Chris Abani has made money from his lies, but he did it because he thought it is a cunning way to sell his art. He has now established himself as a bona-fide writer, it's time to let go the lies and let true history stand! He should learn like other decent writers to sell his art on its own merit, not on the prop of fat, destructive lies that emotionally swindle people...

When Clark boots him out of his house, he responds with a poorly written book that is remarkable mostly for its vindictiveness and cutting sarcasm. He paints Clark as a has-been writer for whom several doors are no longer open. Did he not know this before going to Clark with a proposal to write a biography about him?

You have grown old
remembering the homeland in chains,
the many roads to exile,
the future you dreamt - always of freedom...

How do I tell you that each time I see a face with scarecrow eyes and echoing lips I get down on knees and clasp hands together, pleading to be fucked? Like a fool I go about, barefoot, hopping on knees, asking strange men and women with perfect woes to fuck me...

If I were to come again
I will grow fat like tabaldi
One in the lineage of baobab trees
A cherished drum in times of drought...

The Black President looks fifteen years older. His neck has become a mere shoestring in a threadbare condition. Grey wisps of hair cover his scalp. His shoulder bones jut out from beneath his skin, which has wrinkled like a used foil paper, as if the ends of the bones were violin necks pushing out from beneath a damp cotton sack...

The bird wanted to be a child.  It wanted to take the heart from its body and place it in the child so that the child could have its heart. Of all the things of creation, even more than the stars, it thought that children had more secrets for they have just left heaven and they transport messages from one harbor to another, one imagination to another. It wanted to know the secrets that have made others so happy...