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 totally 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 during the nightmare panorama of a brutal warfare looking for his misplaced platoon. The reader is led via the unvoiced protagonist who, as a part of a land mine-clearing platoon, had his vocal chords minimize, a flow to maintain those teenagers from screaming while blown up, and thereby distracting the opposite minesweepers. The publication is written in a ghostly voice, with every one bankruptcy headed by way of a line of the original signal language those childrens invented. This publication is not like the rest 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 collection 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 put in writing Award, a Prince Claus Award, and a Lannan Literary Fellowship. He lives and teaches in California.
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Additional info for Song for Night: A Novella
The imam although authorized of soccer and so I had an almost never-ending offer of them. after all, i might interrupt the video games and take my ball domestic if too many objectives have been scored opposed to me. As i am getting nearer, I see the solar has burned the sector to a brown crisp. the following and there, patches of purple earth spill via like substantial puddles of blood. it truly is as if the very earth is peppered with sores. Scattered so far as i will see are corpses. Like a box of minimize corn, cropped and mendacity in untidy rows, drying slowly within the sunlight. extra again, in the back of the bullet-holed stands, the timber straggle in an untidy color. a dismal shadow, a cloud, hangs over the complete box. I cease and squint. The cloud is neighborhood and too darkish for the sunlight to thieve via. it truly is alive; relocating; seething; buzzing. With a puff I observe that it's a cloud of flies. The cloud heads towards me, then rears up, taking up a sort, a big black-winged angel. I rub my eyes. We’ve all heard tales approximately angels showing over killing fields, yet none so darkish, so empty. the shape dissipates because the flies unfold over the lifeless like a unfastened cotton shift. As I watch, I see phantom squaddies strolling with bent heads, rifles throughout their backs. One soldier, might be 16, is shot within the belly, a deep gash that spills his guts like sausages strung up in a butcher’s window. He falls and that i run to him, yet a hail of bullets pushes me again. As I shy away, I see the boy stagger up and acquire his intestines in an untidy heap, cradled like a child in his fingers. He then takes to the air, working. determined zigzag steps that ship him crashing into the floor many times, yet he will get up at any time when. The taking pictures stops and that i observe that it really is phantom fireplace, and it isn’t geared toward me. The ghosts are firing at each one other—the rebels on one aspect and the federal troops at the different. yet then every person stops capturing and watches the boy; even the enemy. Twenty toes on, he simply stops and sags, hitting the floor in a gradual suspend. The backs of his legs are stained by way of his worry, yet he nonetheless cradles his guts in his hands. He dies, mouth open. there's not anything heroic approximately it. This confuses me; can a ghost die? My jaw drops as one other soldier appears to be like up at me, eyes misty, obvious, mouth open in a smoke path of speech. I close my eyes tightly and shake my head. whilst I open them, the phantom soldier has long gone. I experiment the horizon; not anything. Then like mist, he coalesces back. unexpectedly a sword of lightning slices throughout the plumpness of the recent sky. Rain. I stand for it slow however the sizzling rain is like molten lead and that i flee for the road of timber in the back of the stadium, taking disguise lower than one. I shiver within the new chilly, debating no matter if the apparitions i've got noticeable are genuine. during this position every thing is feasible. the following we think that after an individual dies in a unexpected and difficult approach, their spirit wanders stressed trying to find its physique. harassed simply because they don’t become aware of they're useless. i do know this. commonly a shaman may ease the sort of spirit throughout to the opposite international. Now, good, the land is crowded with harassed spirits and all of the shamans are infantrymen.