APED – Prompt 17: My Visitor

Tags

dead body, Ghost, mahogany, mystery, Rains, thriller, watchdog committee

Done for A Prompt Each Day, a daily dose of inspiration.

We are to use Use a minimum of three words from the set of ten here in your post. You can write in any form, poetry or prose, as long or as short as you like.

My Visitor

I moved into the house on a cold rainy day. The clouds would not let up and everywhere was wet. From my bedroom window, I took in the garden behind the rumbling old house which needed pruning. The silver droplets kissing the leaves of the mahogany tree in the middle of the garden mesmerised me. But that tree would have to go. It was ancient. That night I dreamed of the mahogany tree begging me not to touch it. I woke up sweating, not understanding the dream. I wasn’t superstitious but throughout the day, a feeling of unease settled on me like an unwanted suitor.

In the evening my new neighbour came over to introduce herself. Mary Kwame was nice enough but she talked too much. Over hot tea she filled me in on the local gossip.

“We all wondered who would move in here, you know.”

I cocked an eyebrow at this. “oh, and why was that?”

Mary swiveled her head, yes, that is what she actually did. Swiveled her head to see who was listening in even though we were alone. And then her voice dropped to a whisper. “This house is haunted you know. Someone died here. You must be brave”

An amused chuckle escaped my lips. “Mary, stories of ghosts and apparitions don’t scare me.

” “But Grace, you haven’t seen or heard anything yet.” She wailed.

The dream I had the night before popped into my mind and a shiver ripped through me, despite the hot tea.

Suddenly Mary gave a loud cackle, her eyes afire with an unholy light. “a ghost just passed through.”

I had enough. “Mary, I’ve had a busy day unpacking. I think we should call it an evening.”

Thankfully she took the hint and left shortly, apologising for overstaying her welcome. I told her not to worry, closing and locking the door firmly.

I slept soundly, perhaps too much. For I woke up to a commotion behind my house. Glancing at the bedside clock I noted the time to be 9.30. I still had a lot of unpacking to do. I tried to ignore the noise at the back of the house. The voices were many and I couldn’t make out a single word. Then I heard a loud knocking at the front door. Dashing to the bathroom attached to bedroom, I rinsed my face and mouth and hurried up to the door. Somehow I knew before unlocking the door that the news wouldn’t be good.

A handsome man stood before me. My heart did a flip. “Good morning, madam. I’m the neighbourhood watchdog committee chairman. My name is Opoku.”

“Opoku, how can I help you?” I hoped my voice sounded sexy.

“I’m sorry madam, but yesterday’s rains washed up the remains of a body buried under the mahogany tree in your yard.”

“What!”

“Yes. We suspect the body must be that of Mary Kwame. She used to live near you. She’s been missing for four years now. The Police are on their way.”

APED – Prompt 12: Two Minutes

Tags

acting, Death, relationship, theatre, two minutes

Done for A Prompt Each Day, a daily dose of inspiration. We are to use the quote below for our inspiration.

Two Minutes

Two minutes! She had only two minutes to make it all right. A shaky breath escaped her slightly parted lips as she stared at the unrelenting face of her director. Skido was like that; driving her until her got the best out of her. He always assured her she was good and he would be damned if he would allow her to think of herself any less.

“Come on, Tessa, one minute now.” Skido bellowed.

All she had to do was re-arrange her lovely features into a resolute look of abject weariness and say to her co-star.  “I’m leaving you, Sadat.” So what was wrong with her? Her delivery wasn’t going well. Sadat was waiting for his cue, the crew were waiting to spring into action but all she could see was his pale and sweaty face in his crib. Her husband had assured her that their baby boy would be alright.

“No, I’ll feel better if you sent him to see the doctor.” She had insisted. But he had been more concerned she would be late for the rehearsals.

“Tessa, the two minutes are up. You need to relax. We try again after two more minutes. It’s obvious you aren’t yourself this morning.” Skido’s tone was kinder now and she could only nod.

Suddenly, his  phone shrilled into the uneasy atmosphere. Tessa saw him reach into his shirt pocket to retrieve the phone and suddenly she felt loud thuds in her chest as her heart beat staccato rhythms. Her breathing now came out in shuddering spurts.

From a far land, she could hear Sadat asking her, his tone worried. “Tessa, are you alright?”

She shook her head, words failing her. Through a haze, she saw Skido’s eyes widen in horror, then denial, then something like pity as he looked into her direction. She knew it then. Her baby boy was no more.

“Just two minutes after you left the house.” Were the last words she heard as she slid into a welcoming darkness.

Copyright © Celestine Nudanu

12/06/15

I appreciate your patience with me as I catch up on your blogs. Thanks a million! Shalom

APED – Prompt 10: Adele

Tags

Adele, APED, divorce, Family ties, relationship, Spousal Abuse

Done for A Prompt Each Day, a daily dose of inspiration. We are to use a  minimum of three words from the set of ten below to write a story or a poem.

Adele

Cascade of tears slid on to the green carpet as she hung her head in shame. For the first time she noticed how off beat the colour looked in the pristine modernity of the old man’s living room. Just like her announcement to leave her husband of six months. The word divorce didn’t just exist in the vocabulary of her family.

She could feel Papa’s piercing hurt reeking from his eyes, enveloping her in a tight hug. “I’m grateful your mother is not alive to hear this, Adele.”

Adele raised her eyes, soulful to meet his. And she felt gratified when he flinched. The bruises on her face had swelled to almost comic proportions. “Even with this, Papa, you still say that to me.”

With one fluid motion, Adele ripped off her thin creamy blouse, almost gossamer in texture, exposing her supple breasts. When her father averted his eyes, she willed him to have his fill of the lacerations zigzagging on her body in a macabre dance ritual.

Trembling, her voice croaked in a whisper. “What about you? Do you wish you were dead not to see this?”

Adele almost pitied her father now.  Amidst her sobs, she saw him turn and stare at her body, disbelief and horror warring for supremacy on his now defeated face.

Copyright © Celestine Nudanu

10/06/15

I appreciate your patience with me as I catch up on your blogs. Thanks a million! Shalom

Haiku Horizons: Retreat

Tags

rape, voiceless

Done for Haiku Horizons

Retreat

in silent retreat

she communes with her master

lady-in-waiting

2

lady-in-waiting

she beats a hasty retreat

from master’s chamber

3

from master’s chamber

her cotton wrap trailing steps

cruel laughter rings on

4

cruel laughter rings on

his voice indelible mark

her maiden-head gone

Copyright © Celestine Nudanu 

2/06/14)

I appreciate your patience with me as I catch up on your blogs. Thanks a million! Shalom

My Journey With Words (#mywritingprocess)

Tags

journey with words, My writing process

When my friend Tish Farrell nominated me for the #mywritingprocess  Blog Hop,I was amazed. What? Me? Then panic set in. What exactly have I written that merits writing about? Why would readers be interested in a virtually nonexistent writing process when all they read  from me is half-baked haiku ( I know you guys are not gonna agree with me here). Let’s face it, well-meaning friends from the blogosphere have at one time or the other encouraged me to hurry up and publish a novel, to be specific a romance novel. But like I said on Tish’s blog, my major fears are not knowing who would want to read/publish the work once it is done, and a deep sense of not matching up to other writers out there. Until I started blogging two years ago, I hadn’t the faintest clue as to how many writers were out there on Amazon and elsewhere with so many great books. Intimidating indeed! But write I must, or my story dies and there’ would be none to tell it. Thank you so much Tish! 🙂

Truth be told, I’ve been writing all my life (cliché?) Well, so be it then.  From scribbling poems to writing romance reads in exercises books for my friends in secondary school. 🙂 In those days who cared about nudging me on except my friends who had no idea just like me of how to get my works published. And the steamy scenes would not wash with my strict mother  (A pure Presbyterian to the bone). The writing and publishing industry then was devoted to text books we used in schools and even renowned writers like Ama Ata Aidoo and Ayi Kwei Armah were published by Heinemann, outside Ghana. Fast track a few years ahead and my writing was given a notch of a glitter when I worked for a Newspaper and part of my job description was to serialise any story in the pages as a way to boost sales. I took the nation by storm with the serialisation of romance; Dangerous Desire, The Stud, The Dark Side of Love, and Woes of a Barren Woman. I made money for the Paper and made a name for myself. Do I have the scripts? People and Places (P & P) claimed the rights to my stories and I didn’t know a thing about copyright to fight. Not to bore you with my naiveté and ignorance then, I went on to write over the years, for USAID/John Hopkins/Center for Sustainable Development/Ghana Health Service; this time radio serial drama dealing with child health, female sexual reproductive health and HIV/AIDS among others. The script written in English was translated into five local languages here and aired on major radio stations all over the country. The first contract was in 1994, then later renewed in 2001, 2003 and 2006, and 2011.

2012 saw me blogging and that was when my eyes opened. Oh yes! To haiku, flash fiction and the sumptuous wonders of the blogosphere. By His grace, my works have been included in two recent anthologies; Western Haiku: A Collection, and Ballads, both produced by Dagda Publishing UK.  My flash fiction has also appeared in 1 x 50 x 100, edited by Madison Woods. And now;

What Am I Working On Right Now?

Quite a lot! I’m working on about three stories now. I say a lot because I need to focus on one and have it completed before I touch the others. But like the confused person that I am I’m tackling all at the same time and going nowhere with them. I’ve completed the first draft of the one closest to my heart though. And I’m working on edits and corrections based on suggestions by a dear writer friend of mine, Nana.  I keep on giving excuses upon excuses! Simply I’m lazy writer and work better under pressure!

How Does my Work Differ From Others Of Its Genre?

I believe the topic I’m writing on has been exhausted elsewhere. But in my country incest is a taboo subject, though there has been much education and sensitization over the years. In 1997 my research topic for my Masters thesis was Child Sexual Abuse under the UN Convention of the Rights of the Child; A Case Study of Ghana. I had a tough time gathering data because it was virtually non-existent. The reportage and sensitization of sexual abuse was very low as to be insignificant. However, Ghana has come a long way since then; though I don’t have the stats to support my claim. The subject like I said is taboo, despite our gains. I believe my story, as I’m telling it would make us sit up.  Romance, yes but with a dark twist mixed with politics and intrigue for good measure!

 Why Do I Write What I Do?

I believe I’m real passionate about the subject of sexual abuse. And no, I’m not a victim. There’s something that tugs at my heart, about a helpless little girl or boy being subjected to the depravities of some male/female.  I’ve always stood up for the down trodden and marginalized. We have to wake up to those things that go on in the bedrooms of children and adults who are victims and perpetrators of abuse.

Then again, since I’m working on more than one story, I ‘m doing what I like doing best, writing romance with lots and lots of breathtaking suspense!

How Does My Writing Process Work?

I really don’t have any laid down process. I write when I feel like it but more serious with it when I’m under pressure to meet a deadline. With the radio serial drama, I had to work with the technical information I was given to incorporate my story line and develop the plot. Once I have the plot and the deadline, the words flow. What I do is that I create characters that I can identify with and then, well, the rest is determined by the characters, where they want to go, what they want to do and see and how they want their story to end. 🙂

With my poems, I honestly don’t know where the words come from. I may struggle sometimes if the prompt is difficult or a bit foreign but once I start, there’s no stopping me. But I will pause for now and introduce you to Kimberly Floria of http://silentlyheardonce.wordpress.com.  Kimberley is a dear friend and an amazing talented poet whose honesty and raw passion in her work are so endearing. She will continue with the #writingprocess tour on 2nd June. Kimberley is a grandmother of three and she says that is the best job there, without a doubt! 🙂 Now, please read on:

In 2008 I was forced to retire due to my fight with lupus. Lupus is an autoimmune disease that attacks a person’s health cells. My lupus has given me a lung/heart disease called Pulmonary Hypertension, which means the blood doesn’t flow freely from my lungs to my heart. I try not to let lupus rule my life, but there are days that just getting out of bed is over whelming. I usually end up pushing myself until I have to take several days off laying in bed eating junk food because I’m too tired to cook. This frustrates me and sometimes pushes me into depression. A lot of my earlier poems on my blog are a reflection of that depression, Ouch  A Jar Full of Tears  and I wrote one that I try to rationalize my reasons for having developed lupus, I Flirted with Lucifer. Beware the language isn’t very sweet, not for the prudish. Doctors don’t know what causes lupus, they don’t know if it’s environmental, genetic, hormonal or from your life style. My mother had lupus, I developed lupus after a hysterectomy and I had a party girl life style. So who knows.

 Honestly I have limited formal writing education. I’ve taken some free and paid classes over the years. I’ve done poetry reading and attended writing seminars. I also taught myself the craft with my ongoing subscription to Writers Digest. WD is a magazine that helps writers with tips on writing, finding agent and publishers. I learn a lot from this magazine. I’ve also read many books devoted to style, genres, plot building and character developing. I enjoy reading books on grammar and perfecting my sentence structure. I’ve had a poem published in a magazine many years ago and most recently a short story was published in an on-line magazine “You: Unlimited The Life Changing Magazine”

So here is a woman who has had and is having a wonderful time with what she loves doing best, despite the fight with lupus. Watch out for her writing life and more next week.  🙂

 

Review: The Watchman’s Daughter and Other Stories from Ghana by Rukaya Ibrahim

Tags

Ghana, Rukaya Ibrahim, The Watchman's Daughter

Title:    The Watchman’s Daughter and Other Stories from Ghana

Author: Rukiya Ibrahim

Genre:  Fiction – Short stories

Edition: Kindle

Publisher: CreateSpace Publishing

Pages:    116

Publication date: August, 2013

Reasons for reading: Received this book as a gift from the author for a candid review.

 

 

Blurb

The Watchman’s Daughter and other stories from Ghana, West-Africa is a collection of stories about modern Ghana;the place, the people and culture. The stories, though fictional, could very well be real. They cover all themes of life in Ghana and offer the outsider an unbiased view and understanding of contemporary Ghanaian life. The book covers such issues as Family, Education, Corruption, Politics, Crime, Health in entertaining, reflective and thought-provoking stories with realistic characters and settings.

My Thoughts

Actually the blurb says it all. 15 uniquely written stories from Ghana that made me at once identify and empathize with the characters. Real characters that reflect the unpredictability and caprices of life. The stories are well written, moving, engaging, funny, silly, deep and give the reader much room for reflection. One moment I was laughing; another moment saw me yelling in anger and yet another saw me trying in vain to stop the tears. And I did ask myself a series of questions about the meaning of life and the decisions we make. Long after I put the anthology down, I couldn’t shake off the impact it had on me.

The setting of the stories is placed within various locations within the country and without. I was startled to notice authentic descriptions of scenes and settings and of places that I am familiar with. Just like the blurb indicated, non-Ghanaians reading this collection would love the authentic Ghanaian feel of the different plots.

I must say that the author Rukaya Ibrahim is relatively new to me; but I was impressed with her writing. She’s good. The only snag is that the collection has no content page. I don’t know if that is a style or an omission! 🙂

I recommend the The Watchman’s Daughter and Other Stories from Ghana, to all my followers who would love to know more about Ghana 🙂 For a copy of the collection please visit here.

About the author

Rukaya Ibrahim is a Ghanaian born writer and physician. She has been writing since she was in her teens. Her short stories have been published in The Mirror, Ghana’s most prestigious national weekly newspaper. The title story, “The Watchman’s Daughter” was published in Crossing Borders Magazine Issue Eleven. She aims to share realistic, thought-provoking, entertaining, stories about contemporary Africa.

The Group

Tags

friends, Girly Chatter, relationship

Yesterday I had lunch with ‘The Group’ at a restaurant near my work place. We are a bunch of four women all professionals in our own right who had been to either Secondary School or attended University together. We had been meeting once every month at a chosen venue for lunch since 2007. We shelved this all girl affair in 2009 when one of us, Doris, a High Court Judge had her left leg amputated due to diabetes. Now, we are back again.

It was fun all along as we chatted and giggled like silly girls. We traded info and gave updates on what was going on in our lives and in the country.

“ei, so Celestine, when are you going to invite us to your new place?” Chris, Head of Human Resource with a big advertising company asked in her usual direct way, a slight grin on her pretty face.

“Oh, but do you gals need an invitation? You can all come anytime you feel like it” I said, laughing. I had been expecting this question.

“Oh, don’t mind Cele. She wants us to beg her before. We won’t oo! We are coming in full force this Saturday so make sure you cook for us.” Susan said, her mouth full of food. She is the Country Director of an NGO.

“This lazy girl! Is she the one going to cook or her mother?” Doris teased. I was well noted for my lack of cooking skills. “Ah but this food is horrible. I might have to complain to the waiter or whoever is in charge.  Look Cele, next time we’re going to a better place to eat.” Doris said with some annoyance, pushing the plate of waakye away.

“Well, I noted that my jollof rice tasted awful, but decided to keep my mouth shut.” I sad rather lamely.

“Ei, what is this I’m hearing about a possible water shortage?” Chris popped in, washing her hands in the bowl of water by her side. “And it is not only water. The light too is going to be rationed oo.”

“Hmm, what else is new in this country? And they say it is a better Ghana Agenda.” I quipped.

“Hei, don’t start, Cele. They are your people so don’t come and bad mouth them here…….” The peel of the phone interrupted Doris’ words. Picking it up she mouthed, love reflected in her voice. “it’s Seth.” The three of us fell silent as she talked to her husband. He was like that, He always checked up on her at short intervals to make sure she was fine. After what seemed like a million hours, she hung up with a sigh. Then she was all smiles and grins and ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’

“Ei my sister what is this? You love him too much.” I teased her.

“Of course. If you get Doo, play Jackpot with him.” She shot back in the same tone, referring to my hubby. He was ‘Doo’ to all our friends and his mates, a nickname he had acquired from secondary school days. Some called him ‘Do the Doo!’

We all laughed loud and ignored the curious looks from the other eaters. They should mind their own business.

“Doris, is that your latest phone?It’s so cute.”

“Yes oo, it was my Valentine gift from hubby. You know these days everybody is going high-tech and going online for all goods and services. With his busy schedule it was so convenient for him to use the free classified web.”

As the waiter came to clear away the remains of the tasteless food, I marveled at the closeness of The Group. Through thick and thin, we have stuck together all these years. We share each other’s problems, sorrows, joys and triumphs. We are like family. And forever will remain so.

1 x 50 x 100 Flash Fiction

Tags

1 x 50 x 100, Flash Fiction

News!!! My 100-word flash fiction, Rays in My Heart  is part of the anthology of fifty stories written by fifty authors from around the globe now available in ebook form (kindle) and hard copy. Compiled by the wonderful Madison Woods, (yes, Madison, formerly of the Friday Fictioneers fame) all the lovely stories contained in the anthology, 1 Photo, 50 Authors 100 Words, are based on one photo prompt!!!

To purchase your copy do visit here: You will never regret it! 🙂

Short Story Review – The Woman From America By Bessie Head

Tags

Africa, African American, Bessie Head, Democracy, Descriptive observations, Freedom

I should have posted this review yesterday for the Short Story Tuesday slot; however, I had more than a full day and so could not write the review. Instead, what I did was to swap today’s slot of poetry for yesterday and so here I am posting a review of The Woman From America, one of Bessie Head’s collection from her anthology Tales of Tenderness and Power. 

To write about The Woman From America is to expound on a period in Bessie Head’s life when she went through so much hardship living in a mud hut in an enormous village, Serowe, Bechuanaland (Now Botswana). Desperately poor, she and her only son lived on help from international refugee organisations. (Introduction: P 12) However, Bessie did not allow her situation to daunt her; she retained her wits, sense of humour and her creative skill came to the fore when she wrote this short descriptive observations of a Black American woman, who hailed from somewhere near California (p 56) and who had descended on the village of Serowe like an avalanche to marry one of the villagers.

Published in 1966 by the New Statesman, The Woman From America is told in the first person narrative with the usual dry humour that is characteristic of Bessie Head’s stories. The first person narrative also gives the story its non-fiction quality as author recounted the tentative friendship between the two women which later blossomed into a closeness fueled by Bessie’s natural sense of curiosity and affection.

“It was inevitable thought that this woman and I should be friends. I have an overwhelming curiosity that I cannot  keep within bounds.” p 57

Through the friendship, Bessie Head gained a wealth of knowledge documented in short hand written notes all over her small mud hut. She kept these because,

“they are a statement of human generosity, and the wide carefree laugh of a woman who is as busy as women the world over, about things women always entangle themselves in – man, children, a home” (p 57)

The poor writer living on the dredges of life and the woman from America come down because of love, bonded in ways that defied the understanding of the villagers who could not comprehend how and why a beautiful woman could leave America to marry a man living in a dirt-filled village where all one ate was ground millet and a little piece of meat. They thus viewed her with some sort of fear, fascination and yes, envy.

“The terrible thing is that those who fear are always in the majority. This woman and her husband and children have to be sufficient to themselves because everything they do is not the way people here do it. Most terrible of all is the fact that they really love each other and the husband effortlessly and naturally keeps his eye on his wife alone. In this achievement, he is 70 years ahead of all the men here.” P 56

Bessie Head did not belabour the point of interracial marriage in this story. Her concerns were with the wealth of knowledge she gained through her friendship with this nameless woman; from mundane ailments of children; DPT, (Diphtheria, pertussis, Tetanus) to industrial use of electronics, atomic energy, automation and the Scientific Revolution within a blend of two cultures. “Here’s C P Snow. Read him, dammit! And dispel a bit of that fog in thy cranium.” P 59. She also drew a comparison between Black Americans who came to Africa out of a genuine love for the people and who easily assimilated, and the Black Americans from the State Department who though sociable and jovial clamped up at the most innocent questions with such mutterings as “we can’t talk about the government, that is politics.” P 59. The author seemed to question why they bothered to come at all if they were afraid of what the American government would think about their utterances. To her that was a waste of the resources of the State Department and travesty of the touting of freedom and democracy by the American government.

What amazed me about this story is its length. Only five (5) pages short, and yet the narrative was excellently packed with so much food for thought. Once again I recommend the anthology Tales of Tenderness and Power to all lovers of African literature, especially celebrating female writers.

The author died tragically early, in 1986, leaving behind her a fine collection of literary works. Tales of Tenderness and Power was the first of her works to be published in 1989 posthumously.

Short Story Tuesday – (Review) The Girl With A Twisted Future by Mia Couto

Tags

Contortionism, Mia Couto, Poverty, Third World, Victimisation, Voices Made Night

The Girl With A Twisted Future, by Mia Couto of Mozambique, is from his collection of short stories, Voices Made Night, a landmark in Mozambican prose fiction. The collection was translated from Portuguese into English by David Brookshaw. Voices Made Night expresses through striking poetic metaphors, a surreal world defined by its contradictions, and set against a background of political instability. (blurb)

Joseldo Bastante, a poor village mechanic with twelve (12) children decides to use his eldest child and daughter, Filomeninha, to make money for the family by passing her off as contortionist, displayed and advertised along the highways and byways of afar. (P 77). Through a twisted sense of desperation, born of extreme poverty, Joseldo takes his poor daughter through moments of inhuman treatment of malformation and excruciating pain, getting her to bend herself to get her head as far as the floor and vice-versa.

“At night he would tie his daughter to the drum so that her back and the curve of the recipient would cling to each other like a courting couple. In the morning, he would pour hot water over her before she woke up properly. (This water is for your bones to become sort, flexible) When they unbound her, the girl was bent over backwards, her blood flow irregular and her bones disjointed……………Filomeninha was crumpling for all to see. She looked like a hook without any more use, an abandoned rag. P 78

Finally Filomeninha is ready to be sent to an impressario who would launch her career as a contortionist. However, the impressario refuses to do so, because there is no market for contortionists or rather, there is low premium on that.

“There is no point in wasting my time. I don’t want it. Contortionism is out, it’s no longer a sensation…..This girl is sick, that’s what she is.” P 80

Needless to say, Filomeninha collapses and dies on her father on their way back to the village; Joseldo’s dream  was thus dashed.

This tragic narrative is laced with wry humour to perhaps underplay the stark portrayal of  the absurdities and foolishness of life bound by greed and extreme deprivation in an African setting. The story also abounds in themes of exploitation or victimisation of women, particularly daughters, for economic gains. Reading the collection, I could only marvel that the translator, David Brookshaw did a fine job as I was horribly reminded of current situations of child-trafficking for economic and sexual purpose in Third World Countries. I gladly recommend Voices Made Night to all who are interested in reading about Africa.

About the Author: Antonio Emilio Leite Couto was born in 1955. He has over twenty (20) literary works published in several languages including Portuguese, English, French, German, Italian and Catalan. His first publication, Raiz do Orvalho was a collection of poems published in 1983. Voices Made Night, first published in 1986 in Portuguese, is his first collection of short stories. His recent novel Jerusalem was published in 2009. Sleep Walking (Terra Sonambula) was published in 1992 and considered one of the top twelve (12) African books of the 20th Century by the Zimbabwean International Book Fair. Aside his writing, Mia Couto is also a biologist.