New Writing

Centerprise Literature is very highly regarded for its creative writing programme.

Here are some examples of the exciting range of new talent emerging from our courses and workshops.

Nana Aba Odoom
Nana Aba Odoom is of Ghanaian descent and has lived in London all her life. She has had work published in City Literary Institute magazine, Velvet and Calabash. She is currently working on a book of short stories.

Shelhi
Taiseer Shelhi is a writer and artist of mixed heritage with a Libyan father and an English mother. She was brought up in Tripoli, Libya and came to London when she was sixteen. She has degrees in architecture and fine art. She lives in East London and is writing her first novel.

Jackie Clarke
Jackie was born and raised in Bristol; her parents are from Jamaica. She has a short story published in the anthology Voice Memory Ashes. Her first novel received a runner-up prize from Eastside Arts. She has now completed the novel and is working on the first draft of a play.

When George came to London, he discovered that even the lightest tanned white people called themselves 'black', and wore their hair in cornrows, and even the darkest skinned black girls dyed their hair and wore blonde extensions. Water was so cheap that people preferred to buy it from the supermarket! Elders were beaten and robbed in their own homes by kids young enough to be their grandchildren! And on television quiz shows you could win the lifetime earnings of ten villages back home combined in the time it took to strangle a goat! There were cookery shows hosted by chefs from London's top restaurants, and all the chefs were men! Women smoked, spat and swore openly on the streets! Everyone was always in a rush and people bumped into you without stopping to apologise.

And, George found, if he held the gaze of a white woman for longer than a second or two, their faces would tense, and some even turned their heads away.

For George then, the party had yet to begin.

And there was his mother telling him to be careful. And here was a young blonde girl, clad head to toe in shiny black plastic, beckoning him. Today of all days when he had chosen to fast to thank The Almighty for what he hoped he was about to receive that forthcoming weekend.

'3 for a live show, darlin'?' The girl in the doorway smiled at him again.

George crossed the street and went over to her. 'Is how much?' George enquired.
'3' the girl said. George took a step backwards.
'You gimme sex, three pound?' Hallelujah!
This girl was going to show him The Real London, and only for three pounds! Mentally he did a high five with his cousin Edie back home.

'No, love,' the girl said, 'You get to see a private dance for 3.'
'Dance?' said George, 'dance? Like rock 'n' roll?'
'No, love.' the young girl blinked twice.
'A girl will take off her clothes and dance for you naked. Three pounds.'
George took a step forward. 'Girl? Dance? Naked? Three Pound?' He asked.
'That's right, darlin'. Heaven is a place on Earth. Just follow me.'

George followed the blonde down a flight of hollow stairs, lit only by a bare red light bulb. 'I must remember' he thought to himself 'to give ten pounds to the collection box this Sunday.' Ten pounds was ten percent of his weekly earnings, and tomorrow, Saturday, was payday.

Aunt came on the first Saturday in spring. We had no memory of her as children, or as grown ups, not even when the letter arrived. A green mini van dropped her off; we peered from the window hoping to catch our first glimpse of her. But the assistant, a large, white shirted man, obscured our view. The doorbell rang; mother neatened her dress, brushed a stray hair into place, and went to answer it. We sat, listening out for Aunt's voice amongst the greetings; if she spoke we could not hear it above the assistant's blustery chatter. He filled the hallway with "loves" and 'dears" until, sensing a cool impatience in mother's words, he left.

Aunt's steps were quiet too. She entered the room so close behind mother that we only saw her once the door had been shut. "This is the family," said mother, careful to move Aunt forward with only the tips of her fingers.

Aunt grinned but said nothing. She looked back at her sister as though not quite believing the elegance of Mother's outfit. She touched her own beige dress, aware that it was shapeless and transparent, and the cardigan she had on, chocolate stained. At first glance she looked shorter than mother, but there was something about her arms, trunk, and legs that seemed compressed, coiled even, as if waiting to unfold.

"Sit here, Dolores." Mother frowned briefly, taking in her sister's footwear. The men's carpet slippers matted in bed fluff and hair, and her big toe in pink socks, poking through a hole in the tip.

Aunt's eyes swept over the table laid in her honour: the small pyramid of cold chicken legs, layered circles of sliced beef, pastries, sandwiches, and at the center a large white cake with Aunt's name iced in green letters. "Is it my birthday?" She asked, looking at her sister in wonder.

"No, Dolores," said Mother, beginning to serve the food.

Aunt gazed at each of us with the freedom of a searchlight. We busied ourselves, breaking the discomfort of being looked at, but not severing the unrest at being seen.

"They're quiet girls." Aunt said, taking the food.
"Brought up well," replied Mother.
"They're plain like you," said Aunt, watching us sit down.
"All the better I think," retorted Mother, placing a serviette on her sister's lap.
"They should've been your babies not mine," said Aunt, biting into the cake. Her tongue was black, like she'd been sucking liquorice.

I know the smell of frying garlic is home and ripe mangoes should to be eaten in the bath.

That my mother tongue is a foreign language and dogs understand the meaning of joy.

That if the crescent lies on her back there will be war and Algebra fills the mouth with sweetness.

I know as a child I had my father's hands and now I have my mother's.

That life's not geometry and books are birds.

That the texture of salt on a tiled floor drives the jinn away and a spoonful of olive oil is good for the throat.

I know pomegranate seeds should never ever be eaten with a pin, but with a spoon and taste best with added sugar and rose water.

That you can change the saddle but not the horse.

That according to scientific studies turmeric may prevent childhood leukaemia.

I know at three weeks in her womb my mother died inside and I was born haunted twice over.

I know cockroaches can survive a nuclear blast.

That geckoes are like the moon they grow back what they lose.

That a girl is born with forty angels and a boy with none.

With every year of her life the girl loses an angel and the boy gains one.

I know I'm running out of angels and details are both devilish and godly.

That people judge a person by religion, race or name and Arab is the new Black.