Reviewing and/or taking on the role as a critic of a self-published book such as The Roaring Lion and Wedding Bells – In the Heart of Tigers and Leopards by Azaria J. C. Mbatha is indeed a very serious thing. As reviewer and author I am expected to play with open cards and hopefully do my work honestly and well.
I fully admit that Azaria Mbatha might be way ahead of me and have a much better grasp of life than what I have. I also hope that he has a cult following as he has been published before. It is said about self-published books that they on average sell 300 copies. Let’s hope Mr Mbatha reaches this figure.
I have no doubt that the author put his heart and soul into this work but to describe it as page turning prose is a bit too rich for me. Maybe it was written in another language as Mr Mbatha is a South African of seemingly Zulu descent and the beauty and richness might have gotten lost in the translation. I don’t know. All I do know is that I have to review this work, written in English for an English audience, by someone that has been out of South Africa since 1965 and maintain that he is fully in touch with things on the ground.
My opinions will always be subjective, formed by what I enjoy or dislike. I try to be objective with material that I do not understand and treat any work with respect. I do know what effort and labour of love it is to write. I also know about the trepidation one suffers while awaiting a review. Any author writes to be read and ultimately to be liked. If that do not form part of your motivation then I can not see why you should bother.
I will start of with a quote from the author’s preface:
“I can assure my readers that I will continue writing as long as there are things I do not understand. Things that I do not understand are above my head at the moment. However, I don’t want to start writing if I am losing it and just writing in the same mediocre fashion. Then, I don’t think I should write.”
This is the trend throughout the book, categorised as a novel. Broad sweeping statements, interrupted by questions which leads to exactly nowhere and leaves the reader totally bewildered. I could not read one page without going back a few times to check whether there was something I missed as I just could not fathom his reasoning. I still don’t.
When trying to find my bearings in this massive brick of a “novel” I find that I get totally lost in a maze of intricate, many-facetted and confusing tale. I must confess I still struggle to fully understand what, why and where the author is trying to tell anything.
In all fairness I have to admit that I have not read this “novel” from cover to cover. Not because I’m lazy and have too many other things on my plate. No, but rather because I do not like being subjected to involuntary boring lectures about absolutely nothing. If I wanted to be bored and confused I would enrol on a course about the mating habits of the North Sea clam. This book numbers no less than 507 pages of which not a single one made coherent sense to me. However, I will in time complete my reading of this work and then write another review in the event of my initial judgement being too harsh.
In trying to say something positive about this book, in desperation, I subjected it to several reading level algorithms. These "readability tests" all differ but have one thing in common i.e. how easy the text is to read. As an example part of page 243 of Mr Mbatha’s book scored 67%. Anything over 40% is categorised as extremely difficult to read and understand, normally legal jargon associated with governments trying to cover up something. Very few of the pages tested, scored under 45% which places it firmly in the category of a laborious difficult read. I therefore do not seem to be alone in forming an opinion on the perplexing nature of this material.
It’s just like an Indaba on speed, gone terribly wrong. Too many voices at the same time, too many songs sung out of tune at one given point in time, a beehive run amuck.
For those who are not intimately familiar with the traditional African way of storytelling, as I am, this is going to be a bumpy ride. (Southern African stories are often a riddle or even enigmatic at the best of times) Mr Mbatha’s style, where he intercept the flow of telling an actual story, complete with events and persons, and his personal opinions on e.g. Martin Luther, Glasnost, Verwoerd, Ubuntu, Christ, DDR and the Cubists (just to mention a few) is a difficult equation. It will without fail result in a catastrophic literary experiment. This never-ending, disorganised stream of consciousness rather exhausts the reader than offer any enlightenment.
I do recognise that this is a serious effort to get a message across. But regretfully, in Mr Mbatha’s orgy of artistic freedom and over-exposure of his self this is lost.
When trying to dissect the text into separate sections and areas there’s no denying that Mr Mbatha is indeed touching upon many a very valid topic. But why does it have to be in one and the same book? Is that why Mr Mbatha has so generously included no less than 104 footnotes to elaborate on certain aspects and/or to explain to us mere mortals what Africa is all about? Why is a “Select Bibliography”, listing some 40 sources included in a novel? I do not know. And frankly I do not really care. I don’t think Mr Mbatha have to defend his work by referring to others, nor am I of the opinion that he should need to use such a bibliography at all. As I have previously indicated, this is an author that is not at a loss for words, au contraire.
While on the subject of style I cannot help but being terribly disturbed by the countless inconsistencies and proofing errors. Whether or not that should be attributed to the author or his editor (if there was one) I’d rather leave alone. But for me, it makes the book very, very hard to read and follow.
I laboured under the illusion that Mr Mbatha would try to illustrate the riches of African story-telling in its own right. This is somehow lost along the endless meanderings of quotes, events, politicians and opinions. I will still give him credit for trying his best to tell a story that could have been important, furthering African literature to take its rightful place on the international arena. Alas, this time it’s not going to happen.
As it now stands I can not categorise this book as more than a rough first draft that still need to go through a meticulous edit, a final decision as to the genre and at least one proper rewrite. A title that sports 13 words also seem to be a bit out of place.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Marketing Medicine for Maniacs
It takes a special type of person to not only read the enclosed instructions in any form of medication but to actually understand it. No doubt hypochondriacs stand to gain the most out of these detailed instructions as they spell out all the symptoms associated with the ailment. It conjures up an image of a person memorising symptoms to use the next time he sees a doctor.
But to get back to the medication; you first buy it, then read the instructions and realise, yup; this is definitely what I’m suffering from, so I need this treatment. It’s a good thing I bought it.
That however, is not the issue I want to address. My problem is that even something serious as medication falls prey to advertising jargon that just confuses the consumer.
Let’s take the Nicotinell I’m currently using in my effort to stop smoking as an example. A listed side effect is mild diarrhoea.
What is a mild diarrhoea and how did they ascertain that?
Was a survey conducted and they then just used the opinions of blatant liars that complete questionnaires for remuneration? It is definitely not a trustworthy way of doing things.
Did they conduct a clinical trial? I can just picture people in white coats poking around in stool monsters going oh and ah and then making notes on a clipboard.
Or do they grade the level of diarrhoea as they do with a curry or chutney? "Hey Hank, try this one! Definitely a mild one as it lacks all flavour." The image that conjures up will not be discussed further.
Why do they not use simple language all can understand?
I would have appreciated the following line:
“Warning: When using this medication, do not trust the art of a fart. You might get more than you bargained for.”
It would have saved on one load of underwear washing.
But to get back to the medication; you first buy it, then read the instructions and realise, yup; this is definitely what I’m suffering from, so I need this treatment. It’s a good thing I bought it.
That however, is not the issue I want to address. My problem is that even something serious as medication falls prey to advertising jargon that just confuses the consumer.
Let’s take the Nicotinell I’m currently using in my effort to stop smoking as an example. A listed side effect is mild diarrhoea.
What is a mild diarrhoea and how did they ascertain that?
Was a survey conducted and they then just used the opinions of blatant liars that complete questionnaires for remuneration? It is definitely not a trustworthy way of doing things.
Did they conduct a clinical trial? I can just picture people in white coats poking around in stool monsters going oh and ah and then making notes on a clipboard.
Or do they grade the level of diarrhoea as they do with a curry or chutney? "Hey Hank, try this one! Definitely a mild one as it lacks all flavour." The image that conjures up will not be discussed further.
Why do they not use simple language all can understand?
I would have appreciated the following line:
“Warning: When using this medication, do not trust the art of a fart. You might get more than you bargained for.”
It would have saved on one load of underwear washing.
Monday, September 3, 2007
My Week
This week saw the completion of some major dental work. I decided that it’s time to make use of the Swedish Health Care system and had some bridgework done. It took my dentist the better part of four months to complete the exercise and I must say that I am suitably impressed.
One negative however, is that she told me to stop smoking immediately. I left her chair with my mind made up. I decided to change dentist and continue doing so until I find one that smokes as well because my love affair with tobacco is too intense and go back a long way. I think I stopped smoking for the first time at the age of 6 and only then because my father gave me a serious thrashing.
To cut a long story short; I am now on day four without a cigarette and it’s not a pleasant exercise at all. I’m cutting up plastic straws and using them as placebos. I've used approximately 2445 but who’s counting. I’m also using Nicotinell lozenges to try and keep the craving for nicotine under control. One of the side effects of these tablets is described as mild diarrhoea. Thanks god for that because if the one I’m experiencing is a mild one then I don’t want to see what a proper case of the shits is all about. I’m stuck in my office (3 meters away from the loo) and will remain so for time to come. That might not be a bad thing as I’m sure I will kick old ladies around the moment I step outside the door and venture into the public domain.
I’m busy preparing a legal document to sue tobacco companies for a breakdown of my marriage and driving my children away from home. It is no fun to be around me. I am one irritated shit.
One negative however, is that she told me to stop smoking immediately. I left her chair with my mind made up. I decided to change dentist and continue doing so until I find one that smokes as well because my love affair with tobacco is too intense and go back a long way. I think I stopped smoking for the first time at the age of 6 and only then because my father gave me a serious thrashing.
To cut a long story short; I am now on day four without a cigarette and it’s not a pleasant exercise at all. I’m cutting up plastic straws and using them as placebos. I've used approximately 2445 but who’s counting. I’m also using Nicotinell lozenges to try and keep the craving for nicotine under control. One of the side effects of these tablets is described as mild diarrhoea. Thanks god for that because if the one I’m experiencing is a mild one then I don’t want to see what a proper case of the shits is all about. I’m stuck in my office (3 meters away from the loo) and will remain so for time to come. That might not be a bad thing as I’m sure I will kick old ladies around the moment I step outside the door and venture into the public domain.
I’m busy preparing a legal document to sue tobacco companies for a breakdown of my marriage and driving my children away from home. It is no fun to be around me. I am one irritated shit.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The Best Defence is To Attack (Then)
Excerpt no 5: Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
We had some weird and wonderful neighbours. We only saw the woman next door when we played soccer or cricket in the street and one of our balls had soared into her yard. She must have sat sentinel everyday. She would be out in a flash, cut the ball in half and throw the pieces back at us.
My friend Edward lived across the road from her. When I started High School he was one grade senior than my eldest brother. Edward failed his exams so many times that he finished school with me. When his dad had drunk enough wine at night to be out for the count we used to steal his car, a DKW. The DKW had a distinctive sound and made a hell of a racket so we worked our asses off pushing it as far as possible down the street before starting it. We had some great joyrides in this vehicle — always managing to evade the local traffic cop who was on the lookout for us. Edward was a hairy bugger and would cover his upper lip with sticky plaster to hide the moustache he grew before every school holiday. He was a great friend.
I went to their house often. His mother never left the house. I never saw her in anything else but a dressing gown and slippers.
A few houses away from us lived Frank. Like most people at the time he was fonder of the bottle than what was acceptable outside of military circles and definitely not something which relationships were built upon. One Friday evening Frank returned from the pub where he’d had a few pints. He got told by his wife:
“Go and buy some bread and milk. We have none in the house. Hurry back. I still need to feed the children.”
Frank did a quick shop and went back to the pub. The party got out of hand and Frank continued his quite impressive intake of beer.
He joined a group of chaps who’d come to town with the sole intent of loading up for the rugby match the next day. The military pub, of course, had to adhere to strict hours. Everyone got totally smashed. The Queens Hotel was their first venue of choice and the public bar and snooker hall had to take the full impact of a bunch of drunken military louts.
Frank was a spectator at the rugby match that Saturday afternoon without having been home yet. The local team lost and the party to drown all sorrows started right after the match. On Sunday morning Frank woke up in the single quarters of the military base. There was still some booze left over and Frank had a serious hangover. He was unshaven and unwashed. He had a splitting headache, a full-blown case of amnesia from the night before and in need of some comfort. Soon they got stuck in again. Frank had a disturbing premonition that he might be in trouble with his wife. These thoughts he tried to drink away.
“I’m always in shit with my wife. It is just the depth that varies. Please pass the rum.”
On Sunday evening Frank arrived home. Standing on his doorstep, newspaper in one hand and a squashed loaf of bread under his arm and a pint of sour milk in the other hand with a plan of action prepared. As he walked in through the front door he immediately started shouting at his wife:
“Why are the bloody children still playing in the road? Do you know what fucking time it is? Don’t you realise it’s a school-day tomorrow?”
The poor woman had nothing to say. Frank was delighted since this part of military doctrine worked so well in his favour. He bragged about it for days in the tea-room.
We had some weird and wonderful neighbours. We only saw the woman next door when we played soccer or cricket in the street and one of our balls had soared into her yard. She must have sat sentinel everyday. She would be out in a flash, cut the ball in half and throw the pieces back at us.
My friend Edward lived across the road from her. When I started High School he was one grade senior than my eldest brother. Edward failed his exams so many times that he finished school with me. When his dad had drunk enough wine at night to be out for the count we used to steal his car, a DKW. The DKW had a distinctive sound and made a hell of a racket so we worked our asses off pushing it as far as possible down the street before starting it. We had some great joyrides in this vehicle — always managing to evade the local traffic cop who was on the lookout for us. Edward was a hairy bugger and would cover his upper lip with sticky plaster to hide the moustache he grew before every school holiday. He was a great friend.
I went to their house often. His mother never left the house. I never saw her in anything else but a dressing gown and slippers.
A few houses away from us lived Frank. Like most people at the time he was fonder of the bottle than what was acceptable outside of military circles and definitely not something which relationships were built upon. One Friday evening Frank returned from the pub where he’d had a few pints. He got told by his wife:
“Go and buy some bread and milk. We have none in the house. Hurry back. I still need to feed the children.”
Frank did a quick shop and went back to the pub. The party got out of hand and Frank continued his quite impressive intake of beer.
He joined a group of chaps who’d come to town with the sole intent of loading up for the rugby match the next day. The military pub, of course, had to adhere to strict hours. Everyone got totally smashed. The Queens Hotel was their first venue of choice and the public bar and snooker hall had to take the full impact of a bunch of drunken military louts.
Frank was a spectator at the rugby match that Saturday afternoon without having been home yet. The local team lost and the party to drown all sorrows started right after the match. On Sunday morning Frank woke up in the single quarters of the military base. There was still some booze left over and Frank had a serious hangover. He was unshaven and unwashed. He had a splitting headache, a full-blown case of amnesia from the night before and in need of some comfort. Soon they got stuck in again. Frank had a disturbing premonition that he might be in trouble with his wife. These thoughts he tried to drink away.
“I’m always in shit with my wife. It is just the depth that varies. Please pass the rum.”
On Sunday evening Frank arrived home. Standing on his doorstep, newspaper in one hand and a squashed loaf of bread under his arm and a pint of sour milk in the other hand with a plan of action prepared. As he walked in through the front door he immediately started shouting at his wife:
“Why are the bloody children still playing in the road? Do you know what fucking time it is? Don’t you realise it’s a school-day tomorrow?”
The poor woman had nothing to say. Frank was delighted since this part of military doctrine worked so well in his favour. He bragged about it for days in the tea-room.
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