortlisted for the Hope Prize. However, being identified for a prize isn’t new to you. You have been previously shortlisted for Kalemba Short Story Prize and Women Writers Award. What impact has the shortlisting had on your work?
Mukandi: The Zambia Women’s Writers Award was the first I ever got. I remember submitting 3 hard copies of my story Landing On Clouds. It was such a vulnerable moment. By walking to the National Arts Council building and showing up, I was telling other people that I wanted to be a writer and I wanted to be seen, validated and rewarded. That feeling has never gone away. I love writing but the vulnerability of sharing has never left - I guess that’s why they are called submissions 🫢 you have to lay yourself down according to the judge’s and readers’ standards.
With the internet, there’s more submissions and real time responses from people as they read - strangers and friends alike. It is very validating because we all experience art and literature subjectively - art is like humour, you either get it or you don’t. Writing is a very intimate, enjoyable experience for me. When people tell me they enjoy my writing, I feel like they are a part of that personal enjoyment and have made it their own. I like when people take my writing and own it. I like it when they introspect or argue with it.
Being shortlisted is the push I needed to take myself seriously as a writer, to find some education, leadership, and structure.
Yesterday, someone told me that you have to be brave to be the writer you want to be. This shortlisting has made me brave.
Akal: All I have to say regarding this is congratulations and all the best. I also hope that the situation with ZESCO gets reconciled soon so that you can get back to writing.
It has been great talking to you Mukandi.
Mukandi: Thank you very much.
It feels like Ubwali is opening a new page for writing to be done in a new way, the process, the masterclasses, the prize all represent that. It’s a Hope backed by action. I’m so honoured, but also challenged to keep going so that we see how far we can all go.
I appreciate the time taken, have a good day ☺.
AKAL MOHAN is a Kenyan short story writer, essayist and poet. He has previously been shortlisted for the Africa Writers’ Award in poetry. Akal is also a 2023 Idembeka Creative Writing fellow and Ibua Novel Manuscript workshop attendee. In 2022, he was a recipient of two digital residencies organised by the University of East Anglia, one of which resulted in a short story collection that he contributed to. Akal reads in trust and writes in faith. He is an editorial assistant at Ubwali Literary Magazine.
MUKANDI SIAME is a writer and brand strategist devoted to books, dogs and one-pot rice dishes. Her short stories Landing On Clouds and No Strings Attached were runner-ups in the Zambia Women Writers Award and Kalemba Short Story Prize 2023, respectively. She contributes to Nkwazi, and AFREADA and writes a personal newsletter called Kandi’s Notes. She believes great stories can change the world. She is shortlisted for the inaugural Ubwali Hope Prize for her essay Like Mother.
