SOME FURORE OVER JOSEPH CONRAD

“(He) is as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind legs...(with his) shaved, patterned hair and ornamental scars”
Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness (a description of the ‘African fireman’)

Was Joseph Conrad, one of the all-time greats of English literature, a “racist”? Certainly, black Africa’s number one novelist, Chinua Achebe, felt that he (Conrad) was; judging from his writings. Sadly, the younger African literary generation might not know much about Conrad.

Happily enough, the year 2011 witnessed a lively debate – thanks to Deon Simphiwe Skade’s Cape Town blog – on Conrad. Here are some illuminating comments on the matter by four perceptive African writers/critics..

1. O Bolaji:

Quite refreshing essay here by the dexterous Deon, which juxtaposes two celebrated books written by two of the best writers in the world – Joseph Conrad “representing” Europe; and Zakes Mda, representing black Africa! The exhilarating factor here is that Joseph Conrad, dubbed a “thoroughgoing racist” by Chinua Achebe, could hardly have ever imagined that the very heart of black Africa (like west Africa) and South Africa (with its ravages of apartheid) could have produced novelists of great genius like Achebe and Zakes Mda. Conrad, in his Heart of Darkness was not even kind enough to give the black “natives” the simple gift of language or speech! As such natives could only speak in “babbles” and roll their eyes in frenzy! (Forget the facade of the narrator in Conrad’ book, since Marlow’s life very much mirrored the life of Conrad, and his life-attitude to “niggers”) The simple fact is that Zakes Mda comes across as the better writer (than Conrad, yes!); certainly Mda is cosmopolitan, broad-minded, fair and brilliantly witty. Mda is more than fair enough to his white creations in The Madonna of Excelsior; which we can for example juxtapose with the “dog in breeches” (black man!) in Conrad’s novel. We might as well admit that in view of the horrific insults and prejudices the white world (including its writers) have hurled at Africa over the centuries, the black man (its writers) can hardly be condemned for painting whites etc as very bad ...perhaps the most famous example is Ayi Kwei Armah’s very powerful Two thousand Seasons which condemns the white man in no uncertain terms - a novel that made virtually every white reader and critic cry out in protest when it came out decades ago. Yet it is still indicative of how fair distinguished black writers and critics can be, when Wole Soyinka remarked in an essay at the time (on 2000 Seasons) that “the humane sensibility tends to recoil” i.e Armah had overdone things in his novel! Anyway there can be no doubt that in Mda’s The Madonna of Excelsior the style of the writer, whether it be collective or singular, is breathtakingly brilliant, fair and sardonic. We can not accuse Conrad of this despite being one of the all time greats of European writers. For me the most resounding condemnation of Conrad is the fact that the “Heart of darkness continent” (black Africa)which for him teemed with “grunting savages” sans any culture could have produced world class, intellectual novelists like Mda, Achebe, Soyinka, Lewis Nkosi, Es’kia, Awoonor, Munonye, Armah, Ngugi etc eventually. Asseblief, excuse me while I laugh!

2. R Mokoena:

The Madonna of Excelsior – one of the best books ever written and published in the world. We are all proud of Zakes Mda for his accomplishment. The book might not have had the extraordinary success of Achebe’s first book; but in modern times The Madonna is as successful as any book can be; published in many different parts of the world with many translations. That in itself is proof that the book is excellently written with superb, realistic characterization. The western world feels bad when Conrad is referred to as a “racist”, a man who looked down on blacks etc but the evidence is overwhelming. Conrad was humane in his own way, pitying the plights of the natives in Heart of Darkness, but we all know that many people are humane towards their pets or animals but at the same time can never imagine any sort of equality with them. Other books written by Conrad – like the Nigger of Narcissus again show his attitude towards blacks; eg referring to the “repulsive Jimmy” in the book; never mind the “ugly” feelings that washed over him in the Congo area at the people who were “not inhuman” (ie the blacks). At best this is patronising and still insulting, even if the western world cannot see this. It has been said time and again by white literary experts that Heart of Darkness is one of the all-time masterpieces of fiction. And enough of this CORDON SANITAIRE nonsense that Conrad was not Marlow...whilst black African writers like Lewis Nkosi, Achebe, Zakes Mda created convincing, fair European characters, Conrad failed WOEFULLY in portraying his own black characters. Ka nete


3. Pule Lechesa:

Chinua Achebe also criticised other white writers who used to be celebrated overseas then for writing “great” books on black Africa. One of them was Joyce Cary, a brilliant novelist who wrote famous works like Mister Johnson and The African Witch – both based on colonial Africa. Achebe pointed out again that Cary had some disgust for many of his black characters too. I have read The African Witch and it is a fine work; but with the usual prejudices so many whites seem to have; including Conrad! For example the author Joyce comments: “A black man’s sleep is like death”. Pure nonsense – does this mean we do not dream? I think that is why Achebe’s Things fall apart made such an international impact – showing the world that black Africans are humans too, with their own culture, ways of life, superb conversations in their own language, etc. Zakes Mda is keeping up the very fine work of portraying black Africans as humans too, sometimes flawed, but still human – like whites!

4. Deon Simphiwe Skade (Acoustics Strings administrator):

It is precisely conversations like this one that I relish a lot about the literary world, as it depicts our reality with all its follies and victories.
All the gentlemen who commented above raise very crucial points, which are not confined to literature. They interrogate some sociocultural discrepancies, misconceptions and anything else that torments the mind with the need to understand why people act the way they do. Indeed! African writers have achieved an awe-inspiring victory by creating the legacy that continues to inspire the modern world. They established themselves as a force to be reckoned with, in spite of the harshness and disregard from the political climate of the time. The might of the colonial force and its remnants, could not deter them from telling their stories in the remarkable manner that they did, even though it was through the colonial language.
The bottom line is that they managed to tell these stories through their own voices, without the elaborate and often condescending attitude that African stories had been told through the colonial eye. Of course this mode of storytelling had always suggested and entrenched the belief that the colonialists were superior to black communities. Otherwise why would they always tell the African stories on behalf of Africans? As a result, crucial elements of the African life had suffered terrible distortions and created the enduring stereotype we continue to see in the 21 century; an era that best reflects the sophistication of the human mind. The colonialist’s sense of superiority, was easily concealed behind the likes of Marlow, the fictitious character (I will explain this below).

My one argument when we discussed the effect of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in an English literature class, was that Marlow was in fact all the things that his peers and fellow colonialist were to Africans (I’m being very polite here by the way). He used a powerfully deceptive tool to try to portray himself as not having condescending opinions/mindset towards the natives of the Congo, by presenting the Europeans as ‘racists’ in his narration. He attempted to sit on the fence and present a narrative that would see him emerge as a hero, who denounced the horrendous acts of the colonial forces. However, this only culminated into a dismal failure of someone who was claiming innocence, in spite of the overwhelming evidence of his ‘guilt’. His continued use of derogatory terms throughout his narrative reflected the air of superiority that was embedded deeply in his psychology. Of course this is a world of fiction, which Joseph Conrad admirably constructed. I praise him greatly for such an astounding craftsmanship, and hail his book as one of the best I have ever read - my personal favourite

Touching base on another literary matter that I believe is of a similar vein in subject matter, even though more so for its ‘sexist’ of patriarchal’ theme, let me briefly talk about Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions. Some people call the narrator, Tambu, a feminist that only embraces this position much later in her life. Some say she supports the patriarchal culture and only presents Maiguru and Nyasha as rebels who cannot escape the reality of lives, thus mocking their efforts.
It’s amazing how people attach meaning to various phenomena, often distorting the intended purpose.

Now, back to the essence of my comment. Literary texts and anything ‘artistic’ should evoke a reaction from those who come across the work. This is part of the social dialogue that people should continue to have, in interrogating some of the ills we have and find remedies for them. It is also a way of celebrating our achievements. We ridicule ourselves through the arts and also reflect just about anything of the human experience. After all, we live in an imperfect world.

* The four comments here (above) are reproduced by kind permission of ‘acoustic strings’ blog.

WORD FEST IN BLOEMFONTEIN

By DINEO MOKGOSI

(Above) Rita Chihawa

“A platform for poets to share their literary art with the rest of the public” This is how Rita Chihawa described the “Sound of poetry”, an event that took place on Thursday, December 15 at the Rose Hall in the Bram Fisher Building in Bloemfontein city.

Seasoned poets who performed at the event included Phillipa Yaa De Villiers, performer, teacher and writer for stage and television; who was supported by Free State greats such as Jah Rose, Hector Kunene and Dr Cool. Other aspiring poets who performed were Azanian Kid and Alme Swarts. There was also an open mike session where poets from the floor shared their poetry with the audience.

The event was the brainchild of Soweto-born poet, Rita Chihawa, 24, through a company called Arts Amuse founded in 2009 together with Khonzeka Tyindyi.
“This was the first time we would be hosting the ‘Sound of poetry’, and we are planning to make it an annual event that will be taken to major cities across the Free State” said Rita Chihawa, poet and organiser.

Chihawa is a rather seasoned poet herself despite her young age. She has been doing poetry since the age of 13. She has performed at the Grahamstown Arts Festival. “It has been a long and fulfilling journey in the arts industry,” she said.

Chihawa’s favourite poem is “They went home” by veteran author and poet, Maya Angelou; and another favourite written by her is a new poem called “Mother and sister”

“I look up to a lot of poets, depending on a variety of aspects such as writing and performing. On writing I like Ntate Don Mattera and Ntate Vonani Bila. On the performance side I look up to people like Masoja Msiza, Napo Masheane, Lebo Mashile and Mphutlane wa Bofelo,” said Chihawa.

Her love of poetry was stoked by reading other people’s material. “I love reading. I read a lot of poems by writers like Mattera, Professor Kgositsile, Jessica Mbangeni and Chris Mann,” she explained.

Chihawa said that the poetry industry in other parts of the country is well developed in comparison to the Free State, “as more needs to be done to promote literary arts to the public,”

“We need to educate our people about this type of events so that they can try them out and also create more platforms for poets and storytellers to showcase their crafts to the public,” Rita Chihawa vouchsafed.

NONPAREIL FESTIVE SEASON!

By Hector “poet” Kunene


We do this yearly…
We sing, we dance, we write, we celebrate
We chant, we scream, we shout, like leaves we sprout
We shop till we drop, we mop wines and glasses we break
We dye our hairs and bless our special annual trees
We visit far places and drive better races

We raise our fists in the air and show peace signed fingers
We accommodate strangers and accumulate bankers
We walk, we run, we fly, we cry
We tie knots and ring bells and bless pastors in mission houses

We give, we strive for perfecting this day
We decorate and stipulate time for deliveries not to delay
We afford quite a lot for bonuses are quite a knot
We smile, we greet, and we feed in need
We play far away yet closer to be heard

We climb, we swing, we jump on skips
We roll on grass and make no fuss
We stamp on mud and back each other
We stroll on streets and show of our clothes

We hug, we kiss we hold each other dearly
We stare at each other’s faces sharing our ups and downs
We wipe our tears and crack in laughter’s
We tap on shoulders and encourage on failures
We tell each other to try again


We dine on figure glasses breaking champagnes
We open new boxes and scare away foxes
We pound on gifts and cleave on tips
We smile on snow and bow on the floor
We forgive this year to free our souls!

THE UNSUNG LITERARY CATALYSTS

(Above) Alrina le Roux and Adri Smuts

By O BOLAJI

As literature, local, national, and African, grows by leaps and bounds perhaps it is apposite that some sort of tribute should be paid to the unsung heroes, the literary catalysts (who are also often accomplished writers) who have done so much to boost literature in Africa.

We are not referring to established, celebrated writers here; nay, such vibrant literary catalysts often lurk in the background, doing great, coruscating things but remain essentially unknown in the main. They are often exceedingly selfless men and women performing wonders in this niche.

Nor are they exclusively black. Two outstanding examples of whites who did wonders for African creative writing ware David Cook and Ulli Beier. Both of them were from European backgrounds but fell in love with Eastern and Western Africa respectively, providing a fillip for Black writing dating from the 60s! Prof Cook was a mentor for a number of now world class African writers who hailed from east Africa, including the illustrious Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

The exploits of Ulli Beier were even more astonishing. From his west African base decades ago he not only nurtured, encouraged and edited the works of many of Africa’s initial key black writers – he actually published their early works in book form. Unbelievably, authors he put on their feet (and published) included Nobel award winner (for literature) Wole Soyinka, J.P Clark (dramatist and poet), Kofi Awoonor (poet, essayist, and novelist). Beier also published books written by South African greats like Es’kia Mphahlele, Denis Brutus and Alex La Guma.

By the time Ben Mtobwa emerged from East Africa (Tanzania-born), African literature was already ensconced world-wide. Mtobwa was to bring literature even closer to the people in his region, publishing interesting books mainly in the indigenous languages there (especially Swahili), and encouraging others to relish the world of reading and writing. This he did as a director of an important Publishing House, and also via a popular peoples’-oriented newspaper.

His achievements have been mirrored in South Africa here by the indomitable Vonani Bila, who from his Limpopo base has pulled off a string of literary achievements. Apart from the books he has published over the years, he has orchestrated (through his Timbila project) incredibly prolific outlets for many Black poets and writers to get their works published in book form. Bila is a quintessential literary activist who continues to make his mark.

As Tiisetso Thiba, poet and literary commentator says: “We (Black South Africans) have been lucky that despite the fact that we had no guidance before as regards literature, this is no longer the case. For those of us who are poetry lovers in particular, we have witnessed a boon with so many multi-faceted talented poets from the grassroots level. Their works, and exploits, are celebrated via the internet, books, journals, and popular newspapers now,”

In the Free State here, whilst acknowledging impressive progress made in recent times, enough recognition has not been given to such “unsung” literary activists. In fact it is arguable that one or two of such protagonists have not been recognised at all. Happily enough, the literary fraternity already realised the wonderful job a lady like Jacomien Schimper (a Director at Provincial Library Services) has done over the years in putting Free State Black Writing on the map.

Additionally, it is gratifying that in recent times there has been a clarion call among writers, especially literary critics and reviewers, to specifically acknowledge the awesome impact another lady, Alrina Le Roux has had in the literary sphere whilst apparently lurking in the shadows. An experienced Principal librarian for the FS Provincial Library Service, this is a lady who is regarded as a proficient repository of international and African literature, a skilful sympathetic editor, who has always encouraged sundry wordsmiths.

The well known Free State literary critic and essayist, Raphael Mokoena says: “It is about time I acknowledged my great debt to this wonderful lady (Alrina Le Roux). Many years ago in the Free State, I got to know about her regular profiles of authentic African writers…I went into the major libraries, to the Reference section etc and read all the articles she had published over the decades! I made photocopies of them and learnt a lot in the process. Alrina is a prodigious reader and her many profiles (in Free State Libraries journal) of the likes of Dambudzo Marechera, JM Coetzee, Sol Plaatje, Es’kia Mphahlele, Achebe etc, have belonged to the top drawer,”

Paul Lothane, another literary critic, agrees: “Nothing pleases me more than going through, and learning from the top-notch superb literary profiles painstakingly written by Mme Alrina Le Roux. She seems to be a reading machine! Those who have met her in the flesh agree on the same thing: she’s a wonderful, broad minded, kindly woman. No words can express our gratitude for what the so-called ‘unknowns’, like Mme Alrina have done for our writing,”

Kudos to all such unsung literary catalysts!

* Published in PUBLIC EYE, November 25 2011 edition (Life and Style section)

SINGWIZI THE GOLDEN JOURNEY...

By CHARLES MATORERA

It was in January of the year 1994. I had just completed the Ordinary Level the previous term. My parents were too poor to send me to the A Level so I had to stay at home and wait for something to come up. A job maybe or a recruitment into the government’s many institutions, police academy, military, teaching, agriculture etc. The government was the biggest employer.

I always thought that because most of the people were employed by the state this was why we had so much poor service delivery. Think of it, because most of them were not employed on their dream jobs what they all cared for was the salary. Remember, when we were in primary school a teacher used to ask “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The answers comprised, “A nurse to look after the sick people”, “A policeman to arrest law breakers”, "A pilot to fly an aeroplane”. Essentially, the answers were innumerable.

But this was the real life, where those who dreamt of becoming doctors ended up working for the municipality cleaning the streets. A job was just a job. Like a wild dog you have to take whatever comes your way, you did not have the luxury of choosing. Sometimes a bully at school who dreamt to be a soldier, who always fought others, kicking the young ones ended up being a nurse; maybe because that was where his mother’s friend’s uncle had a connection. Just imagine what kind of service one might get from such a nurse!

Anyway that is Africa for starters. I was waiting for anything to come, surely something would come up, I was in Wedza my mother’s rural home, waiting for my results and helping grandmother via farming.

A guy who was renting Muchagwa Store, the biggest shop at Chigondo Township ended up being a friend of mine. His name was Nyati. At this juncture maybe I should somewhat describe him. He was tall and in his early thirties, with a wife and two little daughters, he talked a lot about gold and faraway places like Rafingora, Mvurwi and Mutorashanga. These places are north of Harare whilst we were here 150 kilometers southeast of the capital. I regarded myself a born adventurer and I loved the atlas. I dreamt of travelling far to all those strangely named places to find out why they were given such fancy names.

Nyati, which meant buffalo, is a very big clan name in Zimbabwe. We live in a clan-oriented society so you end up being related to anyone. In this case I ended up calling him ‘uncle’ because my grandmother was from the Buffalo clan.

As our friendship grew, Nyati showed me some papers which were some sort of certificates. These certificates were given to him by the government. He told me that it was a licence to mine gold anywhere in Zimbabwe. According to him he was only an impressionable 16 years old when he dreamt of his late grandfather showing him a place not far away from his rural home near Mazoe where the old man took out some yellow glowing stones from the pristine earth and gave them to him. After a year and the dream repeating itself for the sixth time he told his father who took him to a great traditional healer. They were told that the ancestors had given them a great gift of wealth; they had to slaughter a cow and brew some millet beer at the place for there were precious stones to be dug out. His father was very strict - he hired an expert who confirmed that indeed the place was having a lot of alluvial gold. That is the type of gold you don’t have to dig deep to get. Sure enough they slaughtered a bull and had a traditional party to thank the ancestors.

Nyati was helped to register the place by his father; they acquired the government’s prospector’s license in his name. Nyati mined this place and got a lot of money, he bought lots of cattle, built a big house, drilled a deep borehole where even during the severest drought like two years ago, all the people from his area came and fetched water. So after ten years of a lot of gold panning and prosperity he felt suddenly very sick, at this time his father has passed on.

Nyati went to the hospital and after many tests the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with him, yet he was slowly dying! Then he went to a traditional healer who told him that some powerful witches from his village were jealous of his success and they wanted him to die so that they could take over the gold mine. The solution was to go far away and seek some help. He moved to Harare where he stayed with his brother who took him to an apostolic sect which used some powerful healing prayers, they revived him and told him not to go back home for a period of three years. That was why he was here in Hwedza with his wife and kids running a shop to survive. The shop building was owned by a member of their apostolic church who was living and running bigger businesses in Harare. They rented him, well cognizant of his situation.

According to him, the business was not going well, but he had no choice. He was waiting for the three years to pass so that they could go back to Raffingora and start again gold panning, the simplest way of making money. To me running a shop was the only way to easily get rich but Nyati made me to believe that gold panning was easier.

Our friendship grew steadily, one day he told me that he trusted me and I must get someone who had some gold panning experience that I should if everything was agreed upon go with to Raffingora and start working at his mine.

This was an opportunity! Something better than getting into a staid, boring government institute! I had to take this golden opportunity and probably get rich and end up owning my own mine and some grocery shops like Nyati’s!

I didn’t have to look far; in my mother’s extended family of the Mukanya clan I got an uncle who had came back from Mutoko’s Makaha mines the previous year. He was attacked by the deadly cerebral malaria which was rampant on those areas. His name was Peter, my mother’s cousin, I explained everything to him and he was very excited. I took him to Nyati and we had a meeting in a small storage room behind the shop. I watched with excitement as each sized the other up thorough question and answer, anyway both men were satisfied that each knew what they were talking about. Later Nyati showed Peter the certificates and my mother’s cousin Sekuru Peter was perplexed.

From that day it was agreed upon that some money had to be raised for the journey to Raffingora. Also a group of five strong guys would be enough to be part of the journey to work as the labourers. Uncle Peter was obviously the manager, I was appointed the secretary - someone who will write down all that will be happening.

After two weeks, my mother did send me some money to come to Harare as our school results were about to come out. I stalled because the Raffingora journey way gaining momentum. We had already found six guys from Gangare who were anxious to go.

I was putting everything on paper, their names, ID numbers, calculations of the money that was needed for the journey etc. indeed a lot of money was needed to get the eight of us to Raffingora. We were to be nine, with Nyati’s wife who was to show us the way. Then we needed enough food to keep us strong and working for at least about a month if the weather or other outside factors were to keep us before we were able to be productive.

A solution came unexpectedly, Nyati on his many trips to Harare had heard of a place not as far as Raffingora where there was a lot of gold. Somewhere to the South East of Wedza, Marange district in a valley between Mutanda Mountains. This was the same district where ten years later will be a beehive of activity because of some alluvial diamond discovery.

The Mutanda Mountain was closer, which meant we could go there and work for some few weeks to raise money for the Raffingora journey. We could operate both places if Marange proved to be worth it, but Nyati was convinced that there was no place that would be as productive as Raffingora.

We met and agreed that the two of us must go first and survey the place, identify a mine and peg a claim, Nyati's prospectors license was national it was valid with assiduity anywhere in Zimbabwe.

In three days’ time we were ready to go. I used the money that mother wanted me to come to Harare with. I was given a bucket of maize meal, about 40KGs by my grandmother, she was a good friend of Peter’s mother and they were all supportive.

In our luggage we had picks, shovels, hammers, long sharp iron roads, blue buckets, only yellow ones were not necessary, as yellow was the colour of gold. Practically, you will through away a lot if the bucket looked the same. We also had blankets and old jeans for scrawling in the tiny holes under earth.

We took a bus to Dorowa phosphate mine, we then took another one to Sabi Drift. The journey wasn’t eventful except for one incident when one guy wanted to go down with another woman’s bag. We nearly killed him with fright as we took out picks and hammers helping, bus personnel to scare him.

I remember passing by some white earth places which looked severely barren. Buhera was my birth place but it was hard to be proud of it mostly in Hwedza because most of the domestic workers were from these parts.

Then I remembered around sunset we stopped for a long time at a shopping centre called Bhidhiri. Relatively, it was very big with three grocery shops and a bottle store working. Some poor, impoverished kids without shoes or decent clothes selling baobabs and roasted marula nuts were conspicuous here. It touched me but I couldn’t help them; I had nothing on me, even money to spend on pleasures like fruits. I told myself that one day I will come back rich with gold and change the lives of these poor kids.

Later we left, and after many bumps and dangerous curves we come to Sabi Drift, the bus's final destination. We initially intended to sleep on the verandahs of any shop but on arrival we decided against it. It wasn’t as deserted as we wanted it to be, it was a big place with about three or more bottle stores still open at this ungodly hour of nine o’clock.

We discussed about it and decided that it would be better to sleep in the bushes somewhere along our way that here. Someone in the bus once uttered about “Mabhinya” people who kill for muthi, usually hired by local businessmen or witchdoctors. This scared us a lot.

We boarded down the bus and carried our heavy loads. I studied thoroughly the map which we had drawn before we left Hwedza. It was very simple because we just had to proceed with the direction of the bus to the big bridge; then on with that same road until we got to a certain cross with a sign post written Gondo, then follow it!

We went to the bridge, it was very long and scary. I heard some splashing in the water towards the other end, I thought it was a Njuzu “water maid” but later we were told that there were some hippopotamus in the river there. We walked, and walked it was pitch black, the heavy loads were cutting through our shoulders, but because of the splashing sound we had heard in the river I refused to camp for the night. So Sekuru Peter said: “I thought you were tired, if you think we can go, let’s go. I am not new to these sort of things." We walked seeing nothing for some time, then sometimes we could see some isolated fires far on our right hand side but we kept going.

Then the heavy drops of rains started falling. We had prepared for this, maybe only for our food. The maize meal inside our bags was wrapped in plastics which we intended to use to construct temporary shelters when we reached our destination. It was Uncle Peter's idea and it was proven to be brilliant by our present situation.

For nearly two hours the sky continued leaking, heavy drops of cold rain were hitting us. We decided against finding a place to lay down and proceeded. The only place you could choose to sleep was under a huge tree, but these torrential thunderstorms of Africa do not allow you to go near tall trees! The lightning will put a full stop to your life.
Then we came to a river with a broken bridge, actually the bridge was washed over by heavy rains. Now the rains had dropped to some steady showers, these gave us longer sight due to the fluorescence of lighting… you could see a dozen meters away through sheets of grey showers.

Now the luggage on our backs was cutting through our shoulders.
We did cut out some long sticks from the trees nearby, sunk them into the river. The current wasn't weak but with the weight of our baggage we realised that we could cross. We walked on, the rains were becoming less and less, but we could not stop, the whole ground other than the road was muddy.

We proceeded along the road. After another hour and a half we came to the crossroads, Gondo the road sign pointed to the right, so we turned and marched on. The sign gave us some courage. We were revived and temporarily exhilarated. We increased our pace with gusto. For nearly an hour we walked without seeing the shops, or a school according to the map. We decided to rest under a big tree, at least the lightning was no longer cracking and rippling the skies. We dropped our bags and fell asleep.

When I woke up, before I opened my eyes I heard people chattering, women’s voices speaking in a strange accent, first I thought witches ware having a meeting then I heard a cluttering bell used on some elusive oxen and I knew it was daylight. I woke up and found Uncle Peter sitting near the fire turning a maize cob. That’s when I realised how hungry I was.

“Tarasika Muzukuru but luckily we slept at a bus stop.” We are lost nephew, he said explaining that the actual place we were supposed to have stopped was at the broken bridge that was our destination.

“But at the map we were supposed to have come to Gondo shopping centre?” I asked “Mabviro rasike”, said the talkative woman with a baby on her back, “At the cross roads the shops and the school are at your left; it’s a mere fifty meters from the junction” Uncle Peter, knowing my next question said: “Maybe a naughty school kid turned the sign so we came the wrong way”.

The sky was now clearly blue; no sign at all that it rained the whole night except the screeching crickets and the muddy ground. When the maize cobs were properly roasted, Uncle Peter thanked the people whose number was growing every minute to ride the bus. We carried our heavy loads with the help of the men who were there, I felt numb in certain strategic anatomical areas, but I wasn’t going to make a nuisance of myself here, in front of all these people.

We were given proper shortcut directions and our geographical landmark were two big mountains in a distance - that was Mutanda 1, and the smaller one was Mutanda 2. It took us seven full hours to get back to the broken bridge, I could feel the weight of my luggage, maybe because the sun was very hot and I was perspiring. I knew Uncle Peter was feeling the same but the burden of him being the elder propelled him to push on.

Finally we crossed the river with the broken bridge and I was more than exhausted. I was pulling my legs like an injured spider. We took a cart road that went alongside the river up to the east between the two mountains. In the valley, there was a spectacular view of glittering stones. I dropped my luggage down and ran up the hill to a shinning stone with silvery and gold-like colors. Uncle Peter looked at me in awe “What are you doing?” he asked.

I was ecstatic in my temporary euphoria: “Surely these are gold Sekuru, gold! Gold! Gold!” I shouted back.

“I thought you were as tired as I am. Where did you get the energy to climb up there?” When I couldn’t detect some enthusiasm in his voice I realized that it could not be gold I was holding. I also realised that I was a dozen meters above him. “So you mean these are not gold?” I was demoralized, I climbed down slowly. Uncle Peter did put down his luggage down and sat on a rock.

“Look Sinyoro” he addressed me with my clan name which he rarely did. “These shiny stones prove that there is a lot of gold around here; do you remember an English saying “all that glitters is not gold?"

I said yes, and he proceeded: “I remember getting the directions from that old man at the bus stop, he said he used to work in a mine around here mining something called Turnlite; maybe it is the one that glitters in the stones… but most places where there is gold, you get these shiny stones, in Bindura, Mtoko everywhere. Now let’s get ourselves a camp and cook some food. We are tired”

I carried my glittering stone, even though we saw a lot more stones and transparent quartz I did not leave it. We did put up our camp near the river. While Uncle was putting up a plastic tent I started the fire and cooked. I discovered that besides mosquitoes there were tsetse flies in the long grass which bit hard. I was afraid, at school we had been taught that it causes sleeping sickness. Soon after eating, we slept like logs only to wake up the following day.

We took the pick and shovel and dug out some top soil. Under it we took some sand. We put the sand in a blue bucket, then went down to the river. Uncle Peter did the serving, taking a lot of water and snack it with the sand then throwing the muddied water out. After thirty minutes we could see little glittering powders in the bottom of the bucket - our first gold! I was excited but not Uncle Peter. I asked him about his lukewarm attitude, and he said it wasn’t enough to start an operation.

But we went ahead and pegged according to the government regulations. We had to put signs on every corner of our claim, this gave us the right to be where we were because some people might think we were stock thieves or some rogue bandits. We arranged to later go around and find the local authorities.

That afternoon we went up the river, and a few kilometers ahead we came to the homesteads. It was a temporary settlement which had been here for nearly ten years. I say temporary, because no one had a house, they lived in huts. Zimbabwe is no longer that poor to the extent of finding sixty families all living together, failing to build a brick house. The people who received us seemed to be used to welcoming people like us.

We approached the first hut. They told us that this was called Nyadzonya Village 13, and the chairman was a Mr. Shunguwasha. We were given an eleven year old boy to escort us to the chairman’s place. It wasn’t far, I didn’t like the way they settled, the homesteaders were clustered not far from each other, unlike the rural homes where I come from. Here it was easy for a neighbour to kill your chicken for supper without you noticing.

Mr. Shunguwasha was a tall, thin man in his mid fifties. We showed him our prospectors’ license and identity cards. When he saw that mine was issued in Buhera he asked my birth place and clan, we ended up being related by clan as my maternal grandmother was from the Shunguwasha clan.
He informed us that we were not the first people to come with prospector’s license here, but most of them ended up buying from local villagers as they were the people who knew the productive areas.

We later found out that MR. Shunguwasha was a pastor of an apostolic Church and he was very honest and God fearing; if it wasn’t for that, he could have been very rich. Many people in his position in other places demand a share from buyers to give them permission to do business in his area.

By the end of the week, we had found out that panning gold legally in these areas was impossible because the gold belt was too deep to reach with picks and shovel. The only thing we could do was to buy from the local villagers who panned illegally in the river. We wrote a letter to our benefactor and posted it by bus. Unfortunately we were too late, though our boss did send those five other guys to us; but they arrived the following day. Fortunately for them, they did not travel at night in the rain. Nyati had met someone who knew the place better. They had taken a direct bus from Chigondo to Nzvimbe School which was not very far from Mutanda Mountain. Actually that was where the kids of Village 13 went to school.

It took two weeks for Nyati to come; surely he had managed to raise some money - about ten thousand dollars, which was quite a lot in 1994 in Zimbabwe. When he arrived we had a meeting and it was agreed that the five guys would board a bus the following day, and the boss will come to Wedza to pay them. I and Uncle Peter were going to remain behind as we needed to buy some gold from the villagers. I gave my report as the secretary; we owed some villagers three buckets of sorghum, in these barren areas they do not harvest a good crop of maize so their staple was sorghum.

On Friday the five guys left; and the three of us went to the village. It was my duty to introduce Mr Nyati to the local people. The people brought their gold. I was writing down all the facts. Uncle Peter was testing with some chemicals and scaling. Nyati was paying out the cash. Gold is paid per point; it is rare for a single person to reach grams. It was a long time since a buyer came by the village, because of the heavy rains so people had a lot of gold with them.

We bought gold for nine thousand dollars. Some of the money was used as bus fees by the five guys, and the remainder was going to be used by Nyati for transport back to Harare. The boss asked me to talk to the villagers who still had gold that they could give it to us and say whatever they needed from Harare. Because I was very amiable and empathetic, the villagers now saw me as one of them; they believed me and brought their gold.

Uncle Peter received the gold, tested it and scaled it, I wrote down the amount and the items that the owner wanted. Others wanted blankets, women wanted pots and sets of plates from Cango Company, men wanted trousers, shoes, gumboots, another one wanted a bicycle…

Someone wanted to know how he would be able to carry all these things even by bus from Harare, I was the one to cut him short by saying “Mr Nyati has a shop in Hwedza, he brings all his groceries by bus. The worker in the Zonwe bus knows him like a brother so there is no problem as long as each of you is willing to fetch his/her own stuff at Nzvimbe." I talked like I was possessed, I saw Mhofu looking at me with a thankful eye and I went ahead writing.

Myself and Uncle Peter were to be the insurance. We managed to get some gold worth five thousand in credit. People in the village were jubilant, they asked us not to go and sleep in the tents that day. We slept in the hut, and the following day we took Nyati to the bus, some youths from the village went along with us, some wanted to change the sizes of the shoes they had written the previous day and other things like that. But I think others wanted to make sure that we were not also going.

It was agreed that on Wednesday we were to go and wait for Mhofu at the bus. He was to get to Harare the same day Sunday, on Monday he will sell the gold; Tuesday he will be shopping for the people’s orders; then Wednesday he was to be on his way back.

Uncle Peter and I were to get our salaries on Wednesday, I was excited, this was to be my first pay, and according to my culture as a Shona, I was to buy my mother a blanket. When we arrived in the village, we borrowed a chicken and another bucket of sorghum. We acted like we were celebrating, now what was left was for the money to come!

The following day we went up the river for fishing, we came across a place where some guys of my age were panning. I was infuriated. These guys where breaking the banks of the river and serving inside the river, surely they were killing the river; it left poignant pain on my heart. I discussed it with Uncle Peter who said “You can’t protest, you are waiting to get rich with these panners, so you can’t stop them, you are an accessory”.

I kept quiet. The days were dragging very slowly. On Wednesday we went with some villagers to Nzvimbe to wait for the bus. The bus came but Nyati wasn’t in it, the conductor and driver knew him very well but they didn’t see him at the Mbare Terminus in Harare.

One of the women said “Maybe he did not finish shopping, so he may come tomorrow" We all agreed and walked back the twelve kilometres back to the village.

The following day the same thing happened, and on Friday. What a surfeit of frustration and anxiety! On Saturday, there was no bus from Harare but on Sunday the driver told the same story, on Monday we avoided the village, went through the bushes but Nyati did not come. Tuesday, then Wednesday, again hoping that maybe we talked about the wrong week but the boss did not come. Our soghurm meal was running out, we got home and slept.

In the middle of the night Uncle Peter woke me up “What? What is it Sekuru?” I asked. "I had a nightmare, no, not a nightmare my dreams do not lie. My brother Jacob woke me up here telling us to run because the villagers are ganging up to kill us. It happened twice so we must leave this place now!" I tried to protest but Uncle Peter was already up and tightening his shoes. I woke up, put on my shoes and jacket. He said “No we are not going down to the river, let’s go up” as if speaking to an unseen person in the sky “Up where”? I asked confusedly. “Your voice is too loud, follow me,” he said. I tried to pick up the blankets but he jerked my hand and pulled me.

Mutanda was a big mountain, but not very hard to climb. There were no rocks and dangerous cliffs. After some time we heard some noise at our base, people shouting, “Vaenda, vaenda!” meaning 'They are gone, they are gone' Uncle Peter, looked at me, I couldn’t see his eye but I felt them.
Someone was shouting “Mbudzi yangu ndoda Mbudzi yangu chete!” My goat, I want only my goat. Then we saw a bright fire blazing up the sky. Someone had set alight our plastic tent. Now I was cooperating with Uncle Peter, I took the lead, we were actually going the opposite direction of Wedza, but we had no choice. To say we were broke is an understatement; we were penniless.

We went down the other side of the mountain, we could not just go east or west, the mountain on those sides was too steep. We then moved East around the mountain. It was daylight by the time we reached Singwizi River, more to the East than we had ever travelled. We avoided the villages and went directly north.

We left Nzvimve to our west when we crossed the road. and on we went.
We had no luggage so we moved like bush bucks. In Zimbabwe during this time of late March the crops are ripe in the fields. The vegetation was good for people on the run like us. When we were hungry we entered into the people’s fields, cutting fresh maize cobs and we ate them raw with creamy milk like juice spouting out. Water melons and some field sugar canes called ipwa we ate, as we moved. Then we came to the wires, they divided the villages with old scarcely populated African farms which were given to black soldiers who fought in the Second World War; they are called Zviyambe Farms. This told us that we were now entering Hwedza district.

Uncle Peter kneeled down, picked up some soft soil from the ground and threw it into his mouth and uttered, “Hwedza, the land of the Mbire clan, the land of my fathers, I am back. I am your son; thank you for saving my life from the mouth of a hyena, I am back, the son of a Baboon!" I was kneeling behind him, clapping along with him, I also took a pinch of soil and swallowed it.

Around midday, we came to Mutiweshiri Mission School which is along the Dorowa Mine and Nyazura Road. Some metres down the road, we came to the Hwedza Road and took it.

We walked and walked until we passed Mukamba Shopping Centre. At Negombwe turn-off, we took the Chigondo Road. I can tell you that you will never get tired until you get to your destination. The sun set when we were passing Ruswa Secondary School. From here, we knew the short-cuts, but as we were tired, it took us over two hours to get home.

My grandmother's home is the first when you enter Jena village from the east. I knocked at the door and no one answered. "Grandma, grandma it’s me Zenzo, I am back!" Then the door squeaked, my little sister Eunicah came out running: "Mukoma, mukoma! We didn’t know it was you. We are alone, grandmother went to Uncle Peter's place; there is a funeral. His brother Jacob died early in the morning."

Talk of portents! Uncle Peter started crying and moving on, I told Eunica to lock the door, and I followed him weeping.


Epilogue: Fifteen Months later…


I was sitting with my grandfather and he said: “You see, my grandson, there is no shortcut to wealth,” I must confess that I was a bit exasperated and angry when I heard this – but later on, I pondered over what he said. Could this be true? Was I to blame for our harrowing ordeal? But I still believe that Nyati should not go unpunished. I would be on the look-out for any trace of him….


Charles Matorera is a Zimbabwean writer, and activist

THABA NCHU: SLOWLY MAKING ITS MARK!

By TEBOHO MASAKALA (Novelist and short story writer)

Due to my work as a journalist for Mangaung Issue I interview a lot of people, from national celebrities to ordinary local people. In one of my interviews I remember during the Macufe auditions on 16 September 2011 at Mmabana cultural centre in Thaba Nchu, I came across the acclaimed actor Mr. Babes Mphatseng who is renowned for his character as Phineus in the Sabc 2 comedy drama Moferefere Lenyalong (trouble at a wedding).

While I was interviewing him I asked him what he thought about arts in Thaba Nchu, his answer was obvious like the rest: “dead!!” He told me that Thaba Nchu is dry while they have a centre that could help develop young artists. I looked at him and I agreed it is “dry while it is paradoxically filled with talent" it could use to develop it (even though it has more than 130 years in existence). I realise the poetry and writing talent we have in Thaba Nchu is enormous.

We have so many poets, both in English and Sesotho but most of them do it for enjoyment, some want to publish books but when I intermittently ask them how far are they with them, they tell me they are still writing but had to stop as they are still busy with this and that - and at the ultimate end they join a number of people who say Thaba Nchu is dry and talentless and literature is dead. Many say writers are there, but what is the use of being a writer in Thaba Nchu?

I disagree most of the time as many great people who have gone down in history come from poor places, the likes of Jacob Zuma, Nelson Mandela and other great names who became icons and heroes despite coming from poor places. I am proud to say that this year alone, three writers penned books in Thaba Nchu; we have Sechaba Marumo with his beautiful debut book “Be the best you can be” and Michael Seisho who is a teacher also published his debut book called “They call themselves bo tau bo bla wee (township slang) and yours truly Teboho Masakala with my second book titled ‘Through it all” which is now available at Motheo FET College Library.

The bible tells us about the place Jesus was born Bethlehem in Judea. The place was undermined, looked down upon and seen as a place where nothing good came from, but the birth of Jesus changed it all as a Messiah was born in the very same backwater, hated and undermined place.

With the exciting establishment of these three authors mentioned above, this shows that Thaba Nchu has come out tops this year as far as publishing books is concerned. We are finding our feet in the literary world although it is not easy being an author in Thaba Nchu as the support is somehow limited good compared to the entertainment that is madly loved. But we must note that one cannot force a person to read, write and buy books, it has to be one’s decision.

We are starting to make our mark in the writing world, Sechaba Marumo is one of the best.; he loves Thaba Nchu so much that he even included it in his book in the introductory part. He loves the place where his identity was forged; where he got his education and writing foundation. Need we say more about Teboho Masakala’s love for Thaba Nchu also? (laugh)

Enthusiasm, zeal and love help develop writing at grass roots level and inspire the young ones who want to be great writers. I love and respect the progress of Bloemfontein and I call it Free State’s heart (hub) of literature with lots of writing clubs and poetry sessions.

We have powerful female poets like Charmaine Mrwebi who continues to motivate writers in general. Charmaine is from Thaba Nchu but based in the city of Roses. I look at Bloemfontein for inspiration and use that inspiration to turn my home town (Thaba Nchu) like it.

I agree we still have a lot to learn, and it’s going to be a long journey but we will not despair, we will not give up, we shall take our stand in the literature world, we shall fight for the land of Thaba Nchu to be heard, counted, not to be underestimated but to be recognised. We shall take the weapon of expression which is the pen and fight to give our place a name amongst the great!

- Teboho Masakala, ”proudly Thaba Nchu” has already published two books, and is working on other manuscripts. Email comments to tebohomasakala@yahoo.com or facebook: Teboho Masakala

A Sublime and Unforgettable Macufe Wordfest!

By Flaxman Qoopane (above)

About hundred and fifty Free State writers attended the second annual Macufe Wordfest at the Braam Fischer Building in Bloemfontein on 6-7 October this year.

Vincent Khetha, Director: Heritage, Museum and Language services said ‘The Free State government and the Department of Sports, Arts, Culture and Recreation support our novelist, playwrights , scriptwriters, short writers, poets and perform in the Free State...

In 2008 Macufe Wordfest was launched, In 2009 and 2010 we did not have Macufe Wordfest, from 2011 we will make sure that Macufe Wordfest is celebrated annually where we promote literature in our province, we hope the Macufe Wordfest 2011 will be a success.”

Advocate Tsoarelo Malakoane, HOD of the Department of Sport, Arts Culture and Recreation said: “Macufe won’t be complete without Macufe Wordfest. We need to develop our Free State writers. We need to create spaces throughout the year. We need to create our own K.P.D Maphallas,”

Skills Development Workshops were conducted by Thapelo Moraka (scriptwriter), Tsietsi Mohapi (writer) Mathene Mahanke (novelist), Mamolupe Dladla (lecturer) and Letshase Nakedi (writer).

Thapelo Moraka the writer dealt with the format of writing theatrical plays. Tsietsi Mohapi guided the writers on how to write a drama and a play. Mathene Mahanke dealt with the format of how to write short stories. Mamolupe Dladla presented a lecture on how to write a novel, encouraging burgeoning writers to be creative.

Manana Monareng-Stone, Programme Manager for Research, Training and Development from the Media Development and Diversity Agency (MDDA) presented a topic on the Agency. Kundayi Masanzu from Academic, Non-Fiction, Authors Association of South Africa (ANFASA) addressed the audience about copyright.

The Macufe Wordfest was attended by well known writer, Siphiwo Mahala, Deputy-Director: Books and Publishing from the National Department of Arts and Culture in Pretoria. He was accompanied by another novelist, Thando Mgqolozana who wrote the novel, A man who is not a man.

A SERIES OF UNDESIRABLE EVENTS

Book: A series of Undesirable Events
Author: Deon-Simphiwe Skade
Publisher: National Library of South Africa
Reviewer: Omoseye Bolaji

“This is a series of linked short stories with interesting characters and which deal with topics such as AIDS and infidelity. This author shows exceptional talent... “

So writes a perceptive reader from the Centre of the Book in Cape Town whilst warmly recommending the publication of this book by the sponsors. Those familiar with the lambent talent of the author, Deon-Simphiwe Skade would not be surprised in anyway.

This is the first published book of Deon-Simphiwe Skade, prolific and proficient blogger, reviewer, poet, philosopher, and intellectual. Here he not only confirms his awesome potential, but also whets the literary appetite of voracious readers.

This book is a collection of well-written short stories jostling alongside complementary poems. Titles are: An old flame that went out, My Epidemic, your Epidemic, Last Night, It’s a Secret, Class Act, Her Attitude, His Face.

Others are - A Broken Man, Matters of the Heart, In Need, Yesterday, Suspension, Time Keeps Its Own Time, It never rains but Pours, and Our Today, The Future.

The disparate stories here are essentially told in the first person, with the author showing astonishing skill and empathy with his characters, male and female. Arguably this reaches a peak in the story, Class Act.

The author is famed for his propensity to call himself a “dreamer” in real life, and dreams certainly loom large in this work. The pertinent question is: are they successfully integrated into the warp and weft of the stories?

Here, one might well be subjective, adumbrating the furore over the late Lenrie Peters work, The second round with its profusion of dream-like sequences...and of course Ayi Kwei Armah s early classic, The Beautyful ones are not yet born. Then there is the hilarious, finely written story, Last Night. It is also tinged with irony, and redolent with sexual undercurrents. And how’s this for a touch of the great D.H Lawrence:

“The moon watched us caress. It lit over the perfect world of perfect persons, a man and a beautiful woman under its unwinking stare and the stars who winked as if celebrating our glorious kiss. Table Mountain could have peeked over the balcony to witness us under the conspiratorial luminescence of the moon.”

(Page 28, A Series of undesirable events)

As one would expect from a grammarian like the author, and a fastidious craftsman to boot, the book is well edited and immensely readable, with fine descriptions. How about “the ping ping against the porcelain.” “the gulp I took snailed down my throat as if it was a hard bubble constrained by meagre space preventing it to move downwards,”…

For those who think this review is more like a panegyric, let me end by stating what I do NOT like about this book - its title. I really don’t know, but the title, though apt, just does not do it for me. So now you know!

J.J MOILOA's TSIETSI E LATELLA TSHOTLEHO

Tsietsi e latella tshotleho. By J.J MOILOA
Book: Tsietsi e latella tshotleho
Author: J.J Moiloa
Review by Rebaone Motsalane

What I love to hate about experienced and gifted writers is their ability to grab my attention until the end of the book, though sometimes it requires a lot of patience to do so.

I had to read until page 53 to get to the essence of the story and only then the plot of the story was revealed. I was half-way through and about to finish and still not sure about the storyline.

The story picks up very slowly and the only thing that kept my attention is the background of the writer as he is highly esteemed and respected.

At the end, my curiosity paid off and over-powered the frustration of trying to figure the storyline out. It was beautifully written and revealed.

The book is about a man who clearly is not in his right mind and highly agitated. However at the beginning the story is not clear about the cause and his motives. He has a plan which the reader is not clear about, whether it is to rob a mine or something else. At the beginning I thought he was there to enrich himself, only to find out that he was there to avenge his wife’s rape which resulted in a son that he hated so much.

He lays a trap to stage an incident and blow up the culprit and to finally put matters to rest and go back home. True, the accident happened where not only his enemy got injured, but two other innocent men who knew nothing about the hatred between the two.

When they all thought that they will never be rescued, he confessed to his friend how he stole explosives to cause the accident and apologises to his friend. He takes the blame and at the same time relives his pain and suffering that got him there; he unloads his frustrations.

However, a sting remains in the tail…

AWOONOR'S "COMES THE VOYAGER AT LAST"

The author, Kofi Awoonor, educated in Ghana, London, and New York, is a well known long-established African writer. This, his second novel, is an interesting travel narrative that combines African and African American history (the forced removal of West Africans to the New World) with myth. The story unfolds in the mind of its central character, an African American who can trace his ancestry to slavery and the Civil War, as he returns to West Africa for a spiritual reunion with the people. This main narrative is juxtaposed with an italicized account of West Africans being led to a slave ship more than 300 years earlier. This book reads as one Ghanaian's version of Alex Haley's African American family saga Roots…

MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS - a review

MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS
By Omoseye Bolaji

Review by Public Eye

Omoseye Bolaji’s latest book: Miscellaneous Writings, is one that encapsulates many of his shorter writings over the last two years or so. Many of the articles
had been published in diverse international journals and magazines.
Now they comprehensively appear in book form for the first time.

The book is touted by many literary pundits as the 30th published work
of the author (Bolaji) who is a novelist, short story writer,
playwright, literary critic, poet, journalist, and editor.

The essays in this work straddle many topics and individuals. The
author touches on the world of literature; sundry writers and their
works, sports, social affairs, modern technology, arts and culture
generally, music, among others.

As a literary critic himself, it is not surprising that Bolaji has a
number of chapters devoted to writers. He includes chapters on writers
as varied as DH Lawrence, NMM Duman, Lewis Nkosi, Teboho Masakala,
Sheila Khala, Ola Rotimi, Camara Laye etc

For me, his articles on the distinguished Zimbabwean writer, Dambudzo
Marechera; and on the late Lewis Nkosi stand out . His approach to
Nkosi is a bit different from the conventional one – he focuses on his
undercutting “humour”, and the effect of this is that many would feel
like grabbing a copy of the man’s works!

Bolaji ruminates on a number of issues in this work. He states that
modern world for example takes technology for granted, and can not
appreciate the marvels of the world we live in. We tend to forget (the
young do not even know) that things like cell phones and internet are
hardly up to 20 years old in the entire human existence! But Bolaji
philosophises on such matters, and puts things into perspective.

It is for this reason that some literary commentators, including the
current writer, believe that Bolaji shares a lot in common with
writers like the Bronte sisters who lived almost two hundred years
ago; these were nigh mystical people who seemed to have one foot in
this world and one elsewhere; realising the futility and vulnerability
of human existence.

Some of the chapters here adumbrate Bolaji’s fiction, moving us
intensely, despite their brevity. Read the “essay” titled “Stumped”
for example, and we see Bolaji in microcosm: the pacy writing, twists
and turns, and startling conclusion. Elsewhere, Bolaji brings in the
artist/painter Stephen Achugwo in classical fashion too, with quick
strokes that fascinate us.

To mention but a few of the chapters in this new work: The wretched of
the earth, The allure of the festive season, Wordsmiths to the fore,
Bastions of defence, The radiance of the king, A tale of two crooks,
The pulsating vanguard of change, The distinguished bards, Guitarists
with brio, Murder in the temple, The burgeoning wordsmith

Omoseye Bolaji’s other books include They Never Say When, Snippets,
Impossible Love, Fillets of Plaice, The ghostly Adversary, The
Guillotine, Tebogo’s spot of bother, Molebogeng Alitta Mokhuoa, My
Opinion, The subtle transgressor, Reverie, My life and literature,
Poems from Mauritius, Tebogo and the Haka, Tebogo and the
epithalamion, and Tebogo and the pantophagist

* This review was first published in PUBLIC EYE, Friday August 12 edition

OMOSEYE BOLAJI’s MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS (2011)

Book: Miscellaneous Writings
Author: Omoseye Bolaji
Publisher: New Voices Publishing (Cape Town)
Published: June, 2011

Omoseye Bolaji is the recipient of a Lifetime Achievement Award, the Chancellor’s Medal from the University of the Free State, and was also conferred with a Chieftaincy title by the King of Ibadanland in West Africa. Bolaji is a well known African writer who has published lots of fiction, poetry, literary criticism, biographies, and drama.

This is his latest book, containing a selection of his recent, diverse, shorter writings for magazines, journals, anthologies etc. Topics, or/and protagonists covered in this sparkling work include:

DH Lawrence
Lewis Nkosi
The allure of Father Xmas!
The National English Literary Museum (Grahamstown)
Steve Biko
Nigerian, and South African Writers
Camara Laye
Dambudzo Marechera
NMM Duman
Gabriel Okara
Facebook
Ola Rotimi
The tormentone
Gordon Banks
Horrific Murder/Rape
Segun Odegbami
The Illustrators
Teboho Masakala
Musical Maestros
Sheila Khala
Relativity of poverty

There are also recent essays on Bolaji's literary work written by Raphael Mokoena, Deon Simphiwe-Skade, and M Mohlakela.

The Introduction to this illuminating book is written by the well known African critic and poet, Pule Lechesa.

To get a copy of this book, contact Barbara at barbara@newvoices.co.za

JAMES MATTHEWS AT 82!!!

By Deon Simphiwe Skade

South African-born author, James Matthews, has turned 82. This milestone was celebrated by The Centre for the Book, part of the National Library, by inviting fellow writers and readers to observe this special day. Even though Matthews' birthday was on the 22nd of May, the centre hosted the event celebrating his life and achievements on the 23rd.

Matthews is a crucial part of world's writers. Here one refers particularly to those writers who through their writing and speech, not only denounced any form of oppression against anyone, but were as brave as willing to face any consequences that emerged. Dennis Brutus’ name springs up from many names of such heroes. Some of Matthews’s fellow writers spoke of his illustrious writing career, but highlighted his ability to remain honest in any subject he engaged in. Often referred to as one of District Six's prominent writers along the likes of Alex La Guma, Matthews is a sage that we should celebrate as such. Young or old writers should drink from his well of wisdom. When I asked him for an advice that he may give to a young writer like me, he said: ''Be honest in your writing and don't pay too much attention to the critics. Believe in what you do and be true to that.''

Matthews' confidence at 82 may unsettle many young folk. The honesty that he referred to, which was also a piece of advice he gave to another young journalist writer a few years ago, characterizes his speech too. In his opening remarks as the guest of honour, he shared an anecdote about a bathing experience he recently had, in which he fell as he tried to stand up. He did not use any euphemistic words in relating this unfortunate incident. As a result, the audience were in stitches over his sharp and unrestrained wit. One admired Matthews even more.

Happy belated birthday James Matthews. May you see many more years to come. The young need your wisdom and guidance.

SOME OF JAMES MATTHEWS' BOOKS:

Black voices shout
Cry rage!
The park and other stories
No time for dreams
Poems from a prison cell
The party is over

SELLO DUIKER: A LITERARY GENIUS

By Siphiwo Mahala

Kabelo Sello Duiker would have turned 37 on April 13 this year (2011)had he not extinguished his own flame on January 19 2005.

At the time of his death Duiker had already published two acclaimed novels: He won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book: Africa Region for his debut novel, Thirteen Cents (David Philip, 2000), and the Herman Charles Bosman Prize for The Quiet Violence of Dreams (Kwela, 2001). His third novel, The Hidden Star (Umuzi, 2005) was published posthumously.

If there is anything we can learn from Duiker, it is that the literary landscape is a universal landscape and should not be defined along racial lines. Duiker was not a good black writer; he was just a great writer. His peers, literary giants and critics all acknowledged his contribution to our literature.

Duiker is to literature what Steve Biko is to politics, both having died at the tender age of 30 but leaving indelible footprints in our collective memory. Duiker’s writing distinguished itself with its courageous interrogation of issues relating to sexuality, identity, mental illness and Hiv and Aids. Thirteen Cents is a moving account of a 13-year old homeless boy, who in his struggle to survive on the streets of Cape Town, finds himself being sexually abused by adults. The Quiet Violence, on the other hand, centres on the tumultuous life of Tshepo, a Rhodes University student who is confined to a mental asylum in Cape Town.

Indeed a close reading of Duiker’s works reveals that the thread that runs through his writing is identity in its diverse forms. Azure, the teenage protagonist in Thirteen Cents loses his identity and becomes Blue; and Tshepo becomes Angelo-Tshepo in The Quiet Violence. The circumstances surrounding this change of identity have largely to do with the effects of racism that permeate the lives of these characters.

Six years after his demise, Duiker remains one of the best writers ever to come out of South Africa and arguably the best to have emerged since the turn of the century. It was surely because of these extraordinary achievements that the South African Literary Awards (Sala) saw fit to name an award after him.

Naming an award after Duiker is the greatest accolade bestowed on his memory, but more needs to be done to preserve and celebrate his legacy. Duiker should be a figure that aspirant writers strive to emulate.

* This is a very condensed version of the author’s article, published in The Mail and Guardian April 8 – 14 2010 edition

MEET GHANA'S GREAT PLAYWRIGHT

Book Review by Judith Greenwood.

The Legacy of Efua Sutherland:
Pan-African Cultural Activism,
Anne V. Adams and Esi Sutherland-Addy.


All nations as they brave the tides of history need good navigators if they are not to founder, and Ghana was fortunate to have such a pilot in the theatre practitioner Efua Sutherland, who helped to steer its course culturally, socially and politically after it achieved independence in 1957. This collection of essays, timed to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of that event, has been brought together to demonstrate and celebrate the fact that the irresistible force which was Dr. Efua Theodora Sutherland seems never to have encountered an immovable object.

Efua Sutherland was born in Cape Coast, Ghana in 1924 and died in Accra in 1996. Educated in Ghana by Yorkshire nuns, who introduced her to literature and the performing arts, she went on to study at Homerton College Cambridge and the School of Oriental and African Studies in London before returning to the newly independent Ghana in 1957, where she set up the Ghana Writers Society “all of a sudden because I felt that a newly independent country needed a force of creative writers.” [Sutherland p. 160]

It is evidence of her passion and energy that the word ‘sudden’ occurs so frequently in Sutherland’s interviews:

“Suddenly in 1951 I started…creative writing seriously”, [Sutherland p. 161]

“I suddenly saw …[w]e needed a programme to develop playwriting and…that led to… the Ghana Experimental Theatre” [Sutherland p. 161]

“The Drama Studio came as a sudden answer to a problem I had been having, starting the theatre programme.” [Sutherland p. 162]

This was the Ghana Drama Studio, which she established first in an aluminium shed on the beach in Accra in 1958 until it moved to new premises in 1960 and celebrated with a production of Everyman attended by Kwame Nkrumah.

The social health of a nation can be measured by the value it places upon artistic energy and culture, in the widest sense of those words, and Kwame Nkrumah’s Convention People’s Party, with its drive for reform from the very grass roots of society, was never going to restrict the country’s artists to the role of dissidents. But with Ghana’s freedom came the responsibility to answer the universal and eternal questions which must be addressed by every independent society: how should we educate our children, how can we build the future on the best of the past, and how do we live fulfilled lives in our communities?

Efua’s answers were characteristically pragmatic. She set up the Children’s Drama Development Project and she became “the first Ghanaian writer to take a serious interest in writing for children … (and) who attempted to produce a book with an indigenous background for children in Ghana.” [Komasi p. 69]; she encouraged the government to set up the Ghanaian National Commission on Children and chaired it. She built stages, established acting companies and wrote plays to express by modern theatre means her “vision of the socially regenerative power of the traditional rituals” [Adams p. 112] which she shared with other African writers; she insisted that everyone’s talent should be exercised for the good of the whole of society, because “[w]hat we cannot buy is the spirit of originality and endeavour which makes a people dynamic and creative.” [Sutherland p. 77]. She shared Nkrumah’s belief in and vision for the integration of different ethnic groups on the continent, stating in her play Foriwa (1967) through the character Labaran, “Who is a stranger anywhere in these times in whose veins the blood of this land flows?”

The book is divided into three sections under the titles Efua Sutherland’s Artistic Space (13 essays) Efua Sutherland and Cultural Activism (4 essays and 2 personal interviews with Sutherland by Robert July and Ola Rotimi), Reminiscences and Tributes (9 essays), and the student’s essential toolkit of a Chronology, a Bibliography and a Biographical Sketch. With contributions from theatre practitioners, playwrights, actors, musicians, writers, teachers, academics, architects and Sutherland’s family, the essays cover in fascinating, thorough and diverse detail the astonishing range of her artistic and political activities. Her plays, her writing for children and her storytelling initiatives are reviewed and analysed; her role in the creation of many of Ghana’s arts institutions is examined and then brought to life through interviews with Sutherland herself; essays by her contemporaries demonstrate how far-ranging was her influence in modern African theatre – Biodun Jeyifo states that “[t]he programme of experimental theatre which Efua Sutherland began in Accra between 1958 and 1961, and the Ghana Drama Studio which she built to house her experimental work are two of the most important ‘happenings’ in the creation of modern drama, not only in West Africa but in the entirety of the African continent” [p. 36], whilst Anne V. Adams asserts that “her work forms part of the foundation on which the contemporary production of written literature by Africans rests.” [p.105].

Her leadership and activism, the social application of her drama work and her influence on the Diaspora are all discussed in analytical and descriptive essays, whilst memoirs and reminiscences bear testimony to her extraordinary generosity and skill in mentoring and nurturing talent. As the eponymous heroine says in Foriwa, “I want to be able to look up as I walk and see dignity in the place of my birth. All of us should want that.”

ULLI BEIER DIES

Many followers of African literature have been saddened at the demise of Ulli Beier, who did so much for the continent's literature around fifty years ago. He was able to publish the initial works of some of the continent's all-time great writers, like Wole Soyinka, Kofi Awoonor, J.P Clark, Alex la Guma, and Dennis Brutus.

The following pertinent profile of Beier is from Wikipedia:

Horst Ulrich (Ulli) Beier (30 July 1922 – 3 April 2011) was a German editor, writer and scholar, who had a pioneering role in developing literature, drama and poetry in Nigeria, as well as literature, drama and poetry in Papua New Guinea. His wife Georgina Beier had an instrumental role in simultaneously stimulating the visual arts in both Nigeria and Papua New Guinea.

Beier was born in Glowitz, Germany, in July 1922. His father was a medical doctor and an appreciator of art and raised his son to embrace the arts. After the Nazi party' rise to power, the Beiers, who are non-practicing Jews, left for Palestine. In Palestine, while his family were briefly detained as enemy aliens by the British authorities, Ulli Beier was able to earn a BA as an external student from the University of London. However, he later moved to London to earn a degree in Phonetics. A few years later, after his first marriage to the Austrian artist Susanne Wenger, he was given a faculty position at the University of Ibadan to teach Phonetics.

While at the University, Beier transferred from the Phonetics department to the Mural Studies department. It was at the Mural Studies department he became interested in Yoruba culture and arts. Though, he was a teacher at Ibadan, he ventured outside the city and lived in nearby cities, of Ede, Ilobu and Osogbo, this gave him an avenue to see the spatial environment of different Yoruba communities. In 1956, after visiting the First Congress of Negro Artists and Writers organized by Presence Africaine at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France Ulli Beier returned to Ibadan and founded the magazine Black Orpheus, the name was inspired by Jean Paul Sartre's essay "Orphée Noir". The journal quickly became the leading space for Nigerian authors to write and publish their work. The journal became known for its innovative works and literary excellence and was widely acclaimed. Later in 1961, Beier, co-founded the Mbari Artists and Writers Club, Ibadan, a place for new writers, dramatist and artists, to meet and perform their work. In 1962, he co-founded (with the dramatist Duro Ladipo) Mbari-Mbayo, Osogbo. In the early 1980s he founded and directed the Iwalewa Haus, an art centre at the University of Bayreuth in Germany.

Ulli Beier was known for his efforts in translating African literary works. He emerged as one of the scholars who introduced African writers to a large international audience for his works in translating plays of dramatists such as Duro Ladipo and publishing Modern Poetry (1963) an anthology of African poems. After Beier left Nigeria in 1968, he worked in Papua New Guinea and intermittently returned to Nigeria for brief periods

THROUGH IT ALL, by Teboho Masakala

Book: Through it all
Author: Teboho Masakala
Publisher: Tam Books (Selosesha, Thaba Nchu)
ISBN: 978-0-620-49987-3

He is only 23 but Teboho Masakala is already the author of two books. Last year he published a book of short stories, and this week his first novel (actually technically a novella) came out, titled THROUGH IT ALL.

Masakala is now fulfilling the promise and potential the literary pundits saw in him a few years ago. The young man is very proud of his roots from Thaba ‘Nchu and in his own way he is putting the town on the map.

“I am what I am because of Thaba Nchu,” he told Free State News this week. “I am so pleased and proud that my first novel is out! I have always loved writing fiction. I now know that it is not something that anyone, not even all writers, can just do. It requires talent, discipline, imagination. A writer must have moral compass”

Teboho’s debut novel, Through it all focuses on a certain young woman and her vicissitudes. The protagonist is Monica Classen who is dragged through the mill! After the death of her parents, she is unfortunately raped by her own uncle, an exceedingly harrowing experience for her.

She decides to flee Thaba Nchu and start a new life in Bloemfontein, but her ordeal is not over; not by a long shot. More painful episodes await her till in the end, like a deus ex machina all is well with her, and her sorrows are behind her. Read this moving work and bask!

Excerpt from the book (exemplifying the sad metamorphosis of Monica): “Monica (who had been) fragile, kind-hearted, was now this weak, controlled drugs loving, money hungry Monica…the city of Bloemfontein had swallowed her and was not prepared to throw her up anytime soon as there was no way out…”

- O Bolaji

PEOPLE OF THE TOWNSHIPS

Review by Deon-Simphiwe Skade



In the first read, O Bolaji's People of the Townships may trigger a sense of gloom and pessimism, despite the ‘witty’ and ‘cynical’ narration that carries the story. It may also lead one to severely vilify John Lefuo, the protagonist in this swift-moving ‘novella’ for being rather too harsh in his observations of the world he lives in. However, such a take on the events of this book may not be a wise move as many questions subsequently arise to caution against the folly of such conclusions.

I mention this having been cautioned by these troubling questions which set off feelings of empathy towards John for resorting to violence after having spoken about ‘morals’ and ‘values’ so comprehensively. This empathy is not to condone his actions but to sympathise with the irony of his life that he may have constructed with an aid of his fellow community members.

The contents of this book may also urge one to look at the real life situations, perhaps in an attempt to draw parallels against Bolaji’s plot. The result of indulging this urge may cause panic and alarm, simply due to certain behavioural similarities between the characters in this book and the people we are or may know of in various kinds. The ground thus becomes shaky because the lines between fiction and reality become more blurred. As a result, the notion from the cynics of literature that fictional worlds are inaccurate and exaggerated falls by the wayside for those still undecided about the role of literary works. Like music, this fictional work seems to reflect part of our reality, the real world of people of flesh and blood with their ‘morals’ or ‘lack of’. The issue of ‘morals’ then become an even more delicate subject because different worlds exist.

In John’s world, ‘anarchy’ seems to be brewing steadily, fermenting with each encounter he has with his fellow community members as he relates his story. He seems to be upholding ‘morals’ and ‘values’. Even though he doesn’t enforce them, he advocates for them strongly through his narratives. It’s a pity that he ends up committing murder. Some readers may want to chastise him for this action, but this may not help much. In fact, John’s action may call for a much broader and deeper look into understanding what may have led him to the fateful action.

For the fear of turning out to be like John, who may have thought of himself as a citizen of ‘high moral standing’, allow me to henceforth use my words cautiously in examining the subject matter of this book. In fact, allow me to use questions and hypotheses in looking at the many unfolding tragedies in this work. It may be obvious for those who have read the book that John saw himself in a certain light, perhaps as a ‘model citizen’, while others were not of ‘good conduct’. I think I need to tread carefully myself, lest I pass these hypotheses as factual findings.

This of course, is to say that I may also have played a part in creating another John somewhere in my own community through my conduct. Perhaps readers of this book should attempt to assume a role of an anthropologist in order to fully address the extent of socio-cultural phenomena existent in the plot, by being participant observers in producing text for analysis. Therefore, my focus will not be on language and related structural matters, but the lament in this book that resonates with some of the places I’ve been to. I believe this type of approach may help us in fully comprehending the success and power that Bolaji presented this work with.

John is a man whose fellow community members may never understand. What he thought of them and of himself (self concept) may have very well been the root of his and others’ ‘problems’. This is a man who appeared to have made efforts of note in creating the self concept that he thought was ideal for him to exist in the midst of such ‘trying’ circumstances.

In spite of the challenges he faced, he managed to elevate himself to a position he found comfortable enough not to be swallowed by the darkness of his community. His eloquence and philosophy seem to have helped him have a sense of who he was, and may have whisked him away from the ills of his community into a world of his own. And because this happened, he may have subsequently been isolated into malicious thoughts. This man never saw himself as part of the soil which holds all the stories that he related and analysed with much detail. Perhaps this is what lead him to the atrocious act of murder in the first place, having boxed his fellow township dwellers into cartons of ‘drunkards’, ‘prostitutes’, ‘philanderers’ and ‘gossip mongers’ among others.

Perhaps there’s a subtle and simplistic literary vice that Bolaji uses to fix messages in his book into a position that would challenge our views of our very world. Indeed! This may also call for a probe into the benchmark that John used as a compass for his ‘moral conduct’. Perhaps this may be one of the keys we may unlock the innuendos behind John's tragedy, which may have started when he saw himself in the light that led him to carry on the way he did.

“I do not give a fig leaf about all the criticism, the snide comments, and the vilifications. I am not a criminal. I have not killed anybody, nor robbed anybody,” John says in the prologue of the book, seemingly pleased with the way he had turned out to be.

What seems to perpetuate this concept of the self is also how others react to him:
“Being more or less illiterate, it irritates my sisters so much to see me reading regularly and trying to broaden my mind. ‘He should be out and earning his keep,’ they say disingenuously. Actually I know that their main grouse against me, the fact that I am painfully poor, not able to give them money,” he says of his sisters’ impressions of him. This in itself begs for a critical look into the concept of identity, which together with other aspects of this ‘troubled’ life seem to have bred a conflict of such a high order in John, may help us understand the full extent of the social conditions of the characters in the People of the Townships.

Perhaps then, we may cease to look at John as an isolated ‘maniac’ of some form. Perhaps this may also help us come to terms with the many worlds we live in, particularly the one for the youth who are tasked with a big responsibility of steering the future of our world into a wiser and safer environment in the midst of many prevailing problems they face.

The late Nat Nakasa articulated this responsibility carried by young people quite clearly in his 1964 article; ‘Afrikaaner youth get a raw deal’, even though the circumstances that necessitated his thoughts were relevant to the socio-political state of South Africa then:

“Nobody, it seems, believes that the country can stay as it is. In the circumstances, one would expect the younger people of South Africa to be in the intellectual ferment. One would expect the students of Pretoria and Wits, of Fort Hare, Stellenbosch and the University of Cape Town to be asking bold and vital questions (as indeed many of them were until recently). But now there is little of this. We can hardly speak of South African youth, for there is nothing to distinguish young South Africa from the mass of the republic’s population, There are no trends which can be said to represent an advance on the thinking of our older generations,” Nat wrote thoughtfully, addressing the problem of his time.

The statement above could not have been more appropriate to the current conditions despite being expressed many years ago. But again, these are hypotheses and presumptions brought by the many messages hidden between the pages of People of the Townships.

Before we start condemning John for his supposed ‘insanity’ and sense of ‘despair’, perhaps we should ponder about the responsibilities we all carry in our own many worlds. Hypotheses or not, John’s ‘condition’ may call for a collective culpability.