It's summer in the global north (which is winter in the global south), and for the month of August Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world. 

Born in 1976, Stanley Onjezani Kenani is a Malawian writer currently living in France. He was shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Writing in 2008 and 2012. In 2014, he was named among 39 most promising African writers under the age of 40. He is currently working on his first novel.

The size of the crowd exceeded Madalo’s expectations. Upon receiving the invitation to attend a reading event here, she had wondered, "Switzerland? Is English spoken there?" She conducted an internet search and discovered that the Swiss populace primarily spoke German, French, Italian, and Romansh, but certainly not English. Madalo went as far as seeking clarification from her agent, who confirmed that the reading would indeed be conducted in English, followed by a conversation with the esteemed Swiss feminist, Chantal Seydoux. Madalo searched Chantal's name online and was impressed to find numerous articles authored by her in highly esteemed journals. As the day of the event approached, she perused some of those articles in case an opportunity arose to incorporate a quote from them. Now, here she was, facing all these adoring and adorable people.
She noted, from the clock on her mobile phone, that there were still approximately twelve minutes remaining before the program commenced, even though she and Chantal were already seated, facing the audience and engaging in chitchat. 
"I hope you like our city," Chantal remarked. 
“I do,” Madalo said, “so quiet and lovely and without a speck of dust.” 
Chantal appeared somewhat shy, avoiding direct eye contact, but her English was impeccable, albeit with a noticeable French accent. A few individuals from the audience approached Madalo, requesting her to autograph copies of her novel. Chantal redirected them to their seats, asking them to be patient. "Part of the program entails Madalo signing books at the very end," she explained.
The phone emitted a beep followed by a gentle vibration. Madalo's attention was drawn to the screen, revealing a message on Facebook Messenger. It came in the form of a message request, meaning it was from someone who was not on her list of Facebook friends. Indeed, it was from Kaiko, of all people. "So good to see you!" he wrote, exuding unnecessary exuberance. "I'm at the back of the audience." Madalo gazed up, and there he was, waving and wearing a friendly smile. However, she refrained from returning the gesture.
"Can we have dinner after the reading?” the message continued. “I beg you. I hope you didn't have plans already. I've traveled all the way from Stuttgart to see you." 
Her heart began to race, and an internal struggle ensued. "No, not this man again," she muttered to herself. "No, no, no." Swiftly, she placed her phone inside her handbag, grabbed the handbag, and headed toward the washroom. Finding herself alone in a cubicle, she was overcome with emotion, and tears began to flow.
Kaiko! It all came rushing back, as if the past were just yesterday, haunting her once more.
They had plans to marry as soon as he completed college. He was an electrical engineering student at The Polytechnic, with one more year to go before completion. She, on the other hand, had studied for a Bachelor of Arts. She graduated a year before Kaiko and promptly secured a job as a journalist at The Times. Lacking any family in Blantyre to stay with, she rented a servant's quarters in the Chichiri neighbourhood, a convenient walking distance from both her alma mater, where Kaiko was still studying, and her workplace. Occasionally, Kaiko spent nights at her place.
Without warning she became pregnant. But instead of embracing the pregnancy, Kaiko insisted that she terminate it. Madalo flatly refused. After many nights of arguing about it, Kaiko ceased coming around and started avoiding her. Even when she visited his hostel room on campus or tried calling him on the mobile phone she herself had bought for him with her own money, he remained unreachable. 
One evening, she went straight from work to the campus, but Kaiko was nowhere to be found in his hostel room. He was also absent from the cafeteria, the student's common room, the tuck shop, and the library. Sometimes, he used to study in The Butterfly Wing, a building so named because it was designed like the wings of a butterfly. However, a group of students was there, praying loudly and speaking in tongues.
As she was about to leave the campus, she spotted him, barely visible in the half-light. He was at the Stone Wall, his arm around the waist of a girl. Madalo's heart sank, and she walked over to confront him.
"What are you doing here?" he said, a hint of alarm clear in his voice.
"Kaiko..." she managed to say in reply, her voice cracking.
He didn't respond. The girl began walking away, but he called out, "Tiya, wait! This is the Madalo I was talking about." Turning to Madalo, he said, “I’ve to go with Tiya. I’ll text.”
And just like that, they walked away, leaving her standing there, feeling empty, like a ghost. Later that same evening, he followed up with a text message. I've been thinking long and hard, he wrote. You're a beautiful girl, Madalo, but I worry about the children we might have. They might end up not being very bright. You know, you're a BA major. I don't mean to sound insulting, but I want my child to have a science brain. I'm interested in someone else now. I wish you all the best in life. I'll leave the phone you gave me at the reception at your office. Bye.
She could not believe that this was happening to her. It was unfathomable that, until now, she had held on to every word this young man had said. "You're the most awesome human being I've met"; "My dream is to reach a hundred years with you by my side"; "Without you, my life is meaningless" – just words? Were all the two years of dating merely a waste of her time? 
She, who had only tried alcohol once and disliked it, now stumbled into the first bar she came across and drank herself into a stupor. She woke up the next morning at 10 a.m., not sure how she had made it back home. She called her workplace and lied about being sick. Days passed without proper eating, nights without sleep but with more alcohol consumption, sometimes waking up next to unfamiliar men, after going to bed dead drunk.
One afternoon, she walked into a family planning clinic and terminated her pregnancy. She didn't bother to inform Kaiko. To her, he had ceased to exist. She never thought she would trust any man again, no matter how sweet their words. She blamed herself for believing Kaiko when he said he loved her.
Over time, however, she steadied herself and tried to focus. She quit drinking, determined not to let a man ruin her life. Instead, she sought solace in writing. She began crafting short fiction, which The Times published on its arts page. With each published story her confidence grew, and her fan base slowly expanded. Among her readers was Prof. Lupanga, a creative writing lecturer at Chancellor College, who reached out to her.
The professor kindly pointed out the mistakes she made in some of her stories and offered to edit them for her. “Make your characters come alive,” he said. “Bring out their feelings. Let them be well-rounded.” He also encouraged her to submit her stories to prominent international literary journals. 
She submitted her work to nine literary journals and received rejection emails from all of them. She found the rejection hard to stomach and started doubting herself. 
"Perhaps I'm pushing too hard, Prof.," she said over the phone.
"No, no, no, Madalo, you're very talented!” the professor said. “Just keep trying. I haven't read better writing by a Malawian in a long time."
Yet the more she tried, the more she got rejected. Only The Times seemed ready to gobble up anything she wrote, even though she herself did not think highly of her work. She sometimes thought The Times published her stories only to please her, perhaps because she once worked there.
Finally, a South African journal accepted one of her stories. It was remarkable how that single acceptance opened doors. A year later, the same story was shortlisted for the Caine Prize. She flew outside Africa for the first time to attend the prize ceremonies in London. It turned out to be a whirlwind week of interviews at the BBC and various other media channels, lunches with literary agents and publishers, and even a luncheon in the cafeteria of the House of Commons. Although she didn't win the prize itself, an agent took a keen interest in her work and signed her on. 
Two years later, her debut novel was published, initially in the United Kingdom and then in the United States. It went on to be translated into multiple languages, including French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Hindi, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and Dutch. The book received wide acclaim from critics in reputable newspapers, literary journals and magazines worldwide. That marked the beginning of her global book tours. Her profile skyrocketed at an astonishing rate, and she received a staggering advance for her second novel. This enabled her to quit working altogether and become a full-time writer. She didn't consider herself wealthy, but she had enough money to purchase a house and a brand-new car. Financial worries no longer troubled her. She could afford anything she desired, including supporting her father with his medical bills. She had still not settled down with anyone in terms of marriage, but that no longer bothered her much. She firmly believed that it was better not to be in a marriage at all than to marry someone she had lingering doubts about. Her mother and aunties made persistent attempts to convince her to prioritize marriage, as they believed it was the best thing for a woman. However, she remained steadfast and refused to give in. Not because men didn’t come knocking at the door. They did, except she had the presence of mind to end the relationship at the first sign of red flags. There was George, or “Houdini” as she nicknamed him because of the way he conducted himself. He would disappear without warning for days, no call or message, only to reappear with a carefully crafted and easily believable justification, until she concluded that the pattern of disappearances was something to worry about in the long term, and that the justifications could be the product of a seasoned liar. Then came Albert “Flowers,” who had a sudden violent temper, but would rush to apologize with a bouquet of flowers the morning after – in fact, the only man who had ever bought her flowers – until she concluded that she preferred a calmer demeanour more than she appreciated his flowers. Sintekeseka begged her to have a baby with him, saying, “A child with you would be truly intelligent,” but that was after her global profile had already grown, and every word she uttered in public, a tweet, a Facebook post or a speech, became fodder for headlines both at home and abroad. And, anyway, he seemed more obsessed with the idea of the baby than with genuine love for her. Thus, years had flown by without her finding anyone she connected with deeply enough to consider settling down in marriage.
And now, as she promoted her third novel, Chaos, the last person she ever expected to encounter was in the room. She read his message again, wrote, deleted, wrote again, then deleted once more. Her initial thought was "Get thee behind me, Satan!" Then she tried to figure out how to politely decline him. 
However, another part of her was curious about the man. Over the years, she had never come face-to-face with him but had caught glimpses of him in shopping malls and other places. Once, he was with a tall, skinny girl. Another time, at a concert, he sat alone. The last time she saw him was at the Kamuzu International Airport, with a chubby blonde of medium height. On none of those occasions did they exchange greetings or even acknowledge each other's presence with a smile or a nod. What could he want to say?
"Alright, I'll see you after the book signing," she finally responded.
"Is anything the matter, Madalo?" Chantal's voice startled her. 
"I'm alright," she said, flushing the toilet and stepping out of the cubicle to look at herself in the mirror.
"We're about to begin," Chantal said.
As Madalo returned to her seat, the room erupted in applause. The lighting had undergone a transformation during her brief absence, with brighter illumination focused on her and Chantal. The two were positioned almost facing each other but also angled toward the audience. The rest of the room remained bathed in a soft, dim glow. The MC delivered an effusive introduction. She listed Madalo's numerous awards and cited the praise she had received from literary luminaries worldwide. The audience responded with yet another round of applause.
At this point, the MC ceded the floor to Chantal, who invited Madalo to read from her work. Madalo read with deep emotional intensity, eliciting gasps from the captivated audience. When she concluded, a moment of hushed silence yielded to thunderous applause.
"That was breathtaking," Chantal remarked.
"Thank you," Madalo replied.
Chantal continued, "What motivated you to address the sensitive issue of marital rape in 'Chaos'?"
"I chose this subject because, even in the new millennium, more than two decades in, discussing marital rape is still considered taboo in my homeland. Few women are willing to openly broach the topic. I wanted the protagonist, Memory, to inspire such women to find their own voices."
"Quite impressive," Chantal said, her tone thoughtful. "But considering the massive blowback and ridicule Memory faces when she bravely discloses her husband's actions on her Facebook account, do you not fear that women in Malawi, and indeed all over the world, might be deterred by the prospect of enduring such embarrassment?"
"Not necessarily," Madalo responded with conviction. "Let’s examine everything that unfolds after she speaks out. Yes, she indeed faces shame and ridicule, and some of her closest family members do not believe her claims. Yet, some women come forward to share their own experiences of marital rape, inspired by Memory’s bravery. An NGO she was unaware of steps forward to support her, assisting with legal fees as she confronts her husband in court. Ultimately, after all the turmoil, we witness Memory discovering an inner peace she had never deemed possible. I believe all these experiences would empower women facing similar circumstances to stand up against any form of abuse."
Another round of applause filled the room.
"I was intrigued by the twist in the plot," Chantal continued. "I was rooting for her, hoping she would win. However, she loses the case. Why did you choose to make her lose?"
"I wanted to illustrate that patriarchy pervades every level, even within the legal system," Madalo explained. "However, it's important to note that the husband doesn’t necessarily emerge victorious either. He is terminated by his employers due to the negative publicity generated by the case. To settle mounting legal bills, he sells most of his possessions. His triumph is pyrrhic in every sense. Nevertheless, the mere fact that he, for the very first time, recognizes the merit in seeking counseling means that Memory has ultimately triumphed."
"How has the novel been received in Malawi?" Chantal inquired.
"I must confess that it hasn't made much of a ripple," Madalo admitted. "Firstly, because the reading culture has dwindled. Secondly, since my books are published overseas, they tend to be too expensive for the few readers who wish to access them back home. Nevertheless, major Malawian newspapers have reviewed it, albeit at a superficial level. Still, a few Malawian commentators on social media have accused me of sacrificing my artistic integrity for the sake of feminism."
The talk continued for thirty-five minutes before opening the floor to questions from the audience.
"Sorry to ask," a white-haired lady inquired, "are any of the experiences in the novel personal to you?"
Madalo responded, "I've never been married, but yes, in all my writings, there's always something personal. I know what it means to be deeply hurt. Someone I deeply loved hurt me once, not physically in his case but emotionally. So, when I write about a woman like Memory, who is injured both physically and emotionally, I'm drawing from my own experiences one way or another."
Chantal concluded the session, after which a queue formed for book signings. Many attendees requested selfies with Madalo, and the line grew so long that it took another hour to sign books for every member of the audience.
Only then did the time come to depart.

His hair had turned grey quickly, and he was still not yet fifty. His tummy protruded a bit, possibly due to the effects of beer. He wore an ill-fitting pair of jeans and spectacles, which he didn't wear back in the day.
"It has been a long day for me," he said as they left the hall.
"Is that so?" Madalo replied. "Excuse my poor geography, but how far is Stuttgart from here?"
"Seven hours by train," he said. "Eight, to be specific, because I don't live in Stuttgart per se, but in Geislingen, an hour outside Stuttgart."
"That was an odyssey," she remarked. "Just to see me?"
"Yes, just to see you. Even if the trip were to take me twenty-four hours by train, I would still have done it."
They spotted a bustling Italian restaurant right next to the hall where the reading took place.
"Are you into Italian food?" he asked.
"Why not?"
It was a large restaurant on two floors. "Upstairs?" he suggested.
The good thing about European summers, Madalo noticed, was that at 8 p.m. there was still sunlight, allowing them to enjoy a splendid view of the lake. He immediately ordered himself a glass of wine, while Madalo settled for tap water.
"So, how is Tiya?" she inquired.
"I'm deeply sorry, Madalo," he said, looking clearly unsettled. "I hurt you. There's nothing I can say that can heal the wound I created, but I'm sorry."
She did not say a word.
"Tiya and I broke up shortly after college," he continued. "Long story. I met someone else, Rebecca. We got married and had two children. But things didn't work out eventually, again. After two brief relationships I met Claudia, from Germany. That's why I relocated here five years ago. Things went off the rails two years into our marriage, so I'm alone again now."
He was trembling a little as he brought the glass of wine to his lips. He ordered ravioli, while she settled for risotto.
"What do you do in Germany?" she asked.
"I'm yet to find a proper job," he said, "but I'm able to survive through odds and ends. It helps to know stuff. I work as a handyman. But once my papers are out, I should be able to find a proper job."
"Good to hear that," Madalo said.
"Also, language was a big problem in the early years, but I've worked hard on it. Now I feel comfortable enough to fit in a work environment."
"I see."
He emptied his glass pretty quickly, then ordered another one.
"You've done pretty well, Madalo," he said. "I've quietly been your big fan. I've read all the three books, plus many of your short stories."
"Thank you."
The restaurant brimmed with patrons. Some occupied the balcony, engaged in smoking, drinking, talking, and laughing. Though she couldn't identify the music emanating from the in-ceiling speakers, it resonated well at the right volume, with a guitar riff reminiscent of B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone."
"Do you visit Geneva often?" she asked, seeking conversation to break the awkward silence.
"This is my first time," he replied. "In fact, I wouldn't have come if it were not for you. It's just that I missed your event at the Frankfurt Book Fair last year. I was down with COVID, but I really wished I could come."
He consumed wine like water. The second glass was already nearing its end. "The Italian wine is pretty good," he declared, as though reading her mind. "A pity these European restaurants fill the glass less than half-full. You don't drink at all?"
"No."
"Good for you. I've tried stopping many times, but it hasn't worked. When loneliness bites me, I think of no other way of coping."
Again, a long spell of silence.
"Where are your children?", she asked.
"With their mother. She wouldn't allow me to bring them to Germany."
"What age are they?"
"The girl is sixteen, the boy fourteen."
"They're grown." Silence, then: "How are they doing so far?"
"Well, I guess," he said, avoiding her eyes. "The mother doesn't let me talk to them. Says I haven't been there for them – she has a list of grievances. But I've gotten used to it."

The voice of the singer was beautifully husky. She wished they could raise the volume of the music. "They must be in secondary school now?" she inquired.
"Yes. The girl is sharp. Not anywhere near the top of the class, but she's sharp. The boy is not turning out as well as I would have wished."
"Give them time," she advised.
"I suppose so."
He still seemed not keen to meet her eyes.
"What does their mother do?" she asked.
"She used to work in a hotel restaurant as a waitress – that's where we met. But now she owns her own hair salon. She also goes across the border to Tanzania to order a few clothes, that sort of thing."
"I see."
He signaled a passing waiter. "Another glass, please," he said, belching. "Their food seems to take forever," he commented to Madalo. "I'm starving. I haven't eaten anything in twenty-four hours."
"Then taking wine doesn't seem like a good idea," she remarked, "on an empty stomach."
"You're right," he acknowledged. "I'm coming. I've got to visit the washroom."
He rose. As he passed close to her on his way, she sensed that he smelled of sweat. The whole experience felt like a weird dream.
The food arrived during that time. Before long, Kaiko returned.
"Their ravioli is delicious," he said, shoveling it into his mouth. He ate really fast. Before she was even midway through her risotto, his plate was empty. It didn't seem like he'd had enough. He called for another glass.
The silence hung between them like a thick curtain.
"Madalo," he eventually said, "like I said at the beginning of our chat, I'm really sorry for what I did to you back in the day."
She said nothing.
"I've had no luck on the relationship front since. It's one disaster after another. You're the only one I truly loved."
"Is that so?"
"Trust me,” he said, with unnecessary emphasis. “I've never loved anyone the way I loved you. And no one has loved me the way you did." His eyes seemed to search her face for reaction.
"I'm flattered to hear that," she said without emotion. He was on his seventh glass. The music seemed as sad as the man facing her.
He said, "I would like to beg you to give me another chance."
So shocked was she that she dropped the cutlery to the floor. She found herself trembling a little. That was the last thing she expected to hear. She had agreed to meet him as part of being nice, of not paying back evil with evil. It never occurred to her that this ghost from the past would think it possible to revive the love that long died just like that.
"I need to use the washroom," she said. "I'll give you my response when I'm back."
The washroom was downstairs. It was also where the cashier’s desk was located. In the cubicle, she broke down, feeling sorry that the pathetic man upstairs thought he was still worthy of her love. She eventually wiped her tears, then headed to the cashier. After settling the bill, she stepped out of the restaurant and hopped onto the tram, heading straight back to her hotel across the lake.
She found that there was really nothing in common between them and questioned why, decades ago, she fell in love with him in the first place. No matter how hard she tried, he just seemed an insufferable person with whom she would not live even for a single day. In a way, this encounter had brought closure. She felt lucky that his rejection of her years earlier saved her from life imprisonment disguised as matrimony with him. Back in the day, she was young and naïve and knew nothing about the world. As she stepped out of the tram at Cornavin train station, she realized that she had never felt freer.
Yet in her hotel room something bothered her. Here she was, writing about a brave woman who endured vitriol from across her home country as she publicly confronted her husband over the difficult subject of marital rape, yet she herself had failed to confront Kaiko and tell it to his face what, exactly, she thought of him and his proposal. “No, I’m not a coward,” she said to herself, rising.

Once again she sat on the tram and headed back to the restaurant, almost half an hour after her abrupt departure. The place was empty now, as they were about to close. Upstairs, Kaiko was still at the table, one of the last three customers remaining, the other being an elderly couple that seemed to be enjoying some coffee while engaged in deep conversation. Kaiko sat leaning back in his chair, fast asleep and with a deep snore, a glass of wine before him. She decided not to disturb him in his slumber and quietly retreated to her hotel, never to return.