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About this Translation Project It has been a pleasure for us to participate in the Breaking Ground Project led by Speaking Volumes, and an honour to translate the extracts from literary texts by the authors involved. The students have enjoyed translating the experimental short stories of erotic and fantastic content by Leone Ross and Irenosen Okojie; the social novels and memoir of Yvvette Edwards, Colin Grant and Peter Kalu; and the detective novel by Jacob Ross.
Furgoneta Blanca Hombre Spanish Edition Novel Pdf
Student participation has been high and enthusiastic, partly because of the innovative nature of this project and its integration in their courses. Bageye already finds it a struggle to feed his family on his wage from Vauxhall Motors, but now his wife Blossom has set her heart on her sons going to private school and she will not settle for anything less. This is the story of a feckless father seen through the eyes of his ten-year-old son. And it is also about a family struggling to belong and a vivid tale of growing up in a vanished world of s suburbia.
"La furgoneta ha bajado por el centro de las Ramblas atropellando a la gente"
An Extract from Bageye at the Wheel Lino Colin Grant From as far back as I can remember, my father, Bageye had always promised to make a start on his least favourite pastime: home improvements. The moment never arrived but he must have regretted having made the assurance because thereafter my mum, Blossom pressed him on the need — painful as it was — to begin by buying a piece of lino for the back room.
Bageye woke irritably in the morning to yet another strong reminder that this was the day. He rifled angrily through a kitchen drawer, picked up a knife and began to peel an orange, as his wife laid before him the unarguable fact that the pickney were going to get sick from sitting on the cold floor from morning till night. Bageye concentrated on the orange until all the skin was removed and the unbroken kiss curl of peel dropped into the bin.
Mum tried again. Is you same one promise. He cut the top off the orange.
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Everyone assumed innocent positions on the floor or settee as his head came round the door. His eyes fell on the cracked and degraded lino. You pickney gonna bury me and you will bawl when them screw down the coffin lid. Of course, we That was a pet name given him by the fellas. The legend was obscure to us. And the name stuck. But then everyone had to have a name. Outside, Bageye ran the chamois leather over the roof of the car before he got in, slipping behind the wheel. He turned to inspect how I intended to close the passenger-side door.
It was what he always said when anything, any appliance or piece of furniture, needed to be replaced. It required some determination to squeeze through the heavily fortified front door to scrutinise the many items salvaged from house clearances and pawned items that were never likely to be redeemed. Not Bernard. He puffed out his chest with all the proprietorial pride of the owner of an upmarket boutique. Bageye would have to check by a few of his friends first along the way.
A few minutes into the journey, Bageye wanted to know how his son felt about a piece of carpet instead of the lino. Never know a woman love credit so. He had taken a Charles Atlas course and turned out magnificently. But more than his athleticism, it was his generosity that impressed our mother and us kids; only Bageye demurred. Though Joe said it was a gift, Bageye shuddered at the shame of his wife letting Joe leave empty-handed.
How you feel that make me look? Bageye pushed down hard on the brakes and stopped the car. Death before dishonour. He had the kind of noble face that looked as though it had been chiselled out of a mountain; and wavy hair that was all his own, no chemicals applied. Joe was popular with women. His ways were a regular topic of conversation for my father and his spars. It was a risk, but I decided to venture on a little conversation with Bageye, spicing my comments with some of the things I had heard the big men say.
What puzzled me about Joe Burns, I said to my father, was which of the two women Joe lived with was his wife. Joe and his women lived in one of those houses where you went from street to front room in one step. Except, on this day, there were so many sacks in the front room that we could hardly squeeze in.
Each room in the house was full of hemp sacks brimming with corn on the cob, and the smell announced that they were just beginning to turn.
White van | Spanish Translator
Joe was a wheeler-dealer; he was a man who always knew a man who knew a man. Only one man liked to take chances more than Joe and that was Bageye. Somehow Bageye was in the mood now of the repentant gambler, suddenly struck by the ennobling idea of settling his debts.
We pulled up outside the Indian tobacco shop. Mr Maghar was actually from Uganda. Before leaving me in the car, Bageye warned me, as he always did, not to touch anything. My mind was fixed on the image of my father in conversation with Maghar, unsuspecting of the size of the bill he was about to receive. I forced myself not to look out of the car window but had no control over ears that strained to hear him returning, trying to work out the menace, the degree of violence in his footsteps. Bageye took an Embassy Number 1 and pressed in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.
While he waited for it to heat up an idea seemed to come to him. When the lighter pinged he held it up. Mek Maghar stay there lick him chops. Is finish, I finish with him tonight. Tomorrow I would have to run and fetch ten Embassy Number 1. But tomorrow, from Mr Maghar, I also knew, there would be no fantastic tales of herding sheep on the hills of Juba.
Bageye counted what was left of the money.
Already the notes were few and starting to look grubby. It the lino money. Blood money. My father liked to smoke in company but he shared a cigarette the way he shared a joke: it was mostly for his own pleasure. Superkings held much more tobacco than a normal cigarette, and if Bageye could break one up, unpack it into a Rizla, add a little something to make it sweet, roll it again, then he could make it last a whole heap of time.
Anxious admired the cigarette as he dragged on the last draw, and I got up on cue ready to leave.
Anxious laid a palm on my head. Anxious had only a vague memory of how to cook. Bageye lifted the lid on the pot and looked in scornfully. What you say, Anxious? I know a man, one of my spars, can throw three or four sack of sweetcorn your way. Tek what you need and sell it on, simple so. Not even one or two but three or four?
And with that Bageye swept me out of the chair towards the front door. He braked sharply outside the junk shop.