Charles King - "Under Fire"

J. S. Zerbe - "Carpentry for Boys"

George Manville Fenn - "The Little Skipper"

Edward Doyle - "Freedom, Truth and Beauty"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

First Plays

A >> A. A. Milne >> First Plays




MOTHER. Who say so? Is not Master Johannes the master of his
company? Who say so?

TALKER. The birds. I held converse with a cuckoo-bird this morning.
"Cuckoo," he said--in this manner (he imitates it on his pipe)--
meaning, as I gathered, "O fool!" I bowed low to him, and "Pardon,
bird," said I,--"but I would have you tell me why I am a fool." He
answered thus in parables--"Cuckoo."

MOTHER. And what did _that_ mean?

TALKER (sighing). It meant, "There's no fool like an old fool."

(She looks away. He waits a little, then sighs again and leaves the
window, entering a moment later by the door.)

MOTHER (looking up). Well, Sir?

TALKER. Madame, I am a man of good family, although--although I
quarrelled with my good family. I left them many years ago and took
to the road. I have seen something of the world since then, but I
think I must always have had at the back of my mind some dim
picture of what a home was--some ancient memory, perhaps. That
memory has been very strong within me these last days.

MOTHER. You have liked my home, Master Johannes?

TALKER. I have liked it well. (He takes out his pipe and plays a
melancholy "Cuckoo.") Well, well--we start this afternoon.

MOTHER. You want my daughter?

TALKER (sadly). Not your daughter, Madame.

MOTHER. What is it you want? Are you so backward in asking? It is
not like the Master Johannes who came to my house eight days ago.

TALKER (taking his courage in his hands). Madame, though I have
wandered about the world, I have saved some pennies in my time.
A few trifling coins--enough for middle-age. Since I have had the
great honour of knowing you--(He breaks of as the voice of the
SINGER to full song is heard approaching.) Oh, God bless that poor
young fool! Madame, I entreat you--

MOTHER (rising and moving hastily away). Another time, dear
Johannes--(she smiles very fondly at him as she goes out)--another
time you must tell me--all.

(The TALKER stares after her, hardly believing. Then, with an air
of solemn happiness, he takes out his pipe and dances carefully but
cheerfully round the room, piping to himself. The SINGER comes in
singing merrily, He joins the TALKER at the end of the room, turns
round with hint and trips up and down the room with him, one
singing and the other piping.)

TALKER. Friend, we are gay.

SINGER. Very, very gay, Master Johannes. (They turn round and go up
and down the room as before.)

TALKER. Something is stirring our middle-aged blood. I feel years
younger.

SINGER. I have only just been born.

TALKER (with a wave of the hand): Shall we take another turn?

SINGER. At your pleasure. (They go up and down as before.)

TALKER (looking at the other anxiously out of the corners of his
eyes). What do you think has happened to us?

SINGER (with a similar look). I--I wonder.

TALKER (nervously). I suppose the fact that we are going off this
afternoon--the joy of returning to our old gay life is--is
affecting us?

SINGER. I--I suppose so. (Without enthusiasm) Yes, that must be it.

TALKER. This cauliflower existence, this settled life which even
the least enterprising cabbage would find monotonous, we have had
more than enough of it, my friend.

SINGER. Yes. (He sighs deeply.) I sigh to think how we have wasted
these eight days.

TALKER. Ah! (He sighs still more deeply.) However, Heaven be
praised, we are for the road this afternoon.

SINGER (gloomily). Heaven be praised! It is a grand life.

TALKER (carelessly). Of course, if you came to me and said,
"Johannes," you said, "I left my home in a fit of melancholy five
months agone; the melancholy is cured, I will return home again"--
why, I would say, "God bless you, Master Duke; go your way." Well,
I can understand such a thing happening to a man of your age, not
born to the wandering as I am.

SINGER. Bless you, Johannes, you are a true gentleman.

TALKER (airily). Say no more, say no more.

SINGER. But I cannot accept this sacrifice. I pledged myself to
serve you for a year, and I'll keep my pledge.

TALKER (considerably upset by this). Wait a moment, Master Duke;
I have myself thought of retiring these many months past. Indeed,
it was only for your sake--

SINGER. No, no, I cannot allow it. It is only for my sake that you
are saying this. We will take the road this afternoon. (Heroically)
Indeed, I would infinitely prefer it. I am enamoured of the
wandering life.

TALKER. It is a great life. It means everything to me.

(They stand side by side looking gloomily in front of them.
Gradually they begin to glance towards each other; they catch each
other's eyes--and understand each other thoroughly.)

TALKER (clapping the SINGER heartily on the back). I knew it, I
knew it! You and the wandering life!

SINGER (delightedly). You, too, Johannes! You've had enough of it!

(They suddenly turn round and go up and down the room together,
piping and singing. A genteel cough is heard outside the window,
and the MOTHER is seen for a moment. The TALKER turns round with
his pipe to his lips. They go up the room together again, and at
the top the TALKER, with a wave of the hand, leaves his companion
and goes out. He is seen passing the window.)

[The DAUGHTER comes in.]

SINGER. Sweetheart!

DAUGHTER (going to him). Is it all right?

SINGER. Everything is all right, beloved.

DAUGHTER. You have told him?

SINGER (nodding). It couldn't have fallen out better. He, too, was
tired of wandering and wanted to settle down.

DAUGHTER. I told mother. She seemed glad. You know, I think she
seems younger about something.

[Enter FIDDLER.]

FIDDLER. Are we starting this afternoon?

DAUGHTER. Oh, Fiddler dear, do you mind very much? (She holds out
her hand, and the SINGER takes it.) We aren't coming at all. We--we--

SINGER. We are getting married.

FIDDLER (nodding to herself). I thought so.

DAUGHTER. But you will come and stay with us sometimes. Oh, say you
will!

SINGER (smiling at FIDDLER with great friendliness). Of course she
will.

(The TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.)

FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this
afternoon.

[The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and
takes the floor.]

TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and
ladies of the road, comrades all,--I have the honour to make an
announcement to you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is
determined from this date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would
say, dissolved. "What means this, Master Johannes?" I hear you say.
"Who has done this thing?" Ladies and gentles all, I answer you
that young Cupid has done this thing. With unerring aim he has
loosed his arrows. With the same happy arrow (taking the MOTHER'S
hand) he has pierced the hearts of this gracious lady and myself,
while yonder gallant gentleman I name no names, but the
perspicacious will perceive whom I mean--is about to link his life
with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his side. There
is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet referred--

FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go.
Good-bye, and thank you.

MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear.

TALKER (continuing his speech)--noble lady to whom I have not yet
referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the
fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish
of (swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should
take up her abode with us.

FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think--

DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she
promised.

MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be
much more suitable that she should live with _us_.

SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see
you whenever she liked.

MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and
come and see _you_ sometimes.

TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to
this? For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year,
she shall live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her
habitation with us; whereas for the other six months--(They have
been so busy discussing the future of the FIDDLER that they have
not noticed that she is no longer there. Suddenly the sound of the
fiddle is heard.) What's that?

[The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in
it. She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content
again. She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them
a little bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She
goes out of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she
goes past the windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she
is gone they still listen until the music dies in the distance.]

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