From one of Africa’s most influential and eloquent essayists, a posthumous collection that highlights his biting satire and subversive wisdom on topics from travel to cultural identity to sexuality “A fierce literary talent . . . [Wainaina] shines a light on his continent without cliché.”— The Guardian “Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. . . . Africa is to be pitied, worshipped, or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.” Binyavanga Wainaina was a pioneering voice in African literature, an award-winning memoirist and essayist remembered as one of the greatest chroniclers of contemporary African life. This groundbreaking collection brings together, for the first time, Wainaina’s pioneering writing on the African continent, including many of his most critically acclaimed pieces, such as the viral satirical sensation “How to Write About Africa.” Working fearlessly across a range of topics—from politics to international aid, cultural heritage, and redefined sexuality—he describes the modern world with sensual, emotional, and psychological detail, giving us a full-color view of his home country and continent. These works present the portrait of a giant in African literature who left a tremendous legacy. “Binyavanga Wainaina was many things in his short, frenetic life: memoirist and roving essayist, trailblazing editor and publisher, agitator and activist. . . . Wainaina’s language [is] barbed, playful, inventive . . . his omnivorous brilliance matched by ambition and vision on a continental scale.” — The New York Times (Editors’ Choice) “It’s beginning to seem like Binyavanga Wainaina’s satirical essay ‘How to Write About Africa’ might be, after the Bible, the most read English-language text on the African continent. . . . This collection of his writing—the first to be published since he died—makes it difficult not to feel the scale of [his] loss. . . . A fierce literary talent . . . [Wainaina] shines a light on his continent without cliché.” — The Guardian “Brilliant . . . incisive . . . each [essay] showcasing Wainaina’s sharp wit and penetrating analysis.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Unflagging in his generosity, unflinching and direct in his criticism, [Wainaina] produced work in his short life that will have longer-lasting impact than those whose time here is twice as long.” —Ellah Wakatama Allfrey, OBE, chair of the Caine Prize for African Writing Binyavanga Wainaina was a Kenyan author, activist, and journalist, and the 2002 winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing. His debut book, the memoir One Day I Will Write About This Place , was published in 2011. Time magazine included Wainaina in its list of the 100 Most Influential People in the World in 2014. He died in 2019. 1 Binguni! Two goldfish were arguing in their bowl: “If there is no God, who changes our water every week?” Allotropy: (ə-­ˈlä-­trə-­pē) n. The property of certain elements to exist in two or more distinct forms. I Dawn, December 27, 1999 Jango had often pictured his imagination as a helium-­filled balloon, rather than one containing air. As he rose above the wreckage of the car, a whole-­body feeling came over him. His life had ended, the string was cut, and his imagination was free to merge with reality. He felt immensely liberated—­like he was flexing muscles that had not been used in a long time. Oh, to stretch! His body felt loose-­limbed and weightless, and his mind poised to soar. How could he have stayed in cramped earthliness for so long? How could he have forgotten this feeling? Had he not once danced with stars and had dalliances with gods? Was he dreaming? Or was this part of some spectral past life? He felt no trauma of the type normally associated with violent death. Right now, he was rather piqued that he had missed out on the nonstop partying that was taking place all over the world. He hugged himself and found that his body seemed intact. He found it odd that he did not seem to feel the trepidation he would have expected if there was a possibility that he was destined for Pastor Vimba’s “LAKE OF FIYYRRE!,” which starred a leering Red Devil and promised “EEETERNALL DAMNATIONNN!” He giggled at the thought. “Tsk, tsk, Jango,” he said to himself. “You’re getting above yourself!” Oddly enough, right now the thought of going to “Heaven” and spending eternity dressed in white robes, blissfully ensconced behind Pearly Gates while drinking nectar or listening to harps, was depressing. After spending most of his life in Johannesburg, and especially after the hedonism of the past few days, the “fires of hell” acquired a certain appeal. There was another possible destination, though. His father’s mania—­to become an esteemed ancestor, as Zulu tradition dictated. Yet he could not visualize himself tolerating eternity as an “Outraged Ancestor,” imposi