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SHS Lit Q2 Module4 WK4
SHS Lit Q2 Module4 WK4
https://cutt.ly/ShaR9i8
Senior High School
Division of Bohol
Department of Education • Republic of the Philippines
21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World – Grade 11/12
Alternative Delivery Mode
Quarter 2 – Module 4: Representative Texts and Authors from Africa
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Division of Bohol
GENERAL INSTRUCTION
WHAT I KNOW
Pretest
Directions: Let’s find out about how well you know about the lesson before the
discussion. Arrange the jumbled letters to make them a name of a country in column
A. Match the countries in African continent to their corresponding flags in column B.
Write the letter of the correct answer on a separate sheet of paper.
A B
1. GINIARE A.
2. ADUNS B.
3. AUNDAG C.
4. THSUO CAFIRA D.
5. HNAAG E.
WHAT’S IN
Recapitulation
In the previous lesson, you’ve learned about the authors and their literary texts
in Latin America. There is no doubt that Latin American literature has greatly
contributed to world literature. One of the most important concepts is the magic
realism, where magic is included in a realist story as if it were a normal occurrence in
daily life.
WHAT’S NEW
Directions: What comes into your mind when you think about Africa. Write five
words that best associate the continent. Follow the concept map below. Use a separate
sheet of paper for your answer.
Africa
WHAT IS IT
Discussion
WHAT’S MORE
Enrichment
Activity 1.1
Directions: Make a timeline that indicates the history and development of Africa
towards gaining its independence.
African Writers
1. Nadine Gordimer
Loot
By Nadine Gordimer
Once upon our time, there was an earthquake: but this one is the most powerful
ever recorded since the invention of the Richter scale made possible for us to measure
apocalyptic warnings.
It tipped a continental shelf. These tremblings often cause floods; this colossus
did the reverse, drew back the ocean as a vast breath taken. The most secret level of
our world lay revealed: the sea-bedded – wrecked ships, facades of houses, ballroom
candelabra, toilet bowl, pirate chest, TV screen, mail-coach, aircraft fuselage, canon,
marble torso, Kalashnikov, metal carapace of a tourist bus-load, baptismal font,
automatic dishwasher, computer, swords sheathed in barnacles, coins turned to
stone. The astounded gaze raced among these things; the population who had fled
from their toppling houses to the maritime hills, ran down. Where terrestrial crash
and bellow had terrified them, there was naked silence. The saliva of the sea glistened
upon these objects; it is given that time does not, never did, exist down there where
the materiality of the past and the present as they lie has no chronological order, all is
one, all is nothing – or all is possible at once.
People rushed to take; take, take. This was – when, anytime, sometime –
valuable, that might be useful, what was this, well someone will know, that must have
belonged to the rich, it’s mine now, if you don’t grab what’s over there someone else
will, feet slipped and slithered on seaweed and sank in soggy sand, gasping sea-plants
gaped at them, no-one remarked there were no fish, the living inhabitants of this
unearth had been swept up and away with the water. The ordinary opportunity of
looting shops which was routine to people during the political uprisings was no
comparison. Orgiastic joy gave men, women and their children strength to heave out of
the slime and sand what they did not know they wanted, quickened their staggering
gait as they ranged, and this was more than profiting by happenstance, it was robbing
the power of nature before which they had fled helpless. Take, take; while grabbing
they were able to forget the wreck of their houses and the loss of time-bound
possessions there. They had tattered the silence with their shouts to one another and
under these cries like the cries of the absent seagulls they did not hear a distant
approach of sound rising as a great wind does. And then the sea came back, engulfed
them to add to its treasury.
That is what is known; in television coverage that really had nothing to show but
the pewter skin of the depths, in radio interviews with those few infirm, timid or
prudent who had not come down from the hills, and in newspaper accounts of bodies
that for some reason the sea rejected, washed up down the coast somewhere.
But the writer knows something no-one else knows; the sea-change of the
imagination.
Now listen, there’s a man who has wanted a certain object (what) all his life. He
has a lot of – things – some of which his eye falls upon often, so he must be fond of,
some of which he doesn’t notice, deliberately, that he probably shouldn’t have
acquired but cannot cast off, there’s an art noveau lamp he reads by, and above his
bed-head a Japanese print, a Hokusai, ‘The Great Wave’, he doesn’t really collect
oriental stuff, although if it had been on the wall facing him it might have been more
than part of the furnishings, it’s been out of sight behind his head for years. All these
– things – but not the one.
He’s a retired man, long divorced, chosen an old but well-appointed villa in the
maritime hills as the site from which to turn his back on the assault of the city. A
woman from the village cooks and cleans and doesn’t bother him with any other
communication. It is a life blessedly freed of excitement, he’s had enough of that kind
of disturbance, pleasurable or not, but the sight from his lookout of what could never
have happened, never ever have been vouchsafed, is a kind of command. He is one of
those who are racing out over the glistening sea-bed, the past – detritus-treasure, one
and the same – stripped bare.
Like all the other looters with whom he doesn’t mix, has nothing in common, he
races from object to object, turning over the shards of painted china, the sculptures
created by destruction, abandonment and rust, the brine-vintaged wine casks, a
plunged racing motorcycle, a dentist’s chair, his stride landing on disintegrated
human ribs and metatarsals he does not identify. But unlike the others, he takes
nothing – until: there, ornate with tresses of orange-brown seaweed, stuck-fast with
nacreous shells and crenellations of red coral, is the object. (A mirror?) It’s as if the
impossible is true; he knew that was where it was, beneath the sea, that’s why he
didn’t know what it was, could never find it before. It could be revealed only by
something that had never happened, the greatest paroxysm of our earth ever
measured on the Richter scale.
He takes it up, the object, the mirror, the sand pours off it, the water that was
the only bright glance left to it streams from it, he is taking it back with him, taking
possession at last.
And the great wave comes from behind his bed-head and takes him.
His name well-known in the former regime circles in the capital is not among the
survivors. Along with him among the skeletons of the latest victims, with the ancient
pirates and fishermen, there are those dropped from planes during the dictatorship so
that with the accomplice of the sea they would never be found. Who recognized them,
that day, where they lie?
No carnation or rose floats.
Full fathom five.
WHAT’S MORE
Enrichment
Activity 1.2
Directions: Answer the questions concisely.
2. Wole Soyinka
I hope someday
Intent upon my trade of living, to be checked
In stride by your apparition in a trench,
Signaling, I am a soldier. No hesitation then
But I shall shoot you clean and fair
WHAT’S MORE
Enrichment
Activity 1.3
Directions: Answer the questions concisely. Use a separate sheet of paper for your
answer.
1. How is the civil war reflected in the poem?
2. How does Soyinka’s literary technique help enhance the message of the
poem?
3. Chinua Achebe
Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond.
His fame rested on solid personal achievements. As a young man of eighteen he
had brought honor to his village by throwing Amalinze the Cat. Amalinze was
the great wrestler who for seven years was unbeaten, from Umuofia to Mbaino.
He was called the Cat because his back would never touch the earth. It was this
man that Okonkwo threw in a fight which the old men agreed was one of the
fiercest since the founder of their town engaged a spirit of the wild for seven
days and seven nights.
The drums beat and the flutes sang and the spectators held their breath.
Amalinze was a wily craftsman, but Okonkwo was as slippery as a fish in water.
Every nerve and every muscle stood out on their arms, on their backs and their
thighs, and one almost heard them stretching to breaking point. In the end,
Okonkwo threw the Cat.
That was many years ago, twenty years or more, and during this time
Okonkwo’s fame had grown like a bush-fire in the harmattan. He was tall and
huge, and his bushy eyebrows and wide nose gave him a very severe look. He
breathed heavily, and it was said that, when he slept, his wives and children in
their houses could hear him breathe. When he walked, his heels hardly touched
the ground and he seemed to walk on springs, as if he was going to pounce on
somebody. And he did pounce on people quite often. He had a slight stammer
and whenever he was angry and could not get his words out quickly enough, he
would use his fists. He had no patience with unsuccessful men. He had had no
patience with his father.
Unoka, for that was his father’s name, had died ten years ago. In his day
he was lazy and improvident and was quite incapable of thinking about
tomorrow. If any money came his way, and it seldom did, he immediately
bought gourds of palm-wine, called round his neighbors and made merry. He
always said that whenever he saw a dead man’s mouth he saw the folly of not
eating what one had in one’s lifetime. Unoka was, of course, a debtor, and he
owed every neighbor some money, from a few cowries to quite substantial
amounts.
He was tall but very thin and had a slight stoop. He wore a haggard and
mournful look except when he was drinking or playing on his flute. He was very
good on his flute, and his happiest moments were the two or three moons after
the harvest when the village musicians brought down their instruments, hung
above the fireplace. Unoka would play with them, his face beaming with
blessedness and peace. Sometimes another village would ask Unoka’s band and
their dancing egwugwu to come and stay with them and teach them their tunes.
They would go to such hosts for as long as three or four markets, making music
and feasting.
Unoka loved the good fare and the good fellowship, and he loved this
season of the year, when the rains had stopped and the sun rose every morning
with dazzling beauty. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry
harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Some years the harmattan
was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. Old men and
children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies.
Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry
season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. He would
remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a
kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. As soon as he found one he would
sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and
asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth.
That was years ago, when he was young. Unoka, the grown-up, was a
failure. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. People
laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any
more money because he never paid back. But Unoka was such a man that he
always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts.
One day a neighbor called Okoye came in to see him. He was reclining on
a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. He immediately rose and shook
hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his
arm, and sat down. Unoka went into an inner room and soon returned with a
small wooden disc containing a kola nut, some alligator pepper and a lump of
white chalk.
“I have kola,” he announced when he sat down, and passed the disc over to his
guest.
“Thank you. He who brings kola brings life. But I think you ought to
break it,” replied Okoye, passing back the disc.
“No, it is for you, I think,” and they argued like this for a few moments
before Unoka accepted the honor of breaking the kola. Okoye, meanwhile, took
the lump of chalk, drew some lines on the floor, and then painted his big toe.
As he broke the kola, Unoka prayed to their ancestors for life and health,
and for protection against their enemies. When they had eaten they talked
about many things: about the heavy rains which were drowning the yams,
about the next ancestral feast and about the impending war with the village of
Mbaino. Unoka was never happy when it came to wars. He was in fact a coward
and could not bear the sight of blood.
And so he changed the subject and talked about music, and his face
beamed. He could hear in his mind’s ear the blood-stirring and intricate
rhythms of the ekwe and the udu and the ogene, and he could hear his own
flute weaving in and out of them, decorating them with a colorful and plaintive
tune. The total effect was gay and brisk, but if one picked out the flute as it
went up and down and then broke up into short snatches, one saw that there
was sorrow and grief there.
Okoye was also a musician. He played on the ogene. But he was not a
failure like Unoka. He had a large barn full of yams and he had three wives.
And now he was going to take the Idemili title, the third highest in the land. It
was a very expensive ceremony and he was gathering all his resources together.
That was in fact the reason why he had come to see Unoka. He cleared his
throat and began: “Thank you for the kola. You may have heard of the title I
intend to take shortly.”
Having spoken plainly so far, Okoye said the next half a dozen sentences in
proverbs. Among the Ibo the art of conversation is regarded very highly, and
proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are eaten.
Okoye was a great talker and he spoke for a long time, skirting round the
subject and then hitting it finally. In short, he was asking Unoka to return the
two hundred cowries he had borrowed from him more than two years before. As
soon as Unoka understood what his friend was driving at, he burst out
laughing. He laughed loud and long and his voice rang out clear as the ogene,
and tears stood in his eyes. His visitor was amazed, and sat speechless. At the
end, Unoka was able to give an answer between fresh outbursts of mirth.
“Look at that wall,” he said, pointing at the far wall of his hut, which was
rubbed with red earth so that it shone. “Look at those lines of chalk;” and
Okoye saw groups of short perpendicular lines drawn in chalk. There were five
groups, and the smallest group had ten lines. Unoka had a sense of the
dramatic and so he allowed a pause, in which he took a pinch of snuff and
sneezed noisily, and then he continued: “Each group there represents a debt to
someone, and each stroke is one hundred cowries.
You see, I owe that man a thousand cowries. But he has not come to
wake me up in the morning for it. I shall pay, you, but not today. Our elders say
that the sun will shine on those who stand before it shines on those who kneel
under them. I shall pay my big debts first.” And he took another pinch of snuff,
as if that was paying the big debts first. Okoye rolled his goatskin and departed.
When Unoka died he had taken no title at all and he was heavily in debt.
Any wonder then that his son Okonkwo was ashamed of him? Fortunately,
among these people a man was judged according to his worth and not
according to the worth of his father. Okonkwo was clearly cut out for great
things. He was still young but he had won fame as the greatest wrestler in the
nine villages. He was a wealthy farmer and had two barns full of yams, and had
just married his third wife.
To crown it all he had taken two titles and had shown incredible prowess
in two inter-tribal wars. And so although Okonkwo was still young, he was
already one of the greatest men of his time. Age was respected among his
people, but achievement was revered. As the elders said, if a child washed his
hands he could eat with kings. Okonkwo had clearly washed his hands and so
he ate with kings and elders. And that was how he came to look after the
doomed lad who was sacrificed to the village of Umuofia by their neighbors to
avoid war and bloodshed. The ill-fated lad was called Ikemefuna.
WHAT’S MORE
Enrichment
Activity 1.4
Directions: Answer the questions concisely.
Directions: Fill in the table below. Use a separate sheet of paper for your answer.
WHAT I CAN DO
Application
Directions: On a separate sheet of paper, write the letter of the correct answer.
1. It was said that they invented writing during the Bronze Age.
A. Arabs C. Egyptians
B. Babylonians D. Greeks
2. He is known as “Mandiba” who was a citizen who fiercely fought for Africa’s
independence and eventually became the first black and democratically elected
president of South Africa.
A. Chinua Achebe C. Nelson Mandela
B. Nadine Gordimer D. Wole Soyinka
3. She was a South African writer and political activist who won the Nobel Prize in
Literature in 1991.
A. Chinua Achebe C. Nelson Mandela
B. Nadine Gordimer D. Wole Soyinka
4. This short story is like an essay but actually narrates a “great event” that starts
changes within the world and ultimately leads to where human beings are now.
A. The Tell-Tale Heart C. Burger’s Daughter
B. Motherhood D. Loot
5. He is the first African to be honored the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1986.
A. Akinwande Oluwole “Wole” Babatunde Soyinka C. Nadine Gordimer
B. Chinua Achebe D. Nelson Mandela
6. He is a Nigerian novelist, professor, and critic who rose to critical acclaim when
he published his magnum opus, Things Fall Apart.
A. Akinwande Oluwole “Wole” Babatunde Soyinka C. Nadine Gordimer
B. Chinua Achebe D. Nelson Mandela
7. This novel follows the life of Okonkwo, an Igbo ("Ibo" in the novel) man and local
wrestling champion in the fictional Nigerian clan of Umuofia.
A. A Thousand Splendid Suns C. Burger’s Daughter
B. Things Fall Apart D. Loot
8. The theme of this poem is about war–a topic that harkens back to the
chequered historical trail of many African countries.
A. A Thousand Splendid Suns C. Loot
B. Things Fall Apart D. Civilian and Soldier
9. Gordimer suggests that a life without desire is based on a mixture of habit and
fantasy about something that will not arrive. And despite what its owner might
think, it is a life in despair, sad and largely deprived of joy. From what literary
work does the message relate to?
A. Burger’s Daughter C. Loot
B. July’s People D. Things Fall Apart
10. He was the first black South African bishop of Cape Town and because of his
exhaustive efforts to promote peace, he was won several awards, which include
the Nobel Peace Prize and the Gandhi Peace Prize.
A. Chinua Achebe C. Wole Soyinka
B. Nadine Gordimer D. Desmond Tutu
ADDITIONAL ACTIVITY
Directions: Complete the sentences properly. Use a separate sheet of paper for your
answer.
1. In the analysis of Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, I have discovered that context is
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
2. I was able to appreciate Achebe’s work because
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
ANSWER KEY
WHAT I KNOW
1. NIGERIA -D
2. SUDAN -A
3. UGANDA -E
4. SOUTH AFRICA -B
5. GHANA -C
WHAT’S NEW
The suggested answers can be supplemented based on your knowledge. There are 5
required words in this activity.
strong
determined exotic
Africa
skillful brave
WHAT’S MORE
Activity 1.1
19th Century: Many European states banded together to stop the slave
trade and its cruel injustices.
20th Century: More and more Africans were becoming educated, and as
such, they clamored for independence.
WHAT I HAVE LEARNED
WHAT I CAN DO
The theme centers about the loss The theme mainly lies about a culture
of people’s common sense and will go on the verge of change. The tension
to the extreme in pursuit of about whether change should be
materialism but they may face privileged over tradition often involves
consequences for such greedy and questions of personal status.
selfish actions.
ASSESSMENT
1. C
2. C
3. B
4. D
5. A
6. B
7. B
8. D
9. C
10. D
References
1
https://21stcenturylitph.wordpress.com/introduction-to-world-literature/
Chua, Rina G. 2016. "21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World." In
21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World, by Rina G. Chua, 3-4.
Makati City: DIWA Learning Systems Inc.
https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1991/gordimer/25767-nadine-gordimer-
prose1991/>
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/wole_soyinka/poems/22482