Over the past weeks I've been in a forced hibernation. My soul had cringed at the barrage of negative events and news in the past weeks. At the home front, the absence of my Head of State for more than two months, sick in an undisclosed hospital in Saudi Arabia, has literally ground my dear country to a halt. Then as if that wasn't enough the earthquake in Haiti struck. And then, those of us interested in Obama registering some success were brought back to the stark realities of American politics when one Scott Brown won the Massachusetts special election. I wanted some good news, something to assure me that my world was not coming to an end. This, of course, kept me away from my blog, for I couldn't even think correctly much more type.
I stumbled upon this beautiful piece on the question of African writer by Ikhide. It somehow reminded me of my duty as an African writer, someone who owes something to the black world, whether I like it or not.
Here's Ikhide:
"Much has been made about recent statements ascribed to Zimbabwean writer Petina Gappah, in which she expressed unease at being called an African writer." ENJOY!
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