The question that I have been asked most frequently is ‘What is it like judging a prize?’ The answer is: it is a privilege but also emotionally taxing. You want to honour the hard work and creativity that went into the writing of each short story. Ten stories in (there were 230 stories eligible), you realise, with heartbreaking clarity, that there will be far, far more worthy stories than there are finalist slots. [It is here that I found Petina Gappah’s essay particularly helpful. Dear Tete Petina: I Am Not on the Caine Prize Shortlist | By Petina Gappah (brittlepaper.com) I – we – could not magic up more finalist places, much as we would have liked to.] How does one choose between them?
At an early panel meeting, I had asked my fellow judges what they looked for in a short story – they were, after all, published writers of some renown. The answers were: ‘Well, I like a story to have a good ending’; ‘I think a story should have a good hook’; ‘I really like it when the author feels free to intersperse words from their mother tongue – it feels more natural’; ‘I don’t know – I just have to really like it. It has to grip me from beginning to end, to surprise me; and ending with, ‘I will know when I find “the one”.’ Reader, I am trying to tell you that there is no science to this. It is about what gives one ‘the feels’. In my case, it was also about thinking about a broader audience beyond the literary elite who edit or read literary magazines. Literature, in my opinion must be accessible to all – not just materially, but also in terms of comprehensibility and contextual legibility. My 77-year-old mother’s favourite book is Mariama Bâ’s So Long a Letter. It is not a complex book, but it is a universal story, well told. It has resonated across generations and through decades. It is rightly considered to be a classic. In judging, I was cognisant too, that tastes and literary styles differ. There had, in my view, to be something for everyone. More challenging for me was that there were so many themes that were explored with beauty and insight.
Themes
The breadth came in the themes covered. It was not surprising that COVID came up as did stories on migration – both transnational and within borders. Stories about love between two people of the same gender were submitted. Powerful were the environmental apocalypse stories. Sympathetically realised were stories about albinism. One or two I read as political allegories. Exquisite in its gentle quietness, was a story about the life of a petrol attendant. Charming was the story written as if it were an entry in a non-fiction science book. Stunning was the use of architecture and the construction of homes to explore domestic violence. There were dystopian stories about medical experimentation. I liked that there were stories set in both urban and rural areas and in different historical periods. Some intercut histories of resistance and survival – African with African American – to great effect. We were moved by the stories of ordinary people doing their best to get by – the widowed mother in the refugee camp and the young men hustling on the streets of Lagos. I liked that the stories reflected the whole lifecycle – from birth to old age. There were morality tales with a sting (don’t dump your university love for escort work – you’ll regret it, was one). There were others. The exploration of masculinity was fresh. Food was a theme – not least in stories from Nigeria. I have enjoyed gallons of egusi soup and look forward to more snails. Music resonated through some stories, in the rhythm of the writing as well in the naming of artists and tunes.
Were there any that we did not like? Well, I grew weary of paw paw-coloured skin which, more often than not, seemed to have an association with beauty. The colourism did not sit well with me. I was not keen on the misogyny on display in a couple of stories, especially as the stories were not well told making it an endurance without reward. Yes, judges being human, have biases too. There were stories that could and should have been better edited – spelling mistakes in the first line do not bode well. Those of my fellow judges who had read one or two stories in their original form felt that some of the translations did not do the original justice. One or two of the longer-form stories (between seven to nine thousand words) read as if they were chapters culled from a novel in progress and sent in. The writing was good but one had the sense that reading the extract in context would have been a more rewarding experience.
So, how does one decide?
The answer is – with great difficulty. Judges received an Excel sheet with links to the stories. The Excel sheet was numbered from AA001 to AA230. I started at the top but would print stories from the bottom to read when my eyes grew tired of reading online or when I was travelling and not sure of the internet connection. One had to grade the stories from 1-5. In addition, I had an A4-size notebook labelled ‘Caine Prize’. I wrote a short summary of each submission on the Excel sheet and reasons for its grade, while my notebook was a conversation with myself and my response after reading each story. On the spreadsheet, I marked out those that I thought were definite contenders by using bold text, those that were maybe were italicised. This was supposed to help to whittle the list down, but I ended up with over 30 stories. Re-reading did not lead to cutting out many. I tried refining by themes but there were inter-theme ties or stand-offs. It felt like a cacophony of ‘pick me’ ‘pick me!’ in my head. My family grew tired of my lengthy discourses about the relative merits of stories that they had not read, finally observing that I seemed to like so many, in other words, please – enough!
At the end, we were told to submit our five finalists. Our pleas for a longlist of ten fell on deaf ears. Clearly, the organisers have heard the special pleading before. I tried to cheat by having a tie. Our choices were put on a spreadsheet and then the discussion began. It took close to four hours and multiple rounds of voting and discussion. We all lost at least one story that we loved – most of us, more than one. I am a human rights lawyer and the process reminded me of how human rights treaties are drafted – they go through multiple discussions and negotiations and what emerges is what can be agreed on.
Luckily, ours was a happy, supportive, thoughtful and truly wonderful family to be a part of. Our emails including: ‘I think I found the one!’ to, ‘I’m still looking’ to wondering about the advantages of polyamory (the love of many) were always bountiful in their kindness, humour and determination to do our best by the people who had honoured us with their submissions.
Will everyone agree with our choices? No. As I have said, we all have ‘the one that got away’. That makes at least five – meaning this could easily have been a different shortlist. For those who submitted in 2023 – a deep, heartfelt thank you. I have made note of so many stories that I will read again, use in my teaching and writing or share with others. You have enriched our lives and we thank you. Please keep writing – your work is important. Thank you too to the editors whose work, though unseen, is central to the production of the stories that are submitted. Thanks are also due to the publishers, for submitting the stories, and indeed, for providing them a home to begin with. Aluta!
Fareda Banda, Chair of Judges (2023)