We mourn them, but are thankful that their words still inspire and urge us on.
Countless other writers, past and present, deserve to be celebrated alongside those in these pages, and indeed in any company, and we stand on the shoulders of many. Restrictions of space, time and resources are the blight of every fantasist anthologist.
There are those on whom the spotlight will always shine, those whom the cameras seek out, yet who sometimes yearn for anonymity. For others, to bask in reflected glory is enough, to see our sisters triumph and take curtain calls, to stand tall while giving others a well-deserved standing ovation. Yet the imagination respects no hierarchy. There will be names within these pages that are, as yet, unfamiliar to many readers but deserving of as much attention as the household names.
My ambition was and is to shine a light on as many as possible of the deserving, whether or not they are acknowledged or lauded by the gatekeepers, who traditionally single out a privileged few, seemingly never too many to rock the boat. But the boat is going nowhere if it is content to drift in stagnating water.
In November 2018, Canadian contributor Esi Edugyan added another award, a second Giller Prize, to her enviable collection. Her thoughtful and perceptive essay, “The Wrong Door: Some Meditations on Solitude and Writing”, provides a caveat to the celebrity that many an aspirant craves:
I think it would come as a surprise to most readers to learn that most writers in their middle to late careers regard with nostalgia their days of obscurity. I remember being puzzled when a writing professor sat us down and told us to savour our collegiate days, because our motives for writing would never again be this pure. We dismissed her as jaded, and longed for the days when we would see our words bound and prominently displayed in the local bookstore.
. . . But I understand now too that what she was speaking of was a certain lack of privacy, a certain public spotlight that can begin to erode not only our artistic confidence but even motive, the very impetus for writing in the first place. I have spoken to a German writer who after publishing an international bestseller thirteen years ago struggles to write, paralyzed by the idea of tarnishing his own reputation with an unlikeable follow-up. I have spoken to an American writer who was so badly shamed for an extra-literary occurrence that she cannot bring herself to enter again the public sphere. All of these tragedies are tragedies of exposure, and they speak to the very fundamental need for an area of silence, a room of, yes, one’s own.
I feel undeterred in my proselytizing for greater visibility for women writers of African descent, which until relatively recently I had thought that I began doing toward the end of the 1980s, when I began to work on compiling Daughters of Africa. However, while searching through the archive of papers surrounding me at home, I happened on a letter from Wole Soyinka (who in 1986 made us all proud by becoming the first African to be awarded the Nobel Prize for literature). In 1975, while he was editor of Transition magazine, he wrote me a letter responding to something I had said when our paths had crossed in London and I had seemingly berated him for not including enough women in an anthology he had recently curated. His warm response read, in part: “It goes to show—the proportion of women poets never did occur to me—a greater testimony to my non-sexist outlook I cannot imagine! But seriously though, it’s quite true, and I am sure you wouldn’t have wanted double standards applied in selection. But you are right to point it out. I know that in the next edition I will especially search for poetry by women.” Thank you, Prof, for speaking out boldly against male monopoly as recently as December 2018 at the award ceremony for the prize that bears your name, which I was honored to judge—and which was won jointly by a man and a woman—take a bow, Harriet Anena from Uganda.
Long may those handsome garlands keep coming. For my part, I award every woman—more than 200 of you—who did me the honor of accepting my invitation to feature in this anthology the Venerable Order of True African Sisterhood. May you wear it proudly! A legacy of New Daughters of Africa that has been facilitated by your generously waiving your usual fees is a major new scholarship at London University’s School of Oriental Studies (SOAS). This will directly benefit African women, making possible a course of study free of the worry of fees and accommodation costs.
And may all who find their way to this anthology, regardless of gender, class or race, feast well on its banquet of words.
Margaret Busby
Pre-1900
Nana Asma’u
(1793–1863)
An inspirational West African poet, social activist and scholar, who remains a revered figure in northern Nigeria, she was the daughter of the founder of the 19th-century Sokoto Caliphate. She is variously held up as an example of education and independence of women possible under Islam, and as a precursor to modern feminism in Africa. Historical narratives, laments and admonitions are among her more than 60 surviving works, written over 40 years, including a large body of poetry in Arabic, Fulani and Hausa. She wrote two elegies to her lifelong friend ‘Aysha, moving expressions of personal grief (“I am desolate over losing her . . . my confidante from our earliest days”) and revealing of the mutually supportive relationship the women shared. The Collected Works of Nana Asma’u, daughter of Usman dan Fodiyo 1793–1864, edited by Jean Boyd and Beverly B. Mack, was published in 1997.
From “Lamentation for ’Aysha II”
This is the poem of Asma’u, daughter of our Shaykh Uthman d’an Fodiyo, in lamentation of her friend and dear one, ’Aysha, the daughter of Umaru Alkammu.
Oh, my eyes weep liberally for my loved one
as a consolation for my grief and a companion for my gloom.
Shed copious tears for the loss of ’Aysha
the noblest of my dear ones of my age group, my friend . . .
This poem was written because there is no one else like her
from among the Brethren. How long my nights dwell on her.
How often she helped me to forget my own grief
and how often she helped me most kindly.
The depth of my sadness and loneliness after her death has grown
The depth of my sadness and loneliness after her death has grown
O the multitude of sorrows, the deepening of my gloom!
Know you not that love, when firmly established, is priceless?
There is no child who could make me forget that love
and no brother, nothing that could soothe me, not even all
sorts of riches.
Therefore my heart withers from worrying:
sigh after sigh rises up from my grief;
Tears have continued to flow constantly
as if they would never dwindle or cease . . .
I cry for her with tears of compassion
and of longing and sympathy for her, and loving friendship . . .
Sarah Parker Remond
(1815–1894)
Born in Salem, Massachusetts, she grew up in an educated and abolitionist household. She became, along with her brother Charles Lenox Remond, a respected speaker for the American anti-slavery movement, and gained wide acclaim as one of the few Black women anti-slavery orators during lecture tours of Ireland and England between 1859 and 1861. While in Britain, she studied the classics at Bedford College for Women (later part of the University of London and now merged with Royal Holloway College). She stayed at the home of the honorary secretary of the Ladies’ London Emancipation Society and was among the 1,500 signatories to a petition requesting the right of women to vote, prepared in 1866. In her forties, she moved to Florence, retrained as a doctor, and in 1877, married Sardinian painter Lazzaro Pintor Cabras. She never returned to the United States and remained in Italy until her death.
Why Slavery is Still Rampant
Although the anti-slavery enterprise was begun some thirty years ago, the evil is still rampant in the land. As there are some young people present—and I am glad to see them here, for it is important that they should understand this subject—I shall briefly e
xplain that there are thirty-two states, sixteen of which are free and sixteen slave states. The free states are in the north. The political feelings in the north and south are essentially different, so is the social life. In the north, democracy, not what the Americans call democracy, but the true principle of equal rights, prevails—I speak of the white population, mind—wealth is abundant; the country, in every material sense, flourishes. In the south, aristocratic feelings prevail, labor is dishonorable, and five millions of poor whites live in the most degrading ignorance and destitution. I might dwell long on the miserable condition of these poor whites, the indirect victims of slavery; but I must go on to speak of the four millions of slaves. The slaves are essentially things, with no rights, political, social, domestic, or religious; the absolute victims of all but irresponsible power. For the slave there is no home, no love, no hope, no help; and what is life without hope? No writer can describe the slave’s life; it cannot be told; the fullest description ever given to the world does not skim over the surface of this subject. You may infer something of the state of society in the southern states when I tell you there are eight hundred thousand mulattoes, nine-tenths of whom are the children of white fathers, and these are constantly sold by their parents, for the slave follows the condition of the mother. Hence we see every shade of complexion amongst the slaves, from the blackest African hue to that of women and men in whose cheeks the lily and the rose vie for pre-dominance. To describe to you the miserable poor whites of the south, I need only quote the words of Mr. Helper, a Southerner, in his important work on slavery and the testimony also of a Virginian gentleman of my acquaintance. The five millions poor whites are most of them in as gross a state of ignorance as Mrs. Stowe’s “Topsey” in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
The free colored people of the northern states are, for no crime but merely the fact of complexion, deprived of all political and social rights. Whatever wealth or eminence in intellect and refinement they may attain to, they are treated as outcasts; and white men and women who identify themselves with them are sure to be insulted in the grossest manner.
I do not ask your political interference in any way. This is a moral question. Even in America the Abolitionists generally disclaim every other ground but the moral and religious one on which this matter is based. You send missionaries to the heathen; I tell you of professing Christians practicing what is worse than any heathenism on record. How is it that we have come to this state of things, you ask. I reply, the whole power of the country is in the hands of the slaveholders. For more than thirty years we have had a slaveholding President, and the Slave Power has been dominant. The consequence has been a series of encroachments, until now at last the slave trade is re-opened and all but legitimized in America. It was a sad backward step when England last year fell into the trap laid by America and surrendered the right of search. Now slavers ply on the seas which were previously guarded by your ships. We have, besides, an internal slave trade. We have states where, I am ashamed to say, men and women are reared, like cattle, for the market. When I walk through the streets of Manchester and meet load after load of cotton, I think of those eighty thousand cotton plantations on which was grown the one hundred and twenty-five millions of dollars’ worth of cotton which supply your market, and I remember that not one cent of that money ever reached the hands of the laborers. Here is an incident of slave life for you—an incident of common occurrence in the south. In March, 1859, a slave auction took place in the city of Savannah. Three hundred and forty-three slaves, the property of Pierce Butler—the husband of your own Fanny Kemble—were sold, regardless of every tie of flesh and blood; old men and maidens, young men, and babes of fifteen months—there was but one question about them, and that was decided at the auction-block. Pierce Butler, the owner, resides in Philadelphia, and is a highly-respected citizen and a member of a Church. He was reputed a kind master, who rarely separated the families of his slaves. The financial crisis took place, and I have given you the result to his human property. But Mr. Butler has in no wise lost caste amongst his friends; he still moves in the most respectable society, and his influence in his Church is so great that, with other members, he has procured the removal from the pulpit of Rev. Dudley Tyng, who had uttered a testimony against slavery; and in that pulpit, the man who now preaches, Mr. Prentice by name, is the owner of a hundred slaves. Such is the state of public opinion in America, and you find the poison running through everything. With the exception of the Abolitionists, you will find people of all classes thus contaminated. The whole army and navy of the United States are pledged to pursue and shoot down the poor fugitives, who panting for liberty, fly to Canada, to seek the security of the British flag. All denominations of professing Christians are guilty of sustaining or defending slavery. Even the Quakers must be included in this rule.
Now I ask for your sympathy and your influence, and whoever asked English men and women in vain? Give us the power of your public opinion, it has great weight in America. Words spoken here are read there as no words written in America are read. Lord Brougham’s testimony on the first of August resounded through America [On August 1, 1859, Lord Brougham addressed a London gathering, including Sarah Parker Remond, in observance of the anniversary of West Indian emancipation]; your Clarkson and your Wilberforce are names of strength to us. I ask you, raise the moral public opinion until its voice reaches the American shores. Aid us thus until the shackles of the American slave melt like dew before the morning sun. I ask for especial help from the women of England. Women are the worst victims of the Slave Power. I am met on every hand by the cry “Cotton!” “Cotton!” I cannot stop to speak of cotton while men and women are being brutalized. But there is an answer for the cotton cry too, and the argument is an unanswerable one.
Before concluding I shall give you a few passages from the laws of the slave states. By some of these laws, free colored people may be arrested in the discharge of their lawful business; and, if no papers attesting their freedom can be found on them, they are committed to jail; and, if not claimed within a limited time, they may be sold to pay the jail fees. By another law, any person who speaks at the bar, bench, on the stage, or in private, to the slaves, so as to excite insurrection, or brings any paper or pamphlet of such nature into the state, shall be imprisoned for not less than three nor more than twenty-one years; or shall suffer death as the judge decides. I could read such laws for hours, but I shall only add that in Maryland there is at present a gentleman in prison, condemned for ten years, because a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin was found in his possession. The laws are equally severe against teaching a slave to read—against teaching even the name of the good God.
The Negro Race in America
To the Editor of The Daily News (London), 1866
Sir,—Will you allow me to say a word in reference to the reactionary movement against the coloured race in the United States? It seems almost like trifling to write a short letter upon a subject so important, and teeming with so many facts, to prove that a new leaf is now being turned over in the history of the negro, and that there is a reaction; a most intense reaction, against that race in the United States. What is the principal cause of the political conflict now going on? Never has there been more at stake than the present position of affairs involves. Why does the conflict assume such gigantic proportions? Why is it that reconstruction has become so exceedingly difficult? Why is it that party spirit is now reaching a height almost, if not quite beyond, any political struggle known even in that country so accustomed to political conflicts. Why is it that in so many of the States neither the freedmen nor their friends find any longer suitable protection? Why is it that the only really liberal newspaper that was published at New Orleans is now discontinued? What was the cause of the riot at New Orleans? Why were the men who served the country in her hour of need shot like dogs? There is but one answer, and one source from which all these difficulties emanate—slavery in the past and its hateful remnants in the present. The Southerners and their North
ern allies are determined that the black race shall not be recognised, shall not receive justice. They are determined to prevent the consummation of emancipation, to make freedom almost nominal. Reconstruction cannot be permanently settled until hatred of the coloured race is kept in check or exterminated. No one who has kept pace with the history of the coloured race can hope to re-educate a nation at once: therefore the only remedy is to check this hatred, made up of fashion, prejudice, and intense ignorance. This is the prolific source of the struggle between the contending political parties. The combatants may or may not recognise this fact. It assumes many many shapes, puts on and off at pleasure such a variety of costumes, adapts itself to almost all circumstance with so much skill, that at first only its victim can defeat it. Fresh hatred seems to have been added to the old stock, and then taken complete possession of the Southerners and their Northern allies. The same elements animated by the same spirit which produced the civil war, starved Northern prisoners, and then assassinated the President when he became the firm friend of the slave population, now desire to gain new political strength. The Southern chivalry now demand that all their former slave population shall be represented in Congress, instead of the three-fifths representation which they formerly possessed. What bold injustice! Deny a race their civil and political rights and then endeavour to use them as an element of political strength to degrade them. Should they obtain this, perhaps another generation would pass before the consummation of emancipation. Many republicans are deserting their principles, and joining the ranks of the enemy. Who can foresee the result of the coming contest? It may be that another fiery trial awaits the tried but faithful friends of the republic. A share of the same feeling of hatred towards the coloured race can now be most clearly seen in the minds of many Englishmen, of whom Mr. Thomas Carlyle is the best representative. He has special claims to the gratitude of all negro haters on both sides of the Atlantic. I know of no man who could so consistently be the defender of Mr. Eyre and the Jamaica massacre as Mr. Carlyle. It seems to be a most congenial occupation. He does his work con amore. The name of Mr. Thomas Carlyle, the literary leader of public opinion, has been for many years synonymous with all that is ungenerous and wantonly insulting to the negro race. His position as a literary man has given him the power of influencing the minds of the young. The same influence has been for many years a weapon in the hands of our enemies for adding deeper and more scornful insults. Negro haters on both sides of the Atlantic have again and again repeated his offensive insults, and his outspoken hatred in his recent letter against a race because they chance to be of a darker hue than himself is a fit offering to the spirit which seeks to defend might against right. Why Mr. Carlyle considers it his duty to attack a defenceless race with such hatred and passionate fury is a problem which I leave his many admirers on both sides of the Atlantic to solve.—I am, &c.,
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