What does Afrofuturism mean? It means stories have always come from Africa...and always will. What does being a writer mean? It means Anansi has never slept, not a wink, because he might miss something fun. What does Balogun Ojetade mean when he says something is "Blacktastic?" If I may try an answer for the brother, it means history is not silent, not ephemeral, and the present is "Post-" nothing. It means welcome to new worlds.
Welcome all.
Even though, for the Butler/Banks Book Blog Tour of Afrofuturism, this is goodbye. Balogun, our point man, wraps this month-long round of literary speed-dating. You've seen works from:
...and me.
A mix of genres, styles, ages, abilities, latent powers and more. All presented with deference and respect to two women whom we can only assume sit at the right and left sides of Anansi, pens in hand and somehow still feeding us inspiration. If you haven't familiarized yourself even today with Octavia Butler's work, let me help. Click a simple link. One word. GENIUS. If you're wondering where are the kick-ass, female vampire hunters, click a simple link. One word. IMAGINATION.
And if you just want to smile and quietly say goodbye, go ahead and read the final entry below in the Butler/Banks tour. "Goodbye" only for a little while though; we are not going anywhere.
Hotep. -- ZZC
BALOGUN OJETADE:
For those who know me, I am a
writer.
For those who don’t know me, I am a
writer.
Recently, I have expanded my
writing into the Fight Fiction – aka Action / Adventure, aka Pulp – genre, which
was pretty much inevitable because my novels contain lots of exciting action
and fight scenes.
What, exactly, is Fight Fiction. You ask?
Fight Fiction is comprised of tales
in which the fighting – whether it happens in a temple in Thailand, a boxing
ring in Las Vegas, a cage in Atlanta, or in a bar in New York City – is not
merely in the story to make it more exciting; or to add a different spin to it.
The fighting must be an integral part of both the story and its resolution.
Take the fighting out and you no longer have a story. Think Fight Club; Rocky; Blood and Bone; Kung-Fu Hustle; Million Dollar Baby; and Tai Chi Zero.
Writing fight scenes has always
been something I enjoy and that I believe I do fairly well. This is probably
due to the fact that I have been a student of indigenous African martial arts
for over forty years and I have been an instructor of those same martial arts
for nearly thirty years. I am also a lifelong fan of martial arts, boxing and Luchador films.
Recently, I joined a team of
stellar authors, who all write under the pen name Jack Tunney (for e-book
versions only; paperback versions are in the authors’ names), as part of the Fight Card Project.
The books in the Fight Card series are monthly 25,000 word novelettes, designed to be read in
one or two sittings, and are inspired by the fight pulps of the 1930s and
1940s, such as Fight Stories Magazine and Robert E. Howard’s two-fisted boxing tales featuring Sailor
Steve Costigan.
In 2013, the Fight Card series published twenty-four
incredible tales of pugilistic pandemonium from some of the best New Pulp
authors in the business. I am writing under the Fight Card MMA brand with my book, Fist of Africa.
Here’s a brief synopsis:
Nigeria 2004 …
Nicholas ‘New Breed’ Steed, a tough teen from the mean streets of Chicago, is
sent to his mother’s homeland – a tiny village in Nigeria – to avoid trouble
with the law. Unknown to Nick, the tiny village is actually a compound where
some of the best fighters in the world are trained. Nick is teased,
bullied and subjected to torturous training in a culture so very different from
the world where he grew up.
Atlanta 2014 …
After a decade of training in Nigeria, a tragedy brings Nick back to America.
Believing the disaffected youth in his home town sorely need the same
self-discipline and strength of character training in the African martial arts
gave him, Nick opens an Academy. While the kids are disinterested in the
fighting style of the cultural heritage Nick offers, they are enamored with
mixed martial arts. Nick decides to enter the world of mixed martial arts to
make the world aware of the effectiveness and efficiency of the martial arts of
Africa.
Pursuing a
professional career in MMA, Nick moves to Atlanta, Georgia, where he runs into
his old nemesis – Rico Stokes, the organized crime boss who once employed
Nick’s father, wants Nick to replace his father in the Stokes’ protection
racket. Will New Breed Steed claim the Light Heavyweight title … Or will the
streets of Atlanta claim him?
I really enjoyed writing this
book because I have always wanted to share with the world the fierceness,
efficiency and effectiveness of the indigenous African martial arts for
self-defense, as well as their transformative powers in the building of men and
women with self-discipline, courage and good character. Fist of Africa is a perfect outlet for my
unique brand of Fight Fiction, which I am sure you will enjoy reading as much
as I enjoyed writing it.
In Fist of Africa, readers will experience
jaw-dropping action on the mean streets of Chicago, in the sand pits of Nigeria
and in cages in the “Dirty South” (Atlanta), as well as a bit of romance.
Please, enjoy
this excerpt, then hop on over to my website, or to Amazon and purchase
the book. You’ll thank me later.
ROUND
SIX
Vee-Vee’s was
packed. The line of men and women spilled out of the Nigerian restaurant and
onto the hot sidewalk as the lunch crowd eagerly awaited the mouth-watering,
sweet fried plantains, egusi soup with pounded yam and coconut rice.
Standing in the
line, Nick and Baba Yemi still had two customers ahead of them before they were
in the door. Nick rubbed his hands in excitement.
Baba Yemi raised
an eyebrow. “Is the food really that good, Nicholas? You look … eager.”
“You just don’t
know, grandfather,” Nick replied. “I haven’t had Vee-Vee’s in over ten years.
“You’ve had
Nigerian food in Nigeria,” Baba Yemi
said. “What’s so special about Vee-Vee’s?”
“It’s Vee-Vee’s,” Nick responded with a shrug.
Baba Yemi shook
his head.
“Excuse me, you
just jumped ahead of me,” a woman’s voice said.
Nick peered over
his shoulder. A rotund woman addressed three young men who stood in front of
her in the line.
“Look, lady, we
just want to get some plantains up out of here,” one of the young men – a lanky
teen with jeans hanging halfway off his butt – said. “You look like you’re
about to order the whole damned menu.”
The young men
laughed heartily and exchanged high fives.
“Teens today
have no respect,” the woman said. “If you are the future, we’re in big trouble.”
“Shut up, pendeja!” Another young man spat.
“That’s moron, in case you don’t know
… pendeja!”
More laughter
from the young men.
“Hold my place
in the queue,” Baba Yemi whispered.
“Grandfather,
don’t …” Nick muttered.
Baba Yemi
approached the young men, stopping a few inches behind them. “You are being
very rude. This young woman deserves an apology.”
The teens turned
to face Baba Yemi. The largest of the trio, a tall, athletically built young
man, who had not yet spoken, looked Baba Yemi up and down.
“Push on, old
man, before you get yourself hurt,” he said.
Baba Yemi smiled
and tapped the young man on his muscular chest. “Hurt? How?”
The lanky young
man with the sagging pants placed a firm hand on Baba Yemi’s shoulder. “Get
gone, old dude, before we kick your …”
The young man
hit the pavement with a dull thump.
“My hand!” He
screamed, clutching at his wrist and writhing in agony.
The
Spanish-speaking young man launched an awkward-looking kick toward Baba Yemi’s
belly.
The old wrestler
side-stepped to his left, bringing his right arm up to scoop the young man’s
leg. Baba Yemi shifted toward the trapped leg, grabbing it with both arms in a
tight grip. He ducked under the leg, lifting his arms over his head at the same
time.
The young man’s
knee twisted at a sickening angle. He landed next to his friend with the
dislocated wrist, who joined him in a chorus of cries, whimpers and yelps.
Baba Yemi
exploded toward the remaining member of the trio.
The young man stumbled
backward, then whirled on his heels and sprinted off.
The teen with
the sagging pants and damaged wrist helped the young man with the dislocated
knee to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am,” they said in unison.
Baba Yemi laid a
hand on the shoulder of the young man with the sagging pants. The young man
jerked in fear.
“Relax,” Baba
Yemi said. “Let me fix it.”
The young man
cautiously gave Baba Yemi his damaged hand. The old man grabbed the teen’s
fingers and yanked hard. The teen winced at the pain of his wrist sliding back
into its correct position.
“Thank you,” the
young man said. “And I … I’m sorry.”
“What about my
knee, sir?” The Spanish-speaking young man inquired, still gasping in pain.
“That is going
to require more treatment than I can do here,” Baba Yemi answered. “Do either
of you have a car?”
“Yes, sir, I
do,” the Spanish-speaking youth said.
“What’s your
name, boy?” Baba Yemi asked.
“Hector, sir,”
the young man said.
“And yours?”
Baba Yemi asked the young man with the sagging trousers.
“Miles,” he answered.
“Miles, take
Hector to the hospital,” Baba Yemi said. “They’ll put the joint back in proper
position, then you bring him to me and I’ll really heal him. Talk to my
grandson over there. He’ll give you the address.”
“Yes, sir,”
Miles said, approaching Nick.
“Thank you,
sir,” Hector said.
Vee-Vee’s
waitress, who had come outside to see what the commotion was all about, handed
Nick an ink pen and an order slip. Nick wrote the address to his parent’s house
on the slip.
The two young
men shambled off, Hector’s arm wrapped around Miles’ shoulder for support.
“Thank you!” The
pudgy woman shouted. She wrapped her arms around Baba Yemi’s torso and held him
in a warm hug.
The people in
line applauded as Baba Yemi returned to his place in line.
“We’re running a
compound for young thugs out of my parents’ house now?” Nick said, shaking his
head.
“You weren’t so
different when you first came to me, Nicholas,” Baba Yemi said.
“True,” Nick
said.
“So, I ask
again,” Baba Yemi said. “What now?”
No comments:
Post a Comment