Note: This post is for all my friends in South Africa so don’t even bother to try and read it if you do not understand “the code” called Afrikaans.
Dit raak weer winter in hierdie plek so vêr van die huis af.
Ek gee nie juis om nie en pas goed aan veral met die Sweedse winter voorplantings rituele. Laat dit dan maar minus 25 grade celsius word. Ek klim glad nie uit die bed uit nie.
Laas winter besluit ek toe mos om die tieners ʼn ding of twee te wys. As hulle kan “snowboard” dan kan ek ook.
Fok die feit dat ek reeds 52 winters agter my naam het. Snowboard sal ek ry!
So gesê, so gedaan. Ons vertrek toe mos na die “slope” in Stockholm waar almal hulle Viking agtergrond uitlewe. Kinderjies wat skaars kan loop, ski jou uit die grond uit as jy nie goed oplet nie.
Ons vat toe die “ski-lift” op die “advanced slope” want vir wat wil ʼn boer nou sukkel met beginners se kak.
Bo gekom, “strap” ek toe hierdie gedoente aan my voete vas en met ʼn ”honderd meter se moer” begin ek my aftog.
Hou goed my balans en begin net die trippie geniet toe die gewaarwording my tref: ”Ek weet nie n fok hoe om te stop nie.” Heelaas te laat want ek was reeds halfpad af en het ʼn goeie snelheid bereik.
Al my geskreeu en raas in Afrikaans word geïgnoreer en in die proses is ek bo-oor ʼn mannetjie van so 9 jaar oud wat nie te vinnig was nie. Hy was neus eerste in die sneeu in en ek hou nog my balans en vaart.
Byna onder besef ek dat ek iets sal moet doen om nie moord te pleeg in die niksvermoedende skare wat wag op die ”ski-lift” nie.
Uit desperaatheid werp ek toe myself teen die grond neer en na so 15 meter se geploeg kom ek teen ʼn vriesende stop. Voor fok mense daai witgoed is hard!
Afgestof gaan drink ek toe ʼn bier en eers later bevind die doktor dat my sleutelbeen uit lid uit is.
Dit is derhalwe my weldeurdagte, goed nagevorste, slotsom dat sneeu iets is wat ʼn mens deur ʼn toe venster, voor ʼn magtige kaggelvuur, met ʼn goeie glas anti-vries in jou hand moet beskou.’
“Snowboard” se moer.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Raising Your Hands to Your Father (1978)
Excerpt no 6 : Africa Will Always Break Your Heart
One Friday night returning from the pub I found my brother and a girlfriend visiting my folks. They had driven from Pretoria as Bloemfontein University had no medical faculty at the time and Pretoria was the closest. I was in a dark mood because of a situation at work and needed the support of my family.
“Evening all. Boy, did I have a rough day.”
I must have interrupted my brother in mid-sentence. He brushed me off:
“Shut up. We’re busy talking.”
“Go and fuck yourself!”
I retaliated.
I went to the backroom to collect a few belongings before leaving to spend the weekend with a few girlfriends. I was disgusted and hurt as nobody recognised that I needed a patient ear and shoulder to cry on.
My father followed me and started pushing me about.
“You will now explain this conflict between your brother and yourself! You will do it now!”
He shouted at me, acting as if he was not aware that he was largely to blame for the sibling rivalry that existed between us.
I shouted back at him:
“Go and ask your first-born and favourite and fucking leave me alone!”
There was always alcohol in our house and my dad had clearly put quite a lot of it under his belt as my mom was in the middle of yet another affair. She had later left home for a few weeks to be with her lover, and he needed to ease the pain a bit.
“Explain yourself!”
He pushed me in the chest with a stiff finger.
“Don’t do that. It hurts, it’s degrading and I do outrank you.”
I said.
He continued pushing me. I threatened:
“I will fuck you up! Please stop it!”
“Try me!”
He repeatedly responded.
No amount of begging and threatening could make him stop. In his hurt he was clearly looking for a fight, and I was the chosen one to take his hurt out on. Had I known that he was hurt just as badly as I was, things might have turned out differently. He pushed me one time too many before I’d had enough. I lashed out and hit him.
Into that blow went all my pent up longing and frustration accumulated over the years of trying to get his love and attention. He managed to duck in time and I landed a glancing blow on his cheek, splitting the skin and rolling it up all the way to his left ear. He bounced off the wall and charged at me, the white of his jawbone showing. I was ready and hit him with my left hand breaking his jaw in two places.
That took the fight out of him. I was mortified, and when my rage died down I tried to convey my remorse.
“I’m sorry dad! You were looking for it! Please forgive me! I truly am fucking sorry.”
To raise your hands against your father was totally unheard of. He has never forgiven me for this and I have not forgiven myself either. I never can as it’s too deep-rooted a belief.
I took him to the military hospital where we concocted a story about a car accident. They clearly did not believe us as we were reeking of alcohol, my eyes were red from crying and no car accident could have inflicted the type of injuries he had. He got hospitalised for a week and underwent surgery to wire up his jaw.
Even though we lived and worked in the same city I did not visit my parents’ house for over three months after this incident. Notes were left by my father under the windscreen-wipers of my car urging me to meet with him at the golf club for a drink. I ignored them all until he one day confronted me in person, smartly saluted me and officially invited me for a drink.
“Lieutenant, would you do me the honour of joining me for a drink tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. I will meet you after work.”
I responded.
That night I went to meet with him, and we got drunk together as two adversaries correctly would once the dust had settled.
One Friday night returning from the pub I found my brother and a girlfriend visiting my folks. They had driven from Pretoria as Bloemfontein University had no medical faculty at the time and Pretoria was the closest. I was in a dark mood because of a situation at work and needed the support of my family.
“Evening all. Boy, did I have a rough day.”
I must have interrupted my brother in mid-sentence. He brushed me off:
“Shut up. We’re busy talking.”
“Go and fuck yourself!”
I retaliated.
I went to the backroom to collect a few belongings before leaving to spend the weekend with a few girlfriends. I was disgusted and hurt as nobody recognised that I needed a patient ear and shoulder to cry on.
My father followed me and started pushing me about.
“You will now explain this conflict between your brother and yourself! You will do it now!”
He shouted at me, acting as if he was not aware that he was largely to blame for the sibling rivalry that existed between us.
I shouted back at him:
“Go and ask your first-born and favourite and fucking leave me alone!”
There was always alcohol in our house and my dad had clearly put quite a lot of it under his belt as my mom was in the middle of yet another affair. She had later left home for a few weeks to be with her lover, and he needed to ease the pain a bit.
“Explain yourself!”
He pushed me in the chest with a stiff finger.
“Don’t do that. It hurts, it’s degrading and I do outrank you.”
I said.
He continued pushing me. I threatened:
“I will fuck you up! Please stop it!”
“Try me!”
He repeatedly responded.
No amount of begging and threatening could make him stop. In his hurt he was clearly looking for a fight, and I was the chosen one to take his hurt out on. Had I known that he was hurt just as badly as I was, things might have turned out differently. He pushed me one time too many before I’d had enough. I lashed out and hit him.
Into that blow went all my pent up longing and frustration accumulated over the years of trying to get his love and attention. He managed to duck in time and I landed a glancing blow on his cheek, splitting the skin and rolling it up all the way to his left ear. He bounced off the wall and charged at me, the white of his jawbone showing. I was ready and hit him with my left hand breaking his jaw in two places.
That took the fight out of him. I was mortified, and when my rage died down I tried to convey my remorse.
“I’m sorry dad! You were looking for it! Please forgive me! I truly am fucking sorry.”
To raise your hands against your father was totally unheard of. He has never forgiven me for this and I have not forgiven myself either. I never can as it’s too deep-rooted a belief.
I took him to the military hospital where we concocted a story about a car accident. They clearly did not believe us as we were reeking of alcohol, my eyes were red from crying and no car accident could have inflicted the type of injuries he had. He got hospitalised for a week and underwent surgery to wire up his jaw.
Even though we lived and worked in the same city I did not visit my parents’ house for over three months after this incident. Notes were left by my father under the windscreen-wipers of my car urging me to meet with him at the golf club for a drink. I ignored them all until he one day confronted me in person, smartly saluted me and officially invited me for a drink.
“Lieutenant, would you do me the honour of joining me for a drink tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. I will meet you after work.”
I responded.
That night I went to meet with him, and we got drunk together as two adversaries correctly would once the dust had settled.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
What a Week
I attended a PTA meeting and had a good look around at all the old people. Where did they all come from and why are they all so old? These are the parents of my child’s classmates. My God! They are so old. And then I realised that I look the same way.
A week that brought me back into contact with family members I have not seen or heard from for over 35 years. The startling realisation that I actually do care what they think of me.
A week that made my break ties with a good friend in cyberspace because I realised that I will always be the “punch bag” when this friend feels under the weather and that I do not appreciate this fact.
A week that had “sane” people up in arms because they forgot that my Blog is aimed at people with a sense of humour.
A week that made me realise that my psychiatrist might be right and that things might get worse before they get better.
Winter is also approaching.
Thanks God for international rugby and cricket!
A week that brought me back into contact with family members I have not seen or heard from for over 35 years. The startling realisation that I actually do care what they think of me.
A week that made my break ties with a good friend in cyberspace because I realised that I will always be the “punch bag” when this friend feels under the weather and that I do not appreciate this fact.
A week that had “sane” people up in arms because they forgot that my Blog is aimed at people with a sense of humour.
A week that made me realise that my psychiatrist might be right and that things might get worse before they get better.
Winter is also approaching.
Thanks God for international rugby and cricket!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Howzat!
Praise all the Nordic gods in the Viking Pantheon of Valhalla. At last South Africa have got something else than crooked politicians to fill their news headlines with. I’m talking about a much higher calling than politics i.e. international cricket and rugby.
Let those smug, silly, pretentious specimens called politicians be. Only they labour under the delusion that the rest of the world takes them serious.
Let us mortals escape into the realm of sport for the sake of sanity.
It reminds me of a story about a farmer who’s never being more than 20 km’s away from the “throbbing metropolis” called Pofadder in his entire life. One day he got invited by a friend to come and visit in Johannesburg and as luck would have it arrived on the very same day that an international cricket match started.
This is his story:
…I arrived in Johan se Berg early that morning after a whole night of smelling other people’s farts on a Greyhound buss.
By fuck, it was just people as far as one could see!
Hans could not meet me and send a driver with a ticket for a cricket match as he would meet me there after an important appointment. So I went with the driver who dropped me off at this gate.
Jossis!
If you thought it was a lot of people before you should have seen this!
I did not have a clue what this cricket kak was all about but as Hans seemed to like it, I decided to try it as well.
I joined a line and after about 45 minutes, when I got to the front, a comical bastard in a little cage laughed at me and told me that I did not have to be in the line as I had a Vee-Eye-Pee pass.
I decided Vee-Eye-Pee se moer and yours as well and as I turned away another little prick took my ticket out of my hand and tore the bloody thing in two. I nearly donnered him on the spot but decided that I’m a stranger in a strange town and after saying “fok jou, jou muildoos,” I fell back in the line and bought myself another ticket. This one I shoved in my back pocket so that this little poepol could not tear it up as well.
Inside it was wonderful. For the first time I could see how many people there really was. All of them stuck-up and rude as not one wanted to accept my hand when I tried to introduce myself.
I decided fuck them all and eventually found my seat next to an old oomie.
He had a pair of “by-knock-q-laars.” Really funny things you put in front of your eyes and when you do it pulls the people from the other side of the field right up to you. When you however, put out your hand to greet them you make an arsehole out of yourself because they are still over there.
Boy, in front of me was the nicest piece of veld I have ever seen in my life. No matter that some dumb labourer stuffed up a little rectangle in the centre by cutting the grass too short. One could always nurse that piece back to life and then it would be a beautiful stukkie land.
I was still contemplating why this stupid doos cut that piece of grass so short when two men in white coats came onto the field. I thought to myself “yup, now that labourer is in the shit because these two are inspectors and they are sure to see where he cut the grass too short.” They also headed right for the spot and I had a warm feeling inside of me like when you drink klippies and coke too fast because I knew they would find the culprit, moer and fire him on the spot.
I could not believe my eyes when one of these vulgar bastards donnered three sticks into that struggling piece of grass.
I shouted at him:
“You fucking vandal, why don’t you pick a spot where the grass is longer?”
The people around me immediately shushed me to be quiet and I thought by myself. Just like these city dwellers, no-one wants to get involved.
My moer was coming to a boiling point and was not helped when this guy bliksemed three other sticks in on the other end of the rectangle as well.
I decided to try and cool down by looking at the women around me and ignoring these bastards on the veld until Hans came.
The oomie next to me was telling me how it was the Boere against the Brits today and I then realised what this was all about. Hans brought me to an international fight to welcome me to Johan se berg.
What a friend!
Soon eleven of these English bastards came on the field, all dressed in white and I could see that they are all a bunch of limp-wristed, liberal sissies that probably voted for corporal and capitol punishment to be abolished. Swinging their arms around and trying to look all puffed up with importance. Most of them had white paint on their faces and they were throwing a red stone around. They clearly were not very clever as they only had one stone between all of them. They might have had a better chance if every one had at least five stones.
Ha-ha.
Stupid fucking Poms.
Then two Boere came out. It sounds a bit unfair being only two against eleven but these guys were all padded up and had helmets on. They were also not as stupid as the Brits as each guy had a cano paddle to bliksem the Pommies with. In the event of them not being able to sort out this scum from across the water then there was still about 50 000 of us in the stands that could help them out.
Or so I thought.
I could not understand why these two did not start from one side and just wade into the Brits. Instead they walked to the middle of the field and then split up.
Shit people, it would have been safer to stick together.
At least they were carefully looking around and one could see that they made sure they knew where each and every English bastard was standing on the field.
In the meantime one piece of white British dog-vomit was walking almost off the field with that stone in his hand.
Suddenly he turned around and started running towards the middle and I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.
He got close the middle and let fly with that stone.
Luckily he decided to throw at the Boer furthest away from him because he would have killed the guy closest to him for sure.
Bliksem!
That Boertjie knew what he was doing. He rapped that stone out of harms way with his cano paddle. Glaring at the guilty party and one could see that he thought: “fuck you and Lord Kitchener as well.”
I then decided enough of this crap.
If no one else is going to help my countrymen I will.
When that fucking Pommie turned around for the second time and started running towards the middle I was out of my seat.
Five yards before he reached the middle I caught him from behind and slapped him so hard that the snot went right around his head.
He went nose first into that short piece of ground and his head made a three metre furrow in the pitch before he came to a stop. I have no idea what happened to the stone. He might have swallowed it as he was making noises like a nostril that’s very difficult to clear.
Everyone on the field as well as the crowd was dead silent and the police came and arrested me.
Hans bailed me out of the police cells and I’m never, ever going to Johan se Berg again.
Fuck them!
Let those smug, silly, pretentious specimens called politicians be. Only they labour under the delusion that the rest of the world takes them serious.
Let us mortals escape into the realm of sport for the sake of sanity.
It reminds me of a story about a farmer who’s never being more than 20 km’s away from the “throbbing metropolis” called Pofadder in his entire life. One day he got invited by a friend to come and visit in Johannesburg and as luck would have it arrived on the very same day that an international cricket match started.
This is his story:
…I arrived in Johan se Berg early that morning after a whole night of smelling other people’s farts on a Greyhound buss.
By fuck, it was just people as far as one could see!
Hans could not meet me and send a driver with a ticket for a cricket match as he would meet me there after an important appointment. So I went with the driver who dropped me off at this gate.
Jossis!
If you thought it was a lot of people before you should have seen this!
I did not have a clue what this cricket kak was all about but as Hans seemed to like it, I decided to try it as well.
I joined a line and after about 45 minutes, when I got to the front, a comical bastard in a little cage laughed at me and told me that I did not have to be in the line as I had a Vee-Eye-Pee pass.
I decided Vee-Eye-Pee se moer and yours as well and as I turned away another little prick took my ticket out of my hand and tore the bloody thing in two. I nearly donnered him on the spot but decided that I’m a stranger in a strange town and after saying “fok jou, jou muildoos,” I fell back in the line and bought myself another ticket. This one I shoved in my back pocket so that this little poepol could not tear it up as well.
Inside it was wonderful. For the first time I could see how many people there really was. All of them stuck-up and rude as not one wanted to accept my hand when I tried to introduce myself.
I decided fuck them all and eventually found my seat next to an old oomie.
He had a pair of “by-knock-q-laars.” Really funny things you put in front of your eyes and when you do it pulls the people from the other side of the field right up to you. When you however, put out your hand to greet them you make an arsehole out of yourself because they are still over there.
Boy, in front of me was the nicest piece of veld I have ever seen in my life. No matter that some dumb labourer stuffed up a little rectangle in the centre by cutting the grass too short. One could always nurse that piece back to life and then it would be a beautiful stukkie land.
I was still contemplating why this stupid doos cut that piece of grass so short when two men in white coats came onto the field. I thought to myself “yup, now that labourer is in the shit because these two are inspectors and they are sure to see where he cut the grass too short.” They also headed right for the spot and I had a warm feeling inside of me like when you drink klippies and coke too fast because I knew they would find the culprit, moer and fire him on the spot.
I could not believe my eyes when one of these vulgar bastards donnered three sticks into that struggling piece of grass.
I shouted at him:
“You fucking vandal, why don’t you pick a spot where the grass is longer?”
The people around me immediately shushed me to be quiet and I thought by myself. Just like these city dwellers, no-one wants to get involved.
My moer was coming to a boiling point and was not helped when this guy bliksemed three other sticks in on the other end of the rectangle as well.
I decided to try and cool down by looking at the women around me and ignoring these bastards on the veld until Hans came.
The oomie next to me was telling me how it was the Boere against the Brits today and I then realised what this was all about. Hans brought me to an international fight to welcome me to Johan se berg.
What a friend!
Soon eleven of these English bastards came on the field, all dressed in white and I could see that they are all a bunch of limp-wristed, liberal sissies that probably voted for corporal and capitol punishment to be abolished. Swinging their arms around and trying to look all puffed up with importance. Most of them had white paint on their faces and they were throwing a red stone around. They clearly were not very clever as they only had one stone between all of them. They might have had a better chance if every one had at least five stones.
Ha-ha.
Stupid fucking Poms.
Then two Boere came out. It sounds a bit unfair being only two against eleven but these guys were all padded up and had helmets on. They were also not as stupid as the Brits as each guy had a cano paddle to bliksem the Pommies with. In the event of them not being able to sort out this scum from across the water then there was still about 50 000 of us in the stands that could help them out.
Or so I thought.
I could not understand why these two did not start from one side and just wade into the Brits. Instead they walked to the middle of the field and then split up.
Shit people, it would have been safer to stick together.
At least they were carefully looking around and one could see that they made sure they knew where each and every English bastard was standing on the field.
In the meantime one piece of white British dog-vomit was walking almost off the field with that stone in his hand.
Suddenly he turned around and started running towards the middle and I knew the shit was about to hit the fan.
He got close the middle and let fly with that stone.
Luckily he decided to throw at the Boer furthest away from him because he would have killed the guy closest to him for sure.
Bliksem!
That Boertjie knew what he was doing. He rapped that stone out of harms way with his cano paddle. Glaring at the guilty party and one could see that he thought: “fuck you and Lord Kitchener as well.”
I then decided enough of this crap.
If no one else is going to help my countrymen I will.
When that fucking Pommie turned around for the second time and started running towards the middle I was out of my seat.
Five yards before he reached the middle I caught him from behind and slapped him so hard that the snot went right around his head.
He went nose first into that short piece of ground and his head made a three metre furrow in the pitch before he came to a stop. I have no idea what happened to the stone. He might have swallowed it as he was making noises like a nostril that’s very difficult to clear.
Everyone on the field as well as the crowd was dead silent and the police came and arrested me.
Hans bailed me out of the police cells and I’m never, ever going to Johan se Berg again.
Fuck them!
Friday, September 7, 2007
Review: Azaria Mbatha
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.
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.
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.
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