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  • The Red Moon
  • Written by Kuwana Haulsey
  • Format: eBook | ISBN: 9780375506574
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The Red Moon

A Novel

Written by Kuwana HaulseyAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Kuwana Haulsey


List Price: $9.99


On Sale: January 29, 2002
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-375-50657-4
Published by : Villard Ballantine Group
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"The moon was red on the night my mother died. Fat, fairly bursting, as I remember, it rode so low in the sky that it grazed the backs of the leopards who hissed and spat and cursed it for interrupting the hunt. It caressed the thorny tips of the acacia trees, bending them, seeming to crush them with light."

In The Red Moon, newcomer Kuwana Haulsey has crafted a strikingly beautiful coming-of-age story set amid the turbulent history of modern Kenya.

The novel centers on Nasarian, the daughter of a successful Samburu herdsman and his Somali fourth wife. On the verge of adulthood, Nasarian finds herself trapped between the demands of her traditional tribal life and her desire to live abroad as a writer. When her parents die suddenly, Nasarian's plan to escape her sheltered world is undermined by her scornful brother Lolorok. Disgusted by Nasarian's refusal to be circumcised and thus initiated into the traditional role of wife and mother, Lolorok allows his sister to be inherited by a distant cousin.

Nasarian is convinced that no matter how hard she fights, she will never be allowed to call her life her own. She is dogged by the memory of her father, who was caught in the midst of a brutal war, branded with the name Mau Mau, imprisoned as a terrorist. She is haunted by the spirit of her mother, captured in a bloody raid and destined, like Nasarian, to be an outcast.

Nasarian runs away, sparking a sweeping journey of discovery that evokes fifty years and three generations of her family history. Weaving ancient myth and folklore into the tapestry of Nasarian's personal quest, The Red Moon chronicles the yearning of a brave young woman while simultaneously depicting a nation's equally fierce search for a truthful and lasting spiritual independence.

Stunning in its revelations, The Red Moon portrays incisively a way of life rarely glimpsed by those who have not experienced its richness and survived its terror. With an intensity rare in modern fiction, The Red Moon takes readers into the heart of an incredibly courageous young woman.

From the Hardcover edition.




Fat, fairly bursting, as I remember, it rode so low in the sky that it grazed the backs of the leopards who hissed and spat and cursed it for interrupting the hunt. It caressed the thorny tips of the acacia trees, bending them, seeming to crush them with light.

Close to six years have passed since that night, and when I think on it, the moon is always the brightest image. I remember quite clearly my breath catching in a painful bubble in my chest as I stumbled out of the compound just after dark and looked toward the sky. For the rest, I must dig back far and dig hard, past the heavy sounds of weeping and swells of humiliated rage. The memories and images hide, season after season, deep inside the soul of my marrow.

But the moon is what I was speaking of. I had never before noticed it so red. It seemed to me to be crying blood. Perhaps this is how and when my fixation with my mother's blood began-on the night she died. To me, then, the red moon is death.

That night, I sat outside the manyatta as my father's other wives prayed in my mother's hut. I remember the manyatta as it was before my mother's passing as a world of singing women hidden away from all the rest of the world behind a fence. The thick, circular fence had been constructed from thorny branches from the acacia trees that dot the hills and groves of the highlands and that reached much higher than my short head. We kept our animals close in bomas opposite the low-roofed, bark-colored huts. Sometimes, late in the night, we even brought some of our sheep babies and our goats next to us in the huts, at arm's reach. That way, no lions could creep up on them as we slept, slipping through the fence and disappearing into the brush with their jaws full before any of us had even opened one eye. Outside that fence lay a vacuum of dead space, sulking and creeping like the leopards, immense and terrifying.

That night, I watched as the clouds began rolling in slowly from the south. Soon I could not tell where the earth ended and the horizon began. It all merged together, confusing me, lying to me. But for once, I convinced myself not to be afraid of the leopard's darkness. I sat down, closed my aching eyes, and invited the dark inside.

The hours passed, and when I opened my eyes, I found that the wind had pushed the clouds behind me out over the valley's edge. Once again, I saw the stars. They glittered violently against a rich indigo sky, bathing the plains and bushes, the distant forest and smoky mountains in a pearly, cascading shower of secrets and light. When I breathed, the night sky breathed with me, soothing me, molding the white warmth of starlight like a clay cast against my skin. I settled into the night shadows with thorns pressing an grily at my back and waited.

My mother's co-wives and I had known since the passing of my Father that my mother, Nima, was also marked to die. Still, I prayed and watched and hoped that she would spare herself for my sake.

We all knew it wouldn't be long, and I wondered whether the prayers of the three other women's hearts were actually for Nima or if they were frightened of what her death would mean for them. She was the last wife and, therefore, according to tradition, deserving of little or nothing. And yet she, the outcast, had been the wife of my Father's heart and an unprecedented prize. They, the respected ones, had gotten the remnants. There was no sense of propriety or traditional justice in my Father's heart regarding this matter. There was only a love that, at times, even I couldn't understand. I knew only that my parents' devotion made me conspicuous, a target for the other women's children, my older sisters and brother, who were outraged in a way that their mothers could never express. And so no matter how I tried or coaxed or begged, their hearts refused to open to me. After a long while, even their mothers relented (Nangai and Nkaina, at least) and began loving Nima as well as they loved and treasured their own hearts. But my sisters and brother nursed a hate so old that they couldn't even remember it firsthand.

To the hut of my Father's first wife, Kedua, they would run, and she would stoke the withering flame in their minds. She would invoke the image of her dead sons, of all the dead children, until they were so real that even 1, as I hid listening in the smoky shadows of her entranceway, could feel them breathing and gurgling in my ear. Kedua always mangled the story to make their deaths all the fault of my mother. Even after I was old enough and I learned the truth, the sound of those tiny ghosts rising from the past and flying up out of Kedua's mouth terrified me so that I always ran and hid under my mother's sleeping hutch. I covered myself in Father's brown-and-black bull skins (thinking that no ghost would consider looking for a little girl tucked away under the skin of a bull) and prayed to my dead brothers and sisters not to kill me. For in Kedua's stories, that was always the right and justified end.

By the time Nangai and Nkaina began bringing my younger brother and sisters into the world, I was already in school. So while these young ones never hated me, we were never particularly close, as I was often gone for months at a time. As hard as I try, I cannot remember a time when I did not feel alone. When I was not different. It was Nima who protected me, Nima who gave me worth. Nima who stopped my fear. And I hid behind her skirt or wrapped myself up tight in her lesso like an infant, so I could always feel her warmth. Her voice singing softly in the pale half-light just before dawn was the balm that soothed my spirit, even when we were far apart. But now Nima lay dying.

"Ngai inchunye ana nkerai naji Nima ichero marou lino lornelok lerneylo likatingaui." God give this daughter called Nima the healing power that only you can give to people.

Over and over they chanted the same inane request, until it began to sound like the bleating of a dying goat inside my head and I wanted to cry out loud but I couldn't. Perhaps that is not even what they said, only what I remember. Anything is possible. I make no claims to accuracy. I can only report my heart, which is flawed. But I do know that I passed nearly the entire night sitting outside that thick thorn fence, which had been built by the hands of my father's sons so long ago and which separated me from the huts and the animals and the people that were my world.

From the Hardcover edition.
Kuwana Haulsey|Author Q&A

About Kuwana Haulsey

Kuwana Haulsey - The Red Moon
Kuwana Haulsey is the author of The Red Moon, which was a 2002 finalist for the Zora Neale Hurston/Richard Wright Legacy Award for Debut Fiction. Born and raised in New York City, she graduated with a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Rutgers University magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa. Kuwana has led seminars for the PEN/Faulkner Foundation in Washington, D.C., and at Rutgers University. She’s taught writing at UCLA and Agape International. She is an actress and currently lives in North Hollywood.

From the Hardcover edition.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Kuwana Haulsey, author of THE RED MOON.

Q: What motivated you to write THE RED MOON? Where does the title come from?

A: Most people don’t believe this when I say it, but the entire plot for THE RED MOON came to me while sitting on the floor one afternoon in my apartment in Brooklyn. At that point, I knew nothing about the Samburu tribe and very little about African culture in general. But for some reason, I believed in the reality and the truth of this vision that I had. So I packed up everything that I could carry and 2 ½ months later, I was on a plane bound for Nairobi. I didn’t know anyone, couldn’t speak Swahili and wasn’t really even sure of where I was going to sleep once I got there. All I knew was that I had been given this idea for a reason and I had to see it through to the end. Once I got there and began making friends, I started telling people about what I was doing and asking them if they knew which tribe it was that I had been writing about. The overwhelming response that I got was “Oh, that’s easy. That’s the Samburu.” And when I finally got to Samburu, I found everything almost exactly as I had envisioned it thousands of miles away in my tiny Brooklyn apartment.
On my first trip to Samburu, I stayed in a town called Maralal with the district water chief, a man named Karanga and his sister Christine. Karanga lived at the top of a long, twisting hill overlooking the town. One evening we all decided to pile into the car and go into town to visit the local lodge. Trees lined Karanga’s driveway, blocking the view of the mountainside. So when we backed out of the drive and onto the road, I was stunned by the sudden appearance of the full moon hanging down low over the valley. The moon was huge and shaded a deep, radiant crimson. I was awe struck. I had never seen anything like it.
After I started to learn more of the Samburu language, Maa, I discovered that the Samburu have a name for the moon that described what I’d seen. In Maa, it is called Lonyuki Lapa, which means the red moon. But for the Samburu, Lonyuki Lapa also means the time of the month when it is appropriate to circumcise young girls–the fourth day after the new moon.
For my protagonist, Nasarian, the red moon at first symbolizes death–the death of her mother, the death of her dreams. But as she begins to evolve, she starts to understand that the essence of death is rejuvenation and rebirth and transmogrification. That understanding parallels the metamorphosis that also begins to take place in her life.

Q: What do you hope that people reading this novel will take away from it?

A: Of course, I want people to be entertained and I want them to learn about cultures that they might otherwise never come into contact with. I want the readers to be captivated by the places and people that they meet. And hopefully the experience will open their eyes and minds to beliefs, traditions and convictions that may not only be different than their own, but perhaps completely opposite to everything that they have ever known or held to be true.
I hope that the character of Nasarian will resonate with people who read this book and in her they will be able to recognize many aspects of themselves. The situations and circumstances that she finds herself in are extreme, but at the heart of it is a young woman who wants to change her world to reflect her own vision of who she is and what her life will be. I think that is probably the most important theme in the book. Nasarian must discover that life is about making choices. She must realize that even in choosing not to choose, in deciding to give up and be buffeted about by the circumstances that surround her, she is making a very strong, definitive choice. As she begins to comprehend the fact that, moment-by-moment, she is the driving force that is creating the reality in which she lives, her life starts to take some drastic turns. I believe that this realization of personal power and control can be a life altering moment of epiphany and I want to confront my readers with that idea.

Q: Tell us about your experiences in Africa.

A: The time that I spent living in Africa was one of the most exciting, fascinating and awe-inspiring times of my life. The friends that I made in Kenya took me into their lives as though I was family in a way that I could not even have fathomed being from a place like New York City. In New York, people oftentimes don’t care to know their neighbors, much less random strangers that drop in from the other side of the world. In Kenya, I got to do things that I would never have imagined I would do–like hiking through canyons and up mountainsides and volcanoes while herds of giraffes and zebras quietly kept pace a short distance away. I had to sleep with goats inside our hut because we were afraid that the lions that had snuck inside the manyatta before would come back and try to steal more animals. It was the best way to protect the animals because although the lions might not mind venturing inside our fence, they wouldn’t be so bold as to walk right up into our huts (or so I was told…).

Q: Is life really like that today?

A: The information age has gripped Africa just like it has the rest of the world. Things are changing more rapidly than ever before. Five years ago, when I wrote to my friends back in Nairobi, it usually took me at least a month to receive a reply. Now most of the people I know are on-line. So we can communicate daily if we want to.
But for many people, especially in rural communities and villages, not many things have changed. Moreover, some people and some tribes, like the Samburu for example, have chosen to live in much the same way as their ancestors lived. In those cases, their lives are still very similar the characters in the book. They perform the same rituals, live by the same traditions and beliefs as I described.

Q: Who are your favorite novelists?

A: Just like everyone else in the world, I must pay homage to Toni Morrison. Her words tend to melt into your mind, creating swirls of pictures and feelings that take time, patience and careful thought to properly digest. Alice Walker is another writer of that ilk as is Zora Neale Hurston, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and James Baldwin. I also love people like Chinua Achebe, Amy Tan and Maya Angelou. Though their styles are probably as different as they can possibly be, each of these writers writes with eloquence, passion and humor (yes, I do find Chinua Achebe humorous-- sometimes). They were pioneers who wrote about experiences and people that might not otherwise have been given a voice in literature. Other writers who are less well-known but still incredible craftspeople in my mind are women like Anita Desai who wrote “Clear Light of Day” and Ama Ata Aidoo who wrote “Our Sister Killjoy.” Their stories address the politics of the personal worlds of women in developing nations like India and Ghana.

Q: Briefly describe your next project.

A: My next project is going to be a novel called KEEPERES OF THE WORD, which is based on a true story. In the novel, a young reporter named Kori Howard heads down to Tampa, Florida from New York to cover a story about a nationally renowned pastor named Reverend Dr. Hollie T. Washington. But unbeknownst to her, she is about to become embroiled in one of the biggest scandals to hit Florida in more than a decade. The story breaks when Hollie’s wife, Carlene Nader-Washington, sets fire to a waterfront mansion that she claims belongs to her husband and his mistress. What Kori uncovers over the course of the novel is a paper trail that leads to millions of dollars in embezzled church funds, a succession of well-kept mistresses, and other even more shocking revelations that, if she reveals them, could destroy Hollie’s life. Ultimately, as Kori is drawn deeper and deeper into his world, she must decide if forgiveness and redemption are even possible--- not only for Hollie T., but for herself as well.

From the Hardcover edition.



"This is a novel that should be read by everyone who wants insight into modern Africa and the women who mother and daughter it."
-- Nikki Giovanni

"Writing in a stark but delicate style that seems to mimic the terrain, Haulsey unsparingly depicts the miseries of East African tribal life...a promising young writer."
-- Publishers Weekly

From the Hardcover edition.
Discussion Questions

Discussion Guides

1. 1

2. 1.By the time Nasarian reaches the US she has left Kenya behind but kept it in her heart. She seems to have made peace with the legacy of her parents and Agustin. What does she learn from Nima, Ngatuny and Agustin? What does Nasarian mean by ubuntu?

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