Dynamics: South African writer Nadia Davids says the underlying themes of her short story Bridling, which has been shortlisted for The Caine Prize, are power, rebellion and the constraints of girl and womanhood. Photo: John Gutierrez
South African writer, theatre-maker and scholar Nadia Davids has been shortlisted for the prestigious Caine Prize for African Writing.
It is an annual award for a short story by an African writer, published in English, of a length of between 3 000 and 10 000 words.
This year’s five shortlisted writers, selected from a pool of 320 entries originating from 28 African countries, are Davids for Bridling, published in The Georgia Review (2023); Samuel Kolawole (Nigeria) for Adjustment of Status, New England Review, Vol. 44, #3 (2023); Uche Okonkwo (Nigeria) for Animals, Zyzzyva (2024) and Pemi Aguda (Nigeria) for Breastmilk, One Story, Issue #227 (2021).
Chika Unigwe, chair of judges, said: “These stories, ranging from speculative to realistic, cover diverse subject matters but share a common thread — they are compelling, universal human stories.”
This year marks 24 years since Leila Aboulela was announced the winner of the inaugural prize. The winner of the 2024 Caine Prize will be announced on 17 September.
Davids’s plays (At Her Feet, What Remains, Hold Still) have been staged throughout Southern Africa and in Europe.
Her debut novel An Imperfect Blessing was shortlisted for the Pan-African Etisalat Prize for Literature.
She has taught at the Queen Mary University of London and the University of Cape Town. Born and raised in Cape Town, Davids has lived in New York and London and currently lives in Los Angeles.
The Mail & Guardian spoke to Davids about the Caine Prize.
Was it a surprise?
It was a huge, wonderful surprise to be shortlisted.
How did you feel when you heard about it?
Both elated and surprised. The Caine Prize is rightly beloved and respected; it’s in its 25th year and does such important work in supporting and celebrating new African fiction.
I remember reading Leila Aboulela’s marvellous inaugural-winning short story The Museum in 2000 and being so excited by how skilfully — effortlessly — the author threaded between the personal lives of her characters and ideas around empire, museum, archive. It was inspiring.
Since then, I’ve read the shortlist most years and been continually struck by the radiance and beauty of the writing on offer.
It’s a wonderful way to be introduced to new African writing and writers and to encounter the excellence of already established authors in this form.
I’m immensely grateful to the judges for their work and care.
What went through your mind that moment when you heard?
I was sitting down when I got the email and I jumped to my feet in delight — a physical response!
What was the inspiration for your story?
It started out as a play — which speaks a little to how I struggle to commit to just one form of writing.
I wanted to write a short play that responded to various performance pieces I’d seen that staged either race or gender or re-enacted historical ethnographic practices — or did all three!
I’d been troubled more than once by works that declared that they were taking up these issues to dismantle them, but to my mind, seemed to replicate in structure and meaning what they said they were critiquing.
And the longer I thought about those works or spoke to performers who were in them, the more I returned to how power manifests in the rehearsal room and on the stage, how it’s negotiated, what the terms are, what kinds of systems outside the room are replicated inside of it.
So, I wrote an experimental theatre text and asked [South African choreographer and scholar] Jay Pather if it was something he’d be interested in exploring through performance.
Jay and I had spoken so often about the dynamics of power, first in the intimacy of the rehearsal room, and then within the wider radius of the theatre industry.
In 2022, he, Buhle Ngaba and Shaun Oelf were doing some initial exploratory work around a staging of that text.
Some really exciting stuff was emerging from the process but, for various reasons, none of us could take the performance forward at the time. I decided a year later to expand my initial text into a “long short story” and refocus it to explore representations of women in Western art.
I developed a somewhat naive narrator who is enamoured with the “genius” of a smooth-talking all-powerful male director.
It’s a punishing, extractive process but the narrator eventually forges solidarity with the other women performers and finds herself in the psychic life of the artworks.
I find the story very visual — I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye. How much did you use your experience as a theatre-maker and playwright for Bridling? To what extent is this autofiction?
I’m not sure I’d call it autofiction. I didn’t train as an actor, and have never worked as one, but I’ve observed rehearsal processes and been around enough actors and directors to understand the logics and struggles of, and for, power in the rehearsal space and in the zone of performance.
Bridling is just over 7 000 words — how long does it take before a story like this is ready for publication?
I wrote the first draft over a month or so, shared it with some trusted readers for feedback, and then it was sent out for submission.
It was placed about two months later in The Georgia Review and published eight months later.
What are Bridling’s themes?
For me, it’s power, rebellion, the often-impossible constraints of girl and womanhood and the ways we try to free ourselves. It may be different for another reader.
Which do you prefer, short stories or novels?
No preference; they are very different reading and writing experiences. I have very limited experience writing novels, so I say this as a reader — novels are more forgiving; they’re read over a much longer period, they’re allowed to be a little baggy, they can meander.
Short stories hew closer to plays in that they tend to be consumed in one sitting, the word count needs to be lean, without compromising character depth; they require an energetic “through-line” to carry the reader/audience member through.
Short stories and novels offer different pleasures as a reader and different challenges as a writer.
Which is more difficult?
It depends on the piece: I once worked on a short story for nine years before it made sense to me.
What are you working on at the moment?
I’ve finished the draft of a new play. I’m about to send it out to readers — always a slightly terrifying prospect!