Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

Cafe Aphra contributor, Afia Nkrumah, is a theatre director who moved into making films a few years ago. She recently got a break when her short film, Shadow Man, was selected for funding by Film London. Here she tells us about her experiences... Cafe Aphra: Hi Afia, I know you've been involved in film for quite a long time, but what made you want to write screenplays in the first place, rather than novels or short stories? (Or anything else!) Afia: I come from an oral story telling background and I worked as a theatre director, so scripts are a more natural way of telling stories for me than the novel or perhaps more 'literary' forms of writing. I also love working with actors and screenplays facilitate that. Cafe Aphra: Where did the idea for Shadow Man come from? Afia: Last year after seeing the "go home" vans driving around parts of London asking migrants to leave the UK or be deported, I was so incensed that I sat down to write my resp...

Josie offered him a lift to the station so he could drink if he wanted to. Just before he got out, she yanked his tie sideways, downward, then more or less straightened it.   “Perfect,” she said.   “Go get her, tiger!” Did it go well? They’d recognised each other, from their online photos, remembered each other’s names correctly.   Stephanie, Steph, either was fine with her.   She hadn’t been late. They’d both found the right clock to meet under.   From there, it wasn’t far to a bar, running, where he’d helped her off with her jacket and bought drinks. “I’m absolutely soaked!” she said with an embarrassed laugh, shaking her head so her red hair flew out in a fan of water droplets.   He wiped his face with the end of his tie. “Sorry, sorry!” He waved off her apologies and noticed that her blouse was wet, perhaps too obviously: she slid her jacket off the back of her chair and back onto herself, muttering about it being colde...

Two men tumble in from nowhere and crash onto the pavement, the distance of a thrown match from my al fresco table. Waiter arrives, setting down hot chocolate ordered thirty minutes ago, hardly acknowledging  brawl, as though it might be a cabaret performance. But my heart races like I’ve been ambushed in a paint-ball combat game. In Europe I’d heard Buenos Aires was a city with stories unfolding on every street corner. Surely not this; not on so balmy a Sunday evening in upmarket Recoleta?  Bigger of the two men is wearing a well cut suit, jacket half come off in the fracas. Other man - no more than a boy now I see him clearly - is gripped in a headlock. His dirtied and oversized T-shirt emphasizes spindle arms, skin chargrilled by the sun. He twitches silently, in the manner of freshly caught prey, but otherwise puts up no further resistance. For brief seconds his gaze meets mine. His eyes have a woebegone stare; all hope given up, they say. Neither...

abounded light confused but radiating stirred and lost between a summer gesture when I was young I always wanted weather apples strewn in grass     I heard the trees ask after me spectral horses strung along the language of the hours back there behind the house in moss I held a story let you sound me out or you spoke in shallow sleep: movement on the wall bed become so small consider what you planted with those stolen seeds: earth reveals its layers  a god to force me under make me loam and garden by Nancy Bevilaqua

“Papa bought me a magic bowl! It can make water dance. It has dragons on. Look, Mama!” I was six. The bowl held me enthralled - far more enthralled than the return of my father from his voyage. He showed me on the atlas where he had been, drew little pictures of the ship in which he had travelled. But I wanted to know how the bowl worked, where its magic came from. “From China,” my father replied, indicating the embroidered silk he had bought my mother, complete with strange-looking people on it. I kept the bowl, and my childish wish to understand its magic grew over the years. As an only child, I benefited unusually from the education a brother would have had. But my father rued the instruction in natural philosophy I received. It encouraged my fascination with how the world worked - and the apparent magic behind my bowl. I was not a beautiful girl, nor sociable, and combined with long hours in libraries and laboratories, my father worried that I would become unmarriageable. ...

Mei Lien was going to the opening night of the first Greyhound dog racing event in Shanghai. She wore a long yellow silk dress and her maid helped her into her shoes. Her husband was a banker and they had two daughters. The girls wore tight fitting dresses in pale green silk with a blossom pattern, high heels and their hair loose at the back. “Welcome to the grand opening of Luna Park”, Major McBain said as they entered the private suite. He had introduced Greyhound racing to Shanghai and was their host of the night. Mei Lien was presented with a silk fan with a map of the grounds printed on it, and her daughters were given silk handkerchiefs. The sisters linked arms and walked quickly towards the sound of Jazz. It was a warm, balmy night and the opening fireworks lit up the track which was designed as a Chinese garden, with trees, grass and a rockery. In the first race, her husband placed large bets on two dogs called “Merry Sinner” and “Merry Go Round”.  ...

I am a worthless speck. My actions have no meaning. Sleep is transitory, and I have grown accustomed to the sharp pain of a starved body. I am as fragile as mom’s favorite ceramic bowl. On the rustic wooden hutch, it sits in glory. Holding potpourri within its smooth walls, the dead flowers safe, secure. Oh tragedy! If it were to be smashed —thousands of miniscule pieces. My shattered being – a shadow – a prized bowl. I am not on a pedestal, nothing more than that bowl. But everyone tells me, “You’re good enough.” They don’t know how it feels, to feel nothing at all. To waste space, breathe precious oxygen. Happiness scoffs at my misery, sadness scorns me for dwelling in it. I am hollow, but that ceramic bowl is full. It holds the remnants of life, beauty in a deathly domain. Perhaps that is how my contribution will be acknowledged — in Death’s deep, dark folds. The bowl is in my hands. It slips. Falls. Bleeds upon the tile. ...