Back when I was still an unduly naive college student, I took a fiction writing course. There were probably fifteen people in the class. Each week we would read and critique a different student’s writing. The stories were well-wound, spanned the genre gamut, and often left me satisfied. Except for one week. A story was up for critique that didn’t satisfy me. Not at all. Instead, it made me jealous.
The story, titled “The Pulling” was a haunting, excellently paced story about female mutilation experienced by a Westernized young girl of African descent. It was too good, really. While everyone else in the class was still groping the ether to find their voice, it seemed like this student had already found theirs.
That student was Yvette Ndlovu….