De Amerikaanse schrijver Nick McDonell werd geboren op 18 februari 1984 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Nick McDonell op dit blog.
Uit: An Expensive Education
“We do not leave our allies tied to trees! Hatashil had calmed down quickly, though, and delivered a lecture. Misunderstandings happen, he had concluded, but always restrain yourself Moalana had been grateful for Hatashil’s understanding in the face of so great a blunder. Moalana offered Teak a bit of khat. Teak accepted and began to chew. He did not enjoy the bitter taste, like cabbage. “Can I keep one?” he asked. “One bag,” Moalana laughed for the benefit of his men, “how will you keep one?” Before Teak could answer, Moalana cut him off. “Not one,” he said, and his men began loading the cases into the trucks. The boy sitting cross-legged, Teak noticed, had become distracted from robbery and was drawing in the dry dirt with his cleaver. An older boy called to him as the rest of the shifta put the gate back on top of the van and lashed it in place. Moalana waved his hand once from the window of his truck as it passed. Teak spat the khat out and watched them disappear down the track. The whole encounter had taken less than five minutes. The khat cases had worked. He was still in no hurry.
Miles down, hours later, off a track off the track, the scrub dissipated into rocky plain, but first, a blessed stream. On the bank a crooked date palm, a dozen huts, goats, and children like miniature guardian angels. Teak liked the look of it. He parked a hundred yards from the village so as not to further disturb the corraled livestock. A few tattered goats bleated at the Land Cruiser.
From his pocket, a key, and Teak unlocked the glove box, took out a sealed FedEx envelope. He stepped out of the car and stretched his legs, reflecting on the temperature as he put on the wrinkled jacket of his khaki suit. He wore the same thing everywhere, and it was cooler now. Not that he minded the heat. His pale skin had a permanent burn but that was fine with him. A short lifetime of New England winters had been enough. He checked the SIG P220 in his waistband, tucked the FedEx envelope under his arm, and walked to meet the children approaching him through the dry crackle of the burnt grass. Behind them, leaning mothers, knowing disdain. Then the most curious of the children was at his knee, looking up at him. Teak greeted the child in the local dialect, and the child was not old enough to find this strange. “Riddle!” said Teak, grinning whiter teeth than the child had ever seen in a grown-up. “Riddle me!” said the child. “My house has no doors,” said Teak. It was an easy and famous riddle about an egg, but the child was so young that Teak guessed it could be new to him, and he was right. The child ran back to commiserate with his fellows.”
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Björn Kuhligk werd geboren op 19 februari 1975 in Berlijn. Zie ook alle tags voor Björn Kuhligk op dit blog.
Tijdens het vrijdaggebed
(voor Katja Krauss)
TIJDENS HET VRIJDAG GEBED
de hoofddoek-gebogen vrouwen
in de velden, vanaf de minaretten
vallen de woorden als kringen om de huizen, ‘s avonds
schakelen sproeiers zichzelf in, de verrotte
kassen, een verzameling
tenten waarvoor twee kinderen bij het vuur
’s avonds het zwembad, integraal verlicht
tot in het lichtblauw, het getjirp van de krekels
in de dorpen staan huizen leeg, op de daken
roestende regentonnen LADIES
AND GENTLEMEN: MR. GERMANY, dan
de clubdans, handen omhoog en rechts en links
en benen wijd, JOUW NAAM OP EEN RIJSTKORREL
de zon seilt, dat weten we hier, zoals elke avond
achter de bergen ab, ZIJ ZULLEN HET NIET VERGETEN
de fotoserie waarin een stel aan zee
en vriendelijk naar het water kijkt
boven de naakte torso’s in de ochtend
drie straaljagers op weg naar het oosten
dan de clubdans, handen omhoog en rechts
en links zo maar iemand neemt de foto
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 18e februari ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2019 en eveneens mijn blog van 18 februari 2018 deel 2.