By Chris Abani
"The second you input those pages, you step right into a attractive and terrifying dream. you're within the arms of a grasp, a literary shaman. Abani casts his spell so completely—so devastatingly—you emerge cleansed, redeemed, and completely haunted."—Brad Kessler, writer of Birds in Fall
Part Inferno, half Paradise Lost, and half Sunjiata epic, Song for Night is the tale of a West African boy soldier’s lyrical, terrifying, but attractive trip in the course of the nightmare panorama of a brutal conflict looking for his misplaced platoon. The reader is led by way of the unvoiced protagonist who, as a part of a land mine-clearing platoon, had his vocal chords minimize, a circulation to maintain those teenagers from screaming while blown up, and thereby distracting the opposite minesweepers. The booklet is written in a ghostly voice, with each one bankruptcy headed through a line of the original signal language those kids invented. This publication is in contrast to anything ever written approximately an African war.
Chris Abani is a Nigerian poet and novelist and the writer of The Virgin of Flames, Becoming Abigail (a New York Times Editor’s Choice), and GraceLand (a number of the Today Show booklet membership and winner of the 2005 PEN/Hemingway Prize and the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award). His different prizes comprise a PEN Freedom to write down Award, a Prince Claus Award, and a Lannan Literary Fellowship. He lives and teaches in California.
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Extra resources for Song for Night: A Novella
Subsequent I lob one other eco-friendly grenade at a spilt basket. there's the crunch of a melon exposing its crimson innards. No explosion, this means that no booby-traps. I get up and stroll towards the village. it's not that i am frightened approximately mines. If there have been any, the animals could have both all died or left the village. Methodically I start to ransack the huts, trying to find something of worth. someplace alongside the way in which I misplaced the bag of foodstuff I took from the stash within the wooded area clearing. The ordinary factor is, I don’t consider while or how, and it truly is curious that I haven’t encounter one other stash, yet even odder is that I don’t appear to care. whilst I paintings, i'm disturbed by way of this invasion of alternative people’s lives. within the sand via my ft are a few black-and-white images of a family members. I bend and choose one up. the mum, stern and good made up, stares stonily on the digicam. the daddy has a sheepish grin. there's a child, mouth open in a contented gurgle. Embarrassed, I drop it. i locate a few palm oil, suits, salt, and spices. I stuff them right into a raffia bag and stand, the bag striking from one shoulder, my gun slung around the different, the bayonet, disconnected, tied to my boot. I gentle a cigarette, for the 1st time noticing the spent shell casings littering the ground like peanut husks. i glance round me. there's a hill emerging above every little thing within the distance. most likely the final a part of the diversity I left past. anything that has been niggling behind my brain for days abruptly turns into crystal—I haven’t heard the heritage rumble of mortar and shell hearth for some time. What does it suggest? I stub out my cigarette and head off. I hack a direction during the bush with a stolen machete, strolling for hours, preventing to leisure just once, to reap a few yams from an deserted farm. it really is past due afternoon prior to I stumble upon the bottom of the hill. I climb to its flat most sensible which spreads out like a eco-friendly tablecloth noticed with hot yellow daisies and the blood of poppies, collapsing in a drained heap with an exclamation of pent-up breath. I lie heaving lightly within the backwash of the environment solar, all mauve and red pastels. A valley dances misty-eyed manner lower than, hiding the village in a cleft within the earth, a fold, sprouting a thick tuft of greenery, humping ever somewhat like a pudendum. I mild one other cigarette from my endless pack and inhale deeply, the tough odor cracking the wonder which jogs my memory of my youth; of the 1st gulp of air after I surfaced from my first time underwater for a couple of minutes, underneath Grandfather’s alert watch. i wished to take all of it into me and carry it there, indefinitely, the teeth sinking in startled gasps into its fudge sweetness, and but it burned with a ache that introduced tears to my eyes. As evening falls back, I jerk again from the fireplace during which i'm roasting yams, howling from my burns as I haul one out from the new coals and onto an incredible eco-friendly leaf. I minimize it into items with my bayonet and the warmth steams up from the chunks, misting the darkish in gentle white clouds. I thaw a few palm oil through the hearth and weigh down salty herbs into it.