Any submission with an African element is always welcomed – the continent is so under-represented, although there are many contemporary African writers if you care to look for them. However, standards are standards. Does this submission make the grade?
Title: Azhar
Genre: Fantasy
Language: British English
Synopsis: The living and the dead are at war. At the middle of it all is Azhar, a creation of the Mother Ancestress, whose destiny is to bring peace to the Realm. Problem is; she can’t be bothered to pick a side.
Text:
Gourd in hand, Azhar listened to the vague and empty chatter of her company, hardly understanding a word of it. She wore an amused smile, watching her inebriated mother-in-law dance out of step with the other women. That was the only part of the celebrations she’d found entertaining so far.
The aroma of fried yam, cowpea and okra stew perfumed the air. It was a reprieve from the humid shrine her family had prayed in—from high noon to dusk— as the Shaman offered an ox as sacrifice to the Ancestors. She’d had enough of those rituals. All she’d wanted was a simple feast like the ones she had at Kantle with plenty of liquor, Grandma’s savoury fried fish and her uncles’ drunk but well-meaning speeches.
“Don’t you agree, Azhar?” asked her sister-in-law.
She blinked out of her stupor, having downed half a calabash of sour sorghum beer, on an empty stomach.
“Did you say something?” she slurred.
Leaning towards her, Shani repeated, “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are.” Turning to her niece, she mouthed, “Right about what?”
“The Impundulu,” answered the child. “Mama says they drink the blood of naughty little children.”
Azhar wrinkled her forehead. “Don’t listen to your mama. My Grandma told me they’re lovely creatures. Do you know they like milk just like you?”
“Really, Aunty?” Azhar nodded.
Shani scoffed. “They steal milk from human beings. They also suck away your breath until you die.”
“They kill people?” asked her niece.
“It hasn’t been proven yet.”
“My point is,” Shani interrupted, glaring at Azhar, “if you don’t eat your vegetables, you won’t be strong enough to fight it when it attacks you.”
The child pouted, looking to Azhar for confirmation. “I’m afraid your mama is right on that one, Ama. You must eat vegetables if you want to protect yourself against harmful creatures.”
Ama sighed and grabbed the bowl, filling it with cowpeas.
Turning to Shani, Azhar asked, “Are you still having nightmares? Even with the sleeping draught?” Shani nodded. “And it’s the same one every night?”
“Yes. Maybe the baby’s a seer or a diviner?”
“Or even the next High Priestess of Cyrad.”
“Do you really think so?” Azhar cocked an eyebrow, her lips curved in a quasi smile. “I’m serious.”
“As am I. I think you’re stressed with the child coming soon. Your fatigue is revealing itself. It does in different ways; from nightmares, to hallucinations, to–”
“Drinking?”
Azhar spluttered. She’d walked right into that one. “My point is don’t look too much into it.”
“But what if the Ancestors are trying to send us a message?”
“They’ve already got the Shaman for that.”
“I know. It’s just… Do you ever feel like the Ancestors are trying to tell you something?”
“No.”
It was getting late so Shani left to put Ama to bed. Seated alone, Azhar searched for her husband, her eyes darting across the field. He should have arrived by now.
“Enjoying yourself?” asked Rudo, startling her. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”
“You did not scare me,” she snapped.
He put his hands up in defence, though a cheeky smile crossed his youthful face. “Let’s get some air,” he offered, and they walked towards the gravel path of the burial grounds in respectful silence.
The cold wind howled as it blew around them, rustling the flowered weeds strewn on Mandla’s grave. She would have someone dig them out in the morning.
“Would you like to say something?” Rudo asked.
Azhar licked her dry lips. “No.”
“He misses you too.”
She blinked back tears. The grave renewed grief in her heart. It echoed in the emptiness of her loss. She wanted to leave. Her fingers spasmed, itching for another gourd of beer. It was always easier to drink away the pain.
He took her hands in his. “You were doing better before I left.”
“You’re not to blame. I did this to myself.”
Rudo fixed his eyes on her. She could tell he wanted a more detailed explanation, so she chose to distract his attention.
“Tell me, how did your scouting go?” she asked.
“I crossed the border. Got as far as Kantle. Saw your grandmother.” He flung her an accusing look with the last statement. She’d found it difficult to write, especially to Grandma, since Mandla’s funeral.
Again, she skirted the topic. “Did you see the leopards I told you about?”
“No. I did ride a buffalo though.”
“Did you?” She gasped in excitement. “I never got the chance.”
“Small as you are, it would’ve thrown you off.” Azhar levelled a mock glare at him. “I brought you sage wood as you asked.”
“Thank you. Was it difficult to find?”
“No. What’s it for?”
“Oils for Shani and myself.” He perked up at that. “Not for what you’re thinking.”
Rudo swallowed. The situation had turned awkward quickly. He furrowed his eyebrows as if remembering something, then took out a single agapanthus lily attached to his belt. “I picked this for you.”
Azhar blushed. “It’s lovely,” she mumbled.
He tucked the flower in her charcoal black Afro. He leaned back, his dirt brown eyes observing his handiwork. She looked away, attempting to hide her face in her hands.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you… Are you comfortable with our arrangement?” she asked. He’d married her out of necessity. Often, she’d found herself wondering whether he wished for a second or third wife. She wouldn’t complain.
“I’m not looking to marry any other woman.” As reassuring as that was, he was still a full-blooded man. Surely, he needed to indulge in his carnal pleasures.
“I haven’t thanked you enough for all you’ve done for me.”
His face fell. “Azhar–”
“I really think you ought to consider–”
“Listen–”
“You’re allowed to take another–”
Editorial comment:
It’s a curious piece, this one. It starts quite engagingly, a detailed description of some kind of African feast, a ritual, and an outsider sitting on the outskirts of it, not really joining in, just observing. The contradictions start with the introduction of the dialogue. We initially think that the point of view (PoV) character is critical of her “inebriated mother-in-law”, but it turns out she’s quite inebriated herself. Then with the dialogue beginning “Then, turning to Shani …” I quickly get lost as to who is doing the talking, which is one of the most frustrating things to encounter as a reader. Any way I try to parse the lines …
“Yes. Maybe the baby’s a seer or a diviner?”
“Or even the next High Priestess of Cyrad.”
“Do you really think so?” Azhar cocked an eyebrow, her lips curved in a quasi smile. “I’m serious.”
“As am I. I think you’re stressed with the child coming soon. Your fatigue is revealing itself. It does in different ways; from nightmares, to hallucinations, to–”
“Drinking?”
… I can’t work out who is talking to whom. I think there are two lines of dialogue belonging to different people on the same line, or the same person talking on different lines, or something, however I try to work it back. This is a problem I can do without when I’m trying to read a passage, and particularly when I’m reading the first few pages of a new book. Who is pregnant? We have to read on quite a bit further to find out that it’s not likely to be Azhar, even though she’s a married woman.
Then, as if you simply tired of this scene, it abruptly ends, with Shani disappearing off to put her child to bed. There’s an equally abrupt transition when Azhar, having thought about her husband, is surprised when he suddenly materialises beside her. They take a walk to the graveyard for a bit of fresh air, as you do, and it comes to light that their relationship is not the conventional one at all.
This could all be leading somewhere quite interesting. In your submission you included another 500 words, when things get altogether more startling, but unfortunately, I don’t think an agent will have read that far before they put this down and moved on to the next book. To get an agent hooked as soon as possible is why I only allow the first 1000 words of a submission.
I think you need to think quite hard about your scenes. There doesn’t seem to be any particular relevance to the ritual scene. Why is it included? For it to be included, a scene must have some kind of effect on at least one character in it. The conversation we read is fairly innocuous, and doesn’t seem to draw any conclusions. The characters could equally well be washing clothes in the river, or discussing the traffic in downtown Nairobi. We’ve learned almost nothing about any of the characters, certainly nothing about the major character, who we guess, at this stage, is Azhar, given the title). And then the transitions between scenes need to be more effectively managed. One scene here just ends with two out of the three characters in it getting up and leaving. There’s no conclusion, no last poignant words, nothing left for us or the character to think about. The next scene arrives with the PoV character thinking about someone, and the next moment that person has materialised, as if by magic, at her elbow. This is a little clumsy, to say the least. Ideally she should have been thinking about her husband’s absence in the previous scene, instead of just watching her mother-in-law break-dancing, in a sorghum-beer-laced
haze.
It’s a promising start, but needs work. Sort out your dialogue attributions, and think about the scenes. Every scene should have a reason for being there. Something should happen in each scene, usually to the main PoV character present in the scene. Otherwise, you have to wonder, why include it, if nothing happens?
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