YVONNE VERA: Butterfly Burning

     

  Set in the mid-1940s, in the black township of Makokoba in Bulawayo (Rhodesia), Butterfly Burning tells the story of the love between the 50-year old Fumbatha and the much younger Phephelaphi Dube. It is not a time or a place for happy love stories, and Fumbatha and Phephelaphi don't beat the odds.
   

    Vera fairly effectively captures the difficult life in the township, and the efforts of those that live there to maintain some sort of humanity, sometimes barely even realizing what they are up against:

The work is not their own: it is summoned. The time is not theirs: it is seized. The ordeal is their own. They work again and again, and in unguarded moments of hunger and surprise, they mistake their fate for fortune.

    

    Young Phephelaphi, in particular, has ambition and hopes -- but Vera warns early on: "Trust lovers to nurture hope till it festers." Around Phephelaphi are already a number of beaten and defeated souls, characters who make do as best they can.
    

   Fumbatha and Phephelaphi stumble across each other and fall in love. They are, briefly, happy. Fumbatha was "a man who made, and unmade, his own mind," while "Phephelaphi was a woman who chose her own destination and liked to watch the horizon change from pale morning to blue light."
    

   Among Phephelaphi's ambitions is to become a nurse. Problems arise, and she deals with them herself -- one in particularly gruesome fashion. It is too much for Fumbatha. Love falters, fails.
   

    It is a fairly simple story, but written with a grand, poetic sweep. "She is naked except for the weight of her own suffering, the weight of courage" and so on. The sentences are short. Each is pregnant with meaning and metaphor. Budding. Bursting. Overflowing.
    

   The novel's own gravity drags it down. Its portentousness prefigures its own doom. It is deadly serious. There is nothing wrong with being deadly serious, but it is not a justification in and of itself either: there has to be more.
      

 Yes, there is language. A fine use of language. Sort of. Poetic, one can call it. Lyrical. Undermining as much as supporting the tale being told. Certainly, it is a matter of taste, too.
    

   There's a rhythm to the language -- though Vera's is an odd staccato. It has the effect, here, of a pneumatic hammer. Relentless. Incessant. Wearying. But when it breaks the reader down it does not do so in support of the text, but against it.

       Vera writes: 

       Fumbatha sees the sky peel off the earth; that is the distance between the land and the sky. The hill is a surprise.
       A hand swings forward and throws a heavy load. Another picks the tune and adds a word. A pristine word to a song makes everything poignant. The birth of a word is more significant than the birth of a child.

  

     Vera's emphasis is on the birthing of words and expressions and turns of phrase. Despite her claim (her justification, in fact) such births are not more significant than the birth of a child. They can be, but only in exceptional circumstances, and Vera's circumstances here are not exceptional enough. Indeed, behind her thick veil of lyricism they are surprisingly plain. She does a disservice to reader and story alike by wrapping it all up in the obscuring and not quite poetic enough language.
    

   So, in more ways than one, Butterfly Burning is, ultimately, a novella of miscarriages, of clumsy, painful abortions.

       There is something to be said for Vera's approach and language (though we obviously don't know what that might be). She has some sense of language and expression, and the writing is not without talent. But the novel reads as though it were meticulously chiselled out of stone and then finely buffed -- leaving it still solid and completely lifeless. The novel appears to be art, but it is complete artifice. Some people clearly do enjoy "poetic" presentation of this sort -- many of the critics expressed admiration for it -- , but readers should be aware of what they are in for.

-        

* * Courtesy of COMPLETE REVIEW’s review

'Transferential displacement' in Bolaji's Far up! Far out! Far more!.

By Tiisetso M Thiba 

I have been reading Bolaji's new work, Far up! Far out! Far more (2014) and whilst wading through the over 25 short essays or stories in the book, I have been struck by the way the author seemingly comes across as somewhat displaced in some of the narratives.     

This is hardly surprising. After essentially living in South Africa for so many years where he published many books and remains a literary catalyst, the reader should expect jarring notes in many of the chapters; after the author returned to live in his native Nigeria for many months.

There are suggestions of some sort of displacement, or "Transferential displacement" as psychologists might dub it, in this new work. There are glimpses of this throughout, including the early passages of the Chapter, What is this?:       

…It did seem as if the Okada (Bike) personnel had taken over the town, considering their preponderance here. The way they flitted around hither and thither was mind-boggling.

“Oga, where you dey go?” they were asking with nigh-omniscient confidence. It was as if they were bullying people to board them as it were.

I smiled ruefully in front of the Medical Centre, or Clinic. I had escorted a friend here who needed a Medical Certificate; I sauntered around savouring the ambience outside; and ruminating to boot.

My mind had indeed wandered as two women came from the passage leading into the Clinic; they greeted me.

“Dumelang,” I said absent-mindedly, suddenly stiffening with embarrassment! I was thousands of kilometres away from South Africa now, and right here nobody knew what “dumela” – a common greeting in South Africa – meant! The two women stared at me as if I was crazy; quickly I re-adjusted and greeted them appropriately. “E pele Ma…e ku ise Ma.”…

But it is in the story or chapter titled The tantalising meal that the concept can be seen in full; in a sort of microcosm. The "story" warrants a rather extensive reproduction, as the tentative reader might even be a bit confused (though the narrative is simple enough):     

…The magnificent, long-familiar smell of the fried chicken wafted towards me. I was almost shaking with excitement.

Ah, pap and chicken again! The gentleman in charge of this eatery beamed at me. 

“Ntate!” he said. “I have not seen you for ages…”

His lady-helper, the one who usually served us smiled too. “It’s true Moholo,” she said. “Almost every day for years you always bought our food here: pap and the two fried chickens! You just disappeared!”

I smiled, but said nothing. I could only think of eating my plate. I watched impatiently as she expertly dished out the pap and chicken. “I will add another small one (making it 3 pieces of chicken!) as you have not been here for so long…” she said.

“Ke a leboha,” I said, really appreciating the gesture. She added: “Your favourite sitting place at the corner awaits you…enjoy the dijo (food)!”

I knew I would. I sat down trying my best not to jump onto the food like a caveman. The smell was already turning me rather crazy. I was gonna use my hands to eat the food!

But what was going on? Things were going hazy and crazy. Ki lode? I could not eat the food, despite my best efforts! Where was the food in front of me anyway? What was going on?

So near but yet so far. With a last desperate, hopeless lunge I tried to grab the food; but failed. And the disappearing food suddenly turned into a waiter beside me…

It was a waiter! Dressed to boot too. He said: “Sir, you have been sleeping and perhaps dreaming…while I went to get the food you ordered. I noticed when you got here you looked rather sick sir. But here is your food…”

He put a tray down on the table which had two plates on it. I felt betrayed. “I can’t smell the fried chicken” I said. “Where’s the pap…mealie meal?”

He stared at me as if I were crazy. “What are you talking about sir. What’s pap?…you ordered rice and ogunfe meat, which I have supplied now…”

I tried to snap fully back to reality. This was not South Africa, but west Africa, where few people knew about pap… Indeed I had been dreaming earlier. I smiled at the kindly waiter, but I could see he was still worried.

“You don’t look so good sir… I hope you’ll be able to eat the food a bit…”
I grinned at him and said: “Rest assured that no matter what, I always have a healthy appetite.”

“But what’s pap, mealie meal?” he queried again.

“Don’t you worry about that,” I said firmly. “As you saw I was dozing then and rambling. Now let me enjoy this fine food you have brought. Thanks…”…

Such vignettes reflect the author's pedigree, rooted in both South Africa and west Africa. These conflicting emotions and ideas even affect his own physical appearance, as we see from the early part of another chapter titled, On Mendicants:       

…I made my way stealthily across the muddied ante-road. Hours ago it had veritably rained cats and dogs! Now the deluge had abated and people were going about with elan.

Alas the poor, the beggars specifically are always with us. And I saw two of them now, horribly deformed, squatting begging for alms.

"Oga, rankadede. Take pity on us," one of them said; then he added: "Yellow man, please give us something."

The other one joined in: "Oga Yellow, give us somethin' to chop..."

I grunted. It can be strange how disparate things are construed in different climes. This reminded me of my days of youth when I was taunted at school for my alleged "yellow" (light) complexion. Yet when I stayed in South Africa most people regarded me as quite dark! …

African literary history has shown us that creative writers will always produce the goods, wherever they are - Es'kia Mphahlele is a good example, whose experiences around Africa produced works like Chirundu, and The Wanderers. With this new work, Mr Bolaji shows that wherever he is located, irrespective of suggestions of
"displacement", his creative juices remain fecund.

* Mr Tiisetso Thiba is a South African poet, literary commentator and activist

OLABISI AJALA: An African Abroad

I read this book twice when I was entering my teens; this was one of the prized books in my father's superb library long ago. Later on as a young adult I read this work again... 

It is a very impressive book, published some 50 years ago by an authentic African journalist who had travelled the world essentially on a motor cycle or scooter. The book is in no way fiction, as anybody who has actually read it will easily vouchsafe. 

What would strike the reader immediately is the sheer brilliance, professionalism and savvy of the author as an international journalist. Each chapter is prefaced by superb political backgrounds of pertinent countries - visited by the protagonist. 

The author got to meet several very important political leaders at the time in several countries. Yes, he was something of a rarity in these countries but arguably considering the era he was treated civilly and very well wherever he travelled to.

I still remember that at Immigration in Australia the author speculated aloud as to whether he was being "discriminated" against because of the colour of his skin; whereat he was told that there was nothing special about his colour and officials met his type regularly!

There are many photos reproduced in the book complementing the lurid accounts of the author in diverse countries. For those interested in world history, geography, politics etc, this is a magnificent work.

The publication of this book so many decades ago overseas is a triumph too! I will urge current Nigerian publishers to pluck this book from obscurity and re-publish it, so that the new generations(s) can appreciate the feats of an early eclectic Nigerian journalist and globe-trotter. It would also be a tribute to the now departed, illustrious Chief Ajala.

 - O Bolaji

MAFIKA GWALA (1946 - 2014)

Mafika Gwala, the recently departed South African writer, was one of the most important black poets churned out in the 60s and 70s.

His name was synonymous with the era of Black Consciousness - epitomised by Steve Biko -  a rousing clarion call of many black intellectuals. Gwala over the years would go on to publish a fair amount of poetry embodying his vision and commitment.  

Gwala was a teacher, mentor, a Zulu purist, researcher and idealist. He lived to see the free South Africa he had dreamed of in his youth.
         

Ironically, the media fraternity has been excited about latest rounds of several memorial events to mark Black Consciousness leader the late Steve Biko.  Obviously when September month begins in South Africa many people are enormously concerned about the commemoration of the life time of Mr Biko.  Biko and other prominent leaders of Black Consciousness movement were on the mission to bring about consciousness among the stigmatize, marginalize and oppressed majority of black people.  At the time their activities were viewed as a menace to white minority rule.  Therefore, during the September month usually South Africans, Africans throughout the continent and abroad proudly delight themselves to give their earnest attention in celebrating the dramatic life time of Steve Biko.

However, the shocking news of the sudden death of the one of the great bards that Africa ever produced and the loyal activist of Black Consciousness too has left many people gloomy and sad.   Mr Mafika Gwala’s death has a lot of lessons to offer.  Africa has lost one of the most important fine poets who contributed largely in literature.  As one of the early Black Consciousness Movement leader he strongly expressed his discontent against apartheid with his breathtaking poems.

It is quite important to understand that Mafika Gwala poems contain essential message of encouragement.  The repressive system of apartheid which denied Africans to acquire quality education never precluded Mr Gwala to persist from being a vibrant and vigorous poet.   Recently, the master’s programme in creative writing at Rhodes University held a reading of Gwala’s literary work at Wordfest in Grahamstown, in July this year, to honour him. 

“We honoured him because we felt he hasn’t been honoured the way he should’ve been,” poet Robert Berold told the M&G. Berold’s favourite poem by Gwala is Getting off the Ride, also published in 1977. “His poetry has a powerful force and it always moved me; it remains strong even though the political circumstances have changed.” According to Berold, Gwala had been ill for quite some time and his health had not improved during his visit to Grahamstown for his tribute. 

There is lot that the world can learn about Mr Gwala’s life of struggle and of being an excellent wordsmith who is highly recognized as one of the catalyst of literature in Africa.  Firstly, he was very resolute and optimistic about the future attainment of social justice and equality of black people in South Africa.  Secondly, his ability to deny infelicitous injustice against black people to discourage and ultimately eliminate him was sublime.

Specifically, he wrote his poems to inspire.  Apparently, many literary pundits will agree that his aptitude to write his poems - both in English and Zulu was resoundingly great.  This is a poet who was willing to motivate black people during the difficult times and he continues to inspire even after freedom in South Africa.  Africa must count itself blessed by the sacrifice and the literary flair of the person of Mr Gwala.  His life time present the imperative knowledge which I think it will be judicious for people to gain that knowledgeable insight which was well entrenched in him.  This is what he used to say “We didn’t take Black Consciousness as a kind of Bible, it was just a trend, which was a necessary one because it meant bringing in what the white opposition [to apartheid] couldn’t bring into the struggle. So much was brought into the struggle through Black Consciousness. “

Inevitably, Africa is still experiencing uphill situation and flagrantly the struggle continues.  The example which Mr Gwala left must be a continuous legacy that inspires perpetually.  It cannot be tolerated to see young emerging poets in Africa intending to destroy the genuine foundation of poetry that was established with immense sacrifices and stupendous efforts.   Today we see some people who claim to be poets doing what is contrary to genuine African poetry.  They are known by impressive fashion outlook, their shocking ignorance of their own history, boasting on stages in the theatres, only just to be seen that their poets. African poetry in the similar spirit of the superlative and winsome Gwala must stand to live on forever.

 Below is one of his scintillating poems which dramatically ventilates how Dompas (Apartheid passport) was scurrilous and ludicrous for the oppressed black people at the time:

Kwela-Ride

Dompas!
I looked back
Dompas!
I went through my pockets
Not there.
They bit into my flesh (handcuffs).
Came the kwela-kwela
We crawled in.
The young men sang.
In that dark moment
It all became familiar. 
– Mafika Pascal Gwala 

Unfortunately so many of our limited modern poets only concentrate in speaking about their status, luxury life and their ‘hoodwinked’ feelings, and disappointingly neglect issues that are daunting and devastating Africa and its people.  Such poems are precarious and not apposite with African standard of poetry.  It will be utterly disgusting to appreciate and give plaudits for tosh that does not inspire.  Ebola epidemic, HIV/AIDS, corruption in African governments, terrorist attacks and so on are treacherous and threatening the peace and survival of Africa.  Mr Gwala was not recreant and quiescent about the intention of the apartheid system to lobotomize black people in South Africa, rather he chose to remain prodigious until apartheid was defeated.  Rest in peace son of the soil – rest in peace son of Africa!!!

 

Selected Bibliography  

Jol'iinkomo 

No more Lullabies

Black Review

Musho! Zulu Popular Praises

- Tribute by Ishmael Mzwandile Soqaga