Go Tell the Sun, Wame Molefhe
Books
Wame Molefhe

Go Tell the Sun

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WAME MOLEFHE's stories have a gentle, unassuming yet intimate and captivating feel to them. Set in Botswana, the stories trace the lives of characters whose paths cross and re-cross each others', some times in and through love, at other times through tragedy. And through them the author brings to bear a woman's perspective on the societal mores in which sexual abuse, homophobia and AIDS, among others, flourish and spread. The social content and views are never proclaimed as a loud agenda; instead, it forms a 'natural' backdrop to the lives of the characters, something that may raise a wry comment or thought in one character, while eliciting a mere shrug from another. Molefhe's voice is, to some extent, a world-weary voice, weary of all she has seen of society's failures, but never without the gentleness often absent and much needed in broken societies, and never without the hope and redemption that can be found in love and the imagination.
88 printed pages

Impressions

kerynsalter
kerynsaltershared an impression4 years ago
👍Worth reading
🙈Lost On Me
🎯Worthwhile

Quotes

Павел Молчанов
Павел Молчановhas quoted5 years ago
the drivers of cars that sped past to give her work.
“I can wash, clean, do anything,” her eyes begged.
She would do anything to earn money – except sell her body.
The day her money
Sasha Frey
Sasha Freyhas quoted5 years ago
shawl across her sh
Suffian Hakim
Suffian Hakimhas quoted5 years ago
The newsreader's mouth opens and closes, words tumble out, crashing my world: “Award-winning Motswana writer dies in car accident.”

Killed? Killed.

Ntsimane changes the channel. Why did he do that? Does he know? He couldn't. I have told no one.

I close the kitchen door and feel my legs buckle. I cling to the kitchen table. My heart pounds in my ears. How? When? I beat the eggs and sugar together faster. Jam, vinegar, flour A spoonful at a time. Sequestered in the kitchen, away from Ntsimane, I force in long deep breaths, wheeze instead. Botshelo is dead. Breathe. Breathe.

What is that noise? Sizzling – coming from the stove. The oxtail stew is burning.

On the bookshelves

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Go tell the sun, sylviegiles
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