A Conversation With Best Debut Short Stories 2020 Author Mbozi Haimbe

“I decided to subvert readers’ expectations in terms of the narrative of a diaspora visiting their homeland in order to challenge the myth that all those arriving home from the west are endowed with bags of cash.”

Best Debut Short Stories 2020: The PEN America Dau Prize is the fourth edition of an anthology celebrating outstanding new fiction writers published by literary magazines around the world. In the upcoming weeks, we’ll feature Q&As with the contributors, whose stories were selected for PEN’s Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers and for the anthology by judges Tracy O’Neill, Nafissa Thompson-Spires, and Deb Olin Unferth. Submissions for the 2021 awards are open now.

*

Mbozi Haimbe was born and raised in Lusaka, Zambia. She writes African-inspired realist and speculative fiction. Mbozi completed a Master of Studies in Creative Writing at the University of Cambridge in 2018 and is currently working on her debut novel. “Madam’s Sister” was a regional winner of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize in 2019. Mbozi is a social worker and lives in Norfolk, England, with her family.

“Madam’s Sister” was originally published in Granta.

*

Elina, the maid, is doing her thing of standing in a nice shaded spot on the veranda, while I stew in the heat. I carry on sweeping the paved front yard, sweat trickling down my back. The flagstones are patterned with black oil stains from the cars that park here at day’s end. I pass my straw broom over these patches that refuse to be cleaned, even with water and soap. They make me look bad, lazy.

“Hey, Cephas . . . Cephas. Hey, Mr. Nyambe, it’s you I’m talk- ing to. Did you hear what I said? Madam’s sister, the one who lives in the U.K., she’s coming at the end of the week. You better move your lazy bones and clean this yard, yah? Make sure it shines London-style.”

My hand tightens on the broom. One: I’m not lazy. How can I be lazy, me? I’m the gardener. I’m the guard. I’m the car washer. And also the odd-job man for all four households within the gated cluster of detached houses.

Two: Shine London-style. I can’t even begin to interpret Elina’s demand. How can an oily forecourt bordered by a threadbare lawn and dusty shrubs shine like London?

“Did you hear me, Cephas? I said . . .”

“Yes, yes. Okay. London-style,” I say, swapping the broom for the hosepipe.

*

Where did you find the idea for this story?

My ideas generally come from my observations of what’s going on around me. I was in Lusaka, Zambia on vacation at the time. Come five p.m., there’s always an exodus of domestic workers leaving the homes they work in, and going to their own homes. I think part of the idea came from catching snippets of conversation while observing this exodus. Also, I volunteered in a community school in Ngombe compound while I was on vacation; this experience crystalized my idea.

How long did it take you to write this story?

The first draft took about a week. I then went back to it every few days, editing. In total, it took about four weeks from start to finish.

The protagonist Cephas has to occupy two vastly different socioeconomic worlds: he tends to a palatial estate, but he lives in “a room attached to a row of six other rooms with shared bathroom and toilet facilities round the back.” He is not just exposed to unjust inequity — he lives unjust inequity. He is forced to be hyper aware that he is a have-not, surrounded by haves.

Can you talk a bit about the effect this kind of dual life has on Cephas, and how the kind of frustration that Cephas experiences is often inherent to the experience of low-wage labor?

I write Cephas as stagnated due to the social-economic inequity he faces. He would like a better life for himself and his wife but has no means of acquiring it, leading to frustration. The dual nature of his existence means he cannot express this frustration; he has to wear a mask of mild-mannered servitude when at work, and hide his feelings of inadequacy when at home. The overall effect on Cephas, then, is a continual suppression of his emotions. He daren’t say what he really thinks of Madam’s sister; he daren’t confess to his wife that he’s had to buy food on credit again, on payday, too. The wig represents everything Cephas is denied. In taking it, he is not only expressing his emotions at the injustice of it all, but also taking a little power back for himself. It’s an act of vengeance, petty as it may seem. I would hesitate to generalize Cephas’ experience to all low-wage laborers, but I think having to be reminded of what’s lacking in his life on a daily basis led Cephas into seeing Madam’s sister as someone from whom he could gain something, just as she saw him as someone to serve her. Neither of them saw the person, so neither of them saw the need to be kind.

Initially, the titular Madam’s sister comes across as profoundly unlikable, cruel, and spoiled. But she is not without depth; by the end of the story, we gain some insight into her personal situation, which might explain some of her more obnoxious behavior. This gives the story an added layer of nuance and moral ambiguity.

Can you talk a bit about the intention behind this decision to complicate readers’ understanding of the sister—and by turn, the actions Cephas takes in relation to her—at the very tail end of the story?

I touched on this in my previous response. The story is about perceptions: what we see, what we don’t see even when it’s right in front of us. I decided to subvert readers’ expectations in terms of the narrative of a diaspora visiting their homeland in order to challenge the myth that all those arriving home from the west are endowed with bags of cash. In some sense, Cephas is Madam’s sister. What he experiences in Lusaka, she experiences in London, albeit in a different way.

How has the Robert J. Dau Prize affected you?

The Robert J. Dau Prize has had an impact in many ways. On a practical level, it meant I was able to take some time out to focus on writing, which is so valuable given the number of competing demands. In terms of my development as a writer, it has given me validation, and has been a gateway to my being published in the United States. As a writer starting out, this means a lot to me, and I am immensely grateful.

What are you working on now?

I’m working on my debut novel, an Afrofuristic story exploring concepts of home and identity.

Finally, where do you discover new writing?

I’m a member of a writing group and discover new through recommendations from other members of the group. I also look up The Guardian‘s top ten book recommendations.