ADIEU, PA ACHEBE....

By Omoseye Bolaji

Alas, nobody lives forever and the exceedingly revered African writer, Chinua Achebe (82) “has gone the way of all flesh”. But as the Americans would say: What a way to go!

The iconic author of Things fall apart (1958) has already made his mark as probably Africa’s most powerful novelist. Immediately after news of his death was confirmed, tributes and articles on his life and work began to be churned out. And this is only the beginning!

Indeed, it has been exhilarating to see how the demise of Achebe has been lamented all over the world, including South Africa where ample news items, bulletins, magazines kept on paying tribute to the loss of the great man.

And South African writers on the ground too are also feeling the loss. Indeed many of these writers, even the very young, continue to insist how much they enjoyed; were shaped by Achebe’s work from a very young age.

Among such writers is Teboho Masakala, still in his mid twenties but already the author of four books! He has always stressed how much he enjoyed reading Achebe’s books (from his local library) from a very young age. He said:

"It' s such a tragedy to lose a legend and icon, I grew up reading his books and No longer at ease thrilled and enticed me so much, Achebe is my literary giant and really we lost a giant and hope to follow in his giant footprints he left behind. Yes things just fell apart as he is no more on earth but he is at ease and at peace..."

Pule Lechesa, a well known South African literary critic also paid tribute to Achebe, saying inter alia: “We knew it was inevitable, but this loss is poignant and quite shattering. Achebe was more than a literary teacher and pioneer. He made Blacks to be respected world-wide. His imaginative works were among the best in the world – novels like Things fall apart, Arrow of God, and Anthills of the savannah”

Again, it was touching this week whilst at a Book launch in South Africa (involving female writer Charmaine Kolwane) speaker after speaker gravely kept on lamenting and praising Chinua Achebe. A formal minute’s silence was also observed in his honour.

Achebe was very much his own man and was not afraid to ruffle feathers, even the western world and pertinent canon. Hence his so-called controversial essay on the acclaimed Joseph Conrad which shocked many; where he referred to Conrad as “a thoroughgoing racist” It is a polemical essay now ensconced world-wide.

Achebe was extraordinarily versatile, despite the fact that he is known to most mainly as a novelist. But as we just noted, he produced many superb literary essays (quite a number of books in this wise); as well as poetry, books for children – and general essays in which he deprecated the goings-on not only in Nigeria but in the “developing” world.

I am happy that as an editor myself (in South Africa) I have been able to publish several articles celebrating the passing of Achebe. Yes, he has departed this world – but what indelible patent footprints he has left around the world!

·      *  Other tributes (essays) written by Bolaji touching on the passing of Achebe are available on other websites/blogs

SPECTRE OF HORROR

By Omoseye Bolaji

I basked in the salubrious atmosphere – although I was alone. Temporarily. The breeze was most edifying and I watched people of disparate colours moving hither and thither. I was sipping my drink VERY slowly; till Anna Marie suddenly metamorphosed beside me.


Anna Marie is a (white) lady who relishes the world of arts and culture. She just suddenly came to me and said: “Hi!” We exchanged pleasantries. “You are not supposed to be here alone?” she said nigh-accusingly. We chatted for a few minutes then a gentleman – also white - appeared. And she said to him, without actually mentioning his name to me:

“Hi...this is Mr Bolaji...he writes books...I know you like books; pity I have to run...” The gentleman to my surprise sat down beside me and ordered some drinks for himself. Meanwhile he tentatively engaged me about books, authors etc. “Yes, I love reading books. I have a library at home,” he vouchsafed. “But I must confess my knowledge of Black African, not even to say South African Black authors is very limited,”

So I became a ‘blabbermouth” for the next 20 minutes or so! Talking about notable Black writers not only in South Africa, but the African continent at large. Thereafter the gentleman insisted we must talk about my own writings too – and I briefly introduced him to my corpus of published work, as it were.

By now I no longer felt I was with a stranger, though that was what he was even now essentially. Now that there was a pause, I managed to say to him: “By the way, I am going on and on...such bad manners on my part... If you don’t mind, what is your name?”

The gentleman smiled, and said. “My name is Robespierre.”

I flinched. I suppose we are all largely haunted by the past; what we learnt when we were youngsters. In those days we had been taught what was apparently superficial knowledge about the French revolution of those days. The horrors of the past, starting with the storming of the Bastille and all that. The Guillotine. Horrific executions...

And we learnt in those days about “the reign of Terror” in France over 200 years ago. The most prominent name was that of Robespierre! His name for even centuries has been synonymous with bloodshed, heads rolling! Around 1793 – 1794 in France of yore; including the execution of King Louis and Marie Antoinette. And Robespierre, then lawyer and voluble politician was all for the King to die! Sort of spectre of horror...

‘Robespierre’ grinned at me now. “I can see you know about the most famous Robespierre in history,” he said. “Maximilien de Robespierre. French history – but that’s a long time ago.”

He went on: “My name is just a name – it took me some time to realise the ‘significance’ of my name and possible frightening connotations as it were. ...but we must also remember that the famed historical Robespierre was not all evil...for example he was one of the important people who long ago fought against the abolition of the slave trade which affected Black people so much negatively; such a long time ago, which showed his vision.”

I recalled now that the original Robespierre himself died in horrific fashion, in terrible pain after his jaw was shattered – by a bullet? History has recorded that even at the scaffold he was screaming with trenchant pain before the (guillotine) blade silenced him. But the point is that Robespierre will continue to be identified with those terrible days.

And the Guillotine. I knew in my mind that I would always associate this gentleman in this wise. Not that it was his fault. I said now: “Ag, it doesn’t matter. Pleased to meet you...”

Above pic: the historical Robespierre

SHAMELESS (Book) By Futhi Ntshingila

Book: SHAMELESS


Author: Futhi Ntshingila

Publisher: University of KwaZulu Natal Press


Review by Omoseye Bolaji

Is there a dearth of emerging talented South African female (Black) writers; or perhaps the spotlight is not being shed enough on scintillating young (or younger) talent in this wise? I pondered this after reading a short novel by Futhi Ntshingila titled Shameless.

Decades ago, Nigeria’s Cyprian Ekwensi published his superb work, Jagua Nana which focuses on a prostitute and her desperations. But nowadays it appears even prostitutes have their pride; and the main protagonist of the novel Shameless, Thandiwe, despite selling herself, has patent confidence in herself. This does not prevent her from being subjected to the usual perils prostitutes face of course:

“Prostitutes disappear and their dead bodies are found decomposing in the alleys of Hillbrow…some have died horrible deaths in the penthouses of rich men who put their beautiful bodies in black rubbish bags. They ferry them in the dead of the night to Hillbrow bridges, only to be found by the hobos living in the underworld. Often the bodies are found as remains half-eaten by maggots”

(page 27)

There are three quite perceptive female voices here (in this work) though: Thandiwe herself, Zonke, who chronicles much of what the reader absorbs here; and the assiduous Black female “ambitious” film-maker, Kwena. But the emphasis is on Thandiwe, what makes her tick, her background, her profession and how she survives being almost killed in the end (shot by a jealous client, as it were)

Thandiwe unashamedly explains how she “pleases” men: “I am their priestess; I hear their deepest darkest confessions and I give them the absolution that no regular priest can”. ‘After their heavenly absolution from her, they feel satisfied yet empty, in need of another fix.’

Shedding more detail on her life as a prostitute, Thandiwe goes further: “Dickson became my second client. He hated me and yet, routinely, without fail he came for his fix at Sipho’s flat every Wednesday lunch hour. I think he bragged to his friends because soon I was picking up more clients at their parties…”

Reminiscing on Thandiwe's roots, we read: “To this day, the smell of cow dung reminds me of home. We would follow the cows in the morning and wait for them to shit and we would scoop their warm green shit and pile it up in a bucket. We would get home, sweep the floor, mix the crap with water and smear it all over, making patterns with the sides of our hands, leaving a fresh smell of green,”

(page 35)

We also glimpse how Zonke and Thandiwe became very close. “She saw me watching and her uncle saw her looking at the window. He got distracted, turned to look at me and that’s when it happened. That was the moment Thandiwe and I became blood sisters. It was quick as lightning…”

(Page 42)

And how film-maker, Kwena, bonds with Thandiwe later on: “When the filming is finished Kwena breaks into tears and holds onto Thandiwe. She sobs like a little girl. Thandiwe feels her pain and does what she sometimes does with her sad clients…”

Literary allusions are here in this work, though well modulated. For example on page 51: “At school we were studying Macbeth, and I worried that maybe Thandiwe was going to be like Lady Macbeth now, racked with guilt. She would have visions of bloody hands that could never be clean again…”

West Africans will be pleased to see the (partial) first hand knowledge the author has of food…at a Cameroonian eatery in Yeoville. “They both ask for fried bananas (plantain) and peanut butter spinach”

This is a well written, convincing portrait of a “lady of the night’ from an inside view – more importantly, the author is a woman and avoids the usual prurience and focus on the physical pleasure a male author would normally dish out. This is more of a psychological work tracing the antecedents of the protagonist; and the view of Kwena late on (as per her documentary on Thandiwe) in this work is also moving:

“She said Thandiwe had taught her to push past her fears and her shame – shame about her career and her choices, her life, friends and family – and be the best possible person she could be…the shameless ones are free from illusions. They have mourned the loss of innocence. They choose survival in the periphery’

The Truculent Passenger

By Omoseye Bolaji

The taxi driver barked: “This money does not total what it is supposed to be. One of you passengers has not paid! Who is it?”

Many of the passengers in the taxi froze. It was rare indeed for such a situation to happen in public transport “taxis” (more like buses really) in South Africa. People normally contribute the disparate fares and pay up in almost choreographed fashion. Indeed on a personal note I must congratulate South Africans for this frequent, quite axiomatic display of honesty and integrity.

But right now, there were ripples in the pond as it were. One of the commuters was not being honest. Everybody stared at each other, with mild, rather shocked inquisition. Who was it that had not paid? Would he or she own up? In such rare cases such a miscreant would quickly own up, apologise, and pay up. But not today. The man on my left stared at me knowingly. We both knew who the malefactor; the man who had not paid up!

Actually the man was seated exactly on my right; the seat beside me. When he entered the taxi he had been belligerent, drunk and raucous. When I and the gentleman on my left signaled that he should pay up he had shaken his head and we had left it like that. But not any longer. I was not about to speak up; but the worthy on my left now announced:

“Actually we know the person who has not paid…it’s this man here – “ he pointed at the man on my right. “We asked him for his fare but he refused to pay up. Ntate, why don’t you want to pay?”

The man so accused, truculently stared at everybody; seemingly fidgeting around. “I have paid,” he lied. “You definitely have NOT” the man on my left reiterated. “Why are you doing this? Can’t you see the driver is angry now?”

The driver of the car swiveled around and stared at the belligerent man who had not paid. “Why don’t you want to pay?” he enquired. “Do you think everybody here is a fool? We operate on a principled, honest basis, but now you are upsetting the apple cart…” His face suddenly hardened and he brought the vehicle to a halt on the left side of the road.

“Please pay, Ntate;” many of the commuters said to the miscreant. “See all the trouble you are causing. The driver has stopped now!”

Indeed the driver of the bus (“taxi” in SA) was quite angry now. And the man on my right could see it. The driver threw open the main door and pointed at the miscreant: “Come here…out of my taxi… hona jwale! (now)” The man at the centre of this storm, realizing he could not get away with any chicanery now tried a belated apology. “I’m sorry my friend…” he started.

“Out of my bus!” The driver said. “I want no crook inside here. I’d rather make a loss from your seat,”

The malefactor was out of the bus now, belatedly brandishing his taxi fare. “Here is the money; I’m sorry,” he said.

With shocking swiftness and violence, the driver grabbed the man by his hand and threw him in the ditch. “Out! Out! I don’t want you in my vehicle!” And he entered the bus again and got ready to drive off.

My mind went back to the “old days” in Lagos Nigeria when “molues” the big, big commuter buses were all the rage. I thought about how difficult it must have been to be something of a conductor in those days as there were so many people, commuters to deal with as it were. How well I remembered the refrain “San wo e…san wo eh…” “Pay up; else!” with those conductors of yore sort of puffing themselves up in pugnacious fashion!

But now in South Africa the bus drove on….

The Prolific Ones

By Omoseye Bolaji


The weather bore the veneer of its own zaniness – during the night it had been intensely cold, punctuated with lugubrious barks, howling of dogs. Yet now little more than ten o’clock in the morning the sun was blazing forth! Your columnist needed a cold drink and though I was something of a stranger in this small town, I was bent on getting one.

Happily enough in South Africa at least ‘watering holes’ proliferate. After looking around for a few minutes the inevitable signboard showed that here was a place where I could quench my thirst, as it were. I ordered a drink and sat down outside near the terraces, where a big tree’s shade made the atmosphere almost wholesome.

People were coming in and out, some playing pool, others just quaffing as they drank. A self-important gentleman arrived full of bluster, scolding the cleaner for ‘doing his job late’ though the place had more or less just opened. There was no music thus far. I sat down on my chair soaking in the atmospherics, pleasantly enjoying my drink.

Presently as is my wont intermittently, I opened my small bag and brought out my latest book, to glance through it quickly again. Writers would understand this gesture; for quite some time an author is enamoured with their latest published book, carrying it around; surreptitiously flicking through. The consolation was that hardly anybody knew me here, at least physically.

Suddenly the guy to my left said: “Ntate, it appears that you wrote this book!”

I stared at him. “Why would you say that?”

“I can see your photo both on the cover, and on the back,” he said sharply. “Is it your book?” I smiled and he added: “I have never met a writer of a book before, not to talk of a Black one,” I gave him the book.

He and his friend – the guy on his right side - glanced through the book, mainly the cover and blurb. “It IS you!” the one who had spoken initially to me said. “There is no doubt about it; these are your photos. You wrote this book!”

At this stage I admitted rather quietly that I was the author of the book

“I’m Tshepo,” the guy said, introducing himself. “I did not finish my secondary school education, but I read some Shakespeare. I remember learning that William Shakespeare wrote more than 30 plays, books…how can anybody write that many books? Whites are great!”

I grunted uneasily. It was clear that these were people who knew very little, almost nothing, about literature. I did not feel at such a moment I should apprise them about black African writers who have published at least 20 – 30 or more books – like Cyprian Ekwensi, Meja Mwangi, Zakes Mda, Chinua Achebe, Soyinka, Ngugi…

Tshepo was now going through the “Bibliographic pages” at the end of my book. He stared at me. “They say this is your bibliography…I mean…what…who wrote all these books here under your name?…like 30 of them?”

“I wrote them all,” I said, now quite embarrassed.

Tshepo flinched. “You wrote ALL these books! A Black man…how…?”

“I wrote them over the many years,” I said quietly, as many people were now interested and moving close. “I’m quite old now,”

“You are not old, Ntate,” Tshepo said. “We know old people, and you are not one of them. You are prolific. You have written 30 books! So you are like Shakespeare!!”

I shuddered. I hastened to tell him that I could in no way be mentioned in the same breath as Shakespeare. “I am just trying …a little…a bit,” I added.

People around now physically went through my latest book, praising the titles of some of the “Chapters” and asking what some of them meant. Alas, I was no longer enjoying my drink with all the attention. Unexpectedly, a gentleman came to my “rescue”! Tall, thin, very serious looking he came to the ravenous hordes…sorry, to the people here - and glanced at the cover of the book. “Ah Mr Bolaji,” he said with an air of unruffled competence. “Is this a new book of yours?” Everybody stared at him, as he went on: “I used to work at our local library – the one in toropo (town) and I know that many of Mr Bolaji’s books are there.”

“So you know this man has written 30 books?” Tshepo said to the newcomer, incredulity still etched on his voice.

“Perhaps not up to 30, but many,” the librarian said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Don’t be surprised. I am currently trying to write a book myself. Blacks can write books too; he’s not the only one…there’s Ntate Flaxman, Ntate Motheane, Ntate Lechesa…”

Thank heavens!