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!