I'd have to be an essayist to talk, with all due respect, about "Kwashala Blues". As a simple reader, I can only say that the work is an inventory whose motto is death, real and metaphorical, which calls for gentleness or the hand of God. However, there are texts within texts. There are plots within plots, but they don't deconfigure the essence. In fact, Jessemusse Cacinda, the author, has the almost unique agility to make analepses and prolepses, somewhat prolonged, but without getting lost.

Unconcerned with vernacular, he gives each character legitimate speech, without linguistic embellishments. Therein lies the beauty of each piece of text-work, which takes me back to Miller A. Matine's "Talakune". The language of both texts leads us to the authenticity of the characters who do not assume to be fictionalized.

"Kwashala Blues" travels through and brings together places, far and near. You can feel the author in the text, in the people and things he catalogs, in the aromas and in the rot that emerges. Whether on purpose or not, he lets it slip that he is a connoisseur, in his own flesh and blood, of things and their flavors, or the color with which they are painted.

In short, it's a thread to be wrapped up in, with no regrets. It's a book that you have to read uninterruptedly, but that you can read in bits and pieces, as a matter of meditation and confession. Read it!