Ishmael Mzwandile Soqaga reviews AFRICAN RENAISSANCE ANTI-CLOCKWISE

Book: African Renaissance Anti- Clockwise

Author: Pule Lebuso 

I’ve been reading Pule Lebuso's book, African Renaissance Anti- Clockwise and I dramatically find it fascinating and interesting to read.  Significantly I can add that the book is one of the fine books to be written by an African writer.  The author’s belief is very imperative as it cerebrally challenges the reader and essentially provides transcendent debate about African Renaissance.  In my opinion I could recommend that the book needs to be read with a glaring consciousness rather with a myopic apprehension that will cause defectiveness into realising the actual belief of the writer.  Of course the book is non-fiction, however it comprises serious quiz about African values and culture.

Honestly, as an African I am very enthusiastic to see the book being a success in this wise, because it is not easy to find books like this being accepted by the powers-that-be in particular in Africa where leaders are not phlegmatic.  As far as I know and I think is ubiquitous in Africa to see leaders shrug off the idea of being excoriated and commonly believe that whatever ideas they come with must be unanimously congenial to all.  In fact some leaders of Africa invariably hold their own beliefs as absolute and they do not expect to be critiqued.   For certain times we see the very same independent African states being intolerant to criticism.  Sporadically, writers will be incarcerated without trial just because they write something which the state doesn’t want.   Sublime writers like Wole Soyinka, Jack Mapanje, Ngungi etc all experienced the same persecution and unscrupulous treatment from their governments.

Fortunately there is a need to applaud with great felicity to see the book African
Renaissance Anti-Clockwise survived such treacherous treatment.  The book is phenomenal for Africa and its inhabitants.  The manner, in which the author elucidates his belief, verily evinces explicitly his proficiency that he is a veritable writer.   Unlike writers who will only anticipate and appreciate what the authority is saying and write without quizzical or analyzing the concept comprehensive.  Overall, the book by Lebuso gives courage and motivation that writers should not only think about writing to be loved and seek favour from the men who are in power.  Writers by obligation are assigned to ventilate their opinion freely and produce genuine literature that is fair and arresting. 

the late Mr Lebuso as an ardent African who was passionately fond about Africa and its culture never allows being allured by the concept of African Renaissance while African values are in limbo and malpractice.   He strongly questions democracy which according to him affects African values and culture.  Primarily, he based his argument on the decline of family values of Africa and the lack of discipline among the Africans.  Although he is not antagonistic towards democracy but albeit, he is strongly discontented with its insipid and sub-standard practice.   Mainly, he emphasised that democracy advocates certain rights of other people like women and children and neglects men’s rights.  To reiterate; the book is not a fiction but its main point is based on democratic South Africa which is the strong proponent of 'African Renaissance'. 

Specifically, Lebuso apparently believes that men (as opposed to women) have no place in a democratic society as his rights are wholly suppressed and not recognized.  This is what he narrates in the “General Introduction” of his book.  “I am getting worried when I see so many children living in such terrible conditions especially nowadays for they are being abandoned mostly by Fathers because of an obvious reason:  Men being denied their rights of parenthood.”  Lebuso make us to look on these things very seriously and apparently what is saying is what is happening.  Did democracy bring a change that is satisfactory among the people of Africa or it is another force that intends to eliminate Africa?  However, what is extraordinary about the author is his brilliant savvy which he displays with great prowess, to include other people's views over the issue of African Renaissance in his book.

Moreover, in the book we read how the author conducted his interviews to find more from the people regarding the idea of African Renaissance.  In fact the interviews are necessarily exquisite as we see how people express their opinion unequivocally.  This range of interviews took place from different places, public place, shebeen, with men, women, young and old furnishing superlative answers about African Renaissance.  All responded with gusto to questions Mr Lebuso so eager to hear.

(A few excerpts)

Preliminary Conversation

Q    Mr Mbena, could you please explain what you understand by African culture?

 A    By African culture I understand a culture of discipline when a child was a child and a woman a woman, when a man was a man not a ‘child’ like today.

African Renaissance Conversation

LEBUSO (sitting beside two rather young ladies – greetings)

My sisters, can you believe I’m going around asking for people’s views on ‘African Renaissance’ what do you feel?

First Lady:  (pausing) African Renaissance.  That thing of our president?  I’m not sure I have thought seriously about it; life is about struggle.

Second Lady:  Come on!  Surely you must have an opinion.  I mean.  To me the aspect is all about the best features of original African culture.  Maybe you might call it ubuntu.  Like in the old days, our people hardly indulged in crimes.  Human life was sacred.  Strangers were welcomed into every house – there was fun.  Now, we are all scared of strangers.  It’s tougher for we women, as we might be molested or abused.  If we can go back to the past there will be human dignity.  At least much better than nowadays.

Final Conversation

LEBUSO:  Negritude?

BOLAJI:  Yes, quite a number of decades ago beloved, in Francophone countries here in Africa there was thing intriguing movement called negritude.  Pride in our past, our heritage, culture, that sort of thing.  Great writers like the late Leopold Senghor, Camara Laye, etc. contributed greatly to this movement.  Pan African movements meeting were organized. 

African Renaissance Anti-Clockwise has something important and stupendous to offer.  To divulge further; it is a book that adapts with times.  The book is logical and outstanding.  The book is the profound example of how writers should be and think.  Although colonialism had done great damage to Africa it does not mean that facts must be ignored about our own African leaders who are corrupt and uncaring about Africa.

It is important to apprehend that independence of African continent need not to be view as an Alpha and Omega or some sort of Manna from Heaven.  It should be known that writing in Africa never began with the advent of colonialism and it never ultimately ends with the eventual dismantling of colonialism.  Therefore writers through their hard work should not expect things will always be as good as anticipated, but they should be consciously ready for any circumstances, whether good or bad, even to face prison if it is possible - just for the love of words.

Africa, I believe,  must be gladly delightful at what many pundits will consider to be a magnum opus book - i.e African Renaissance Anti-Clockwise by Pule Lebuso.
- Ishmael Mzwandile Soqaga

IF ONLY I LISTENED

A short story by Teboho Masakala

It was a cold night in June, with the onset of withering winter and everybody dressed warmly and all in their homes safe and warm. Right there in the town of Roadridge there was a family which was sitting around the fire, with the father perched on the chair holding his daughter on his lap and telling her stories while the mother was busy washing the dishes.

“Now the story comes to an end,” said the father”

“But Dad I want to hear more stories,” said the young girl.

“No Lucia! It’s time to go to sleep “said the father.

“But dad” the girl started again.

“Okay Lucia it’s bedtime, but before that you should first take a bath” said the mother, Elizabeth, firmly. Thereafter Lucia went to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. “OK Christopher, there was no need to be so ‘impolite’ with the child” said Elizabeth with a smile.

“But honey I wasn’t so bad,” Christopher retorted with a smile too.

After some minutes Lucia had done with her bath and was on her way to bed. ,” DAD! I’m done” said Lucia. “Okay honey I’m coming,” replied the father.

Moments later Christopher put Lucia to bed and sung her a lullaby like he always did. Moments after singing, he said to her “My dear child, will you promise me something?’ “What dad? What can I promise?” said Lucia.

“Promise me that you will always listen to your mother, respect her, always do what she says,” said Christopher.” I promise I will dad and I swear I will” said Lucia,” Good girl, and here is a little teddy-bear doll as a gift to you my child” said Christopher smiling, “Thanks dad, I love you” said Lucia. He kissed his daughter on the forehead and went to bed.

One Sunday morning Christopher became sick and was coughing and Elizabeth helped him to bed. “My dear Chris what’s wrong?” said Elizabeth. “I am sick the doctor said that I have a lung problem”said Christopher and he was coughing. Elizabeth and Lucia who loved him so much began to cry, but Christopher told them to stop crying. Lucia went to her room and began crying. The days went by and Christopher was close to dying. Ultimately he called Lucia and Elizabeth; and he said to Elizabeth: “My dear love, you know that I love you right?”
“Yes I know” the distraught lady replied.

“Please take care of Lucia,”

“I will” promised Elizabeth. Then Christopher said to Lucia “Remember what you promised me,” “I do remember dad” said Lucia.

“I can now rest in peace,” said Christopher. He looked at them and died. Elizabeth and Lucia cried all day long.

The funeral passed and Elizabeth and Lucia were all alone in the house, they looked at Christopher’s pictures crying disconsolately.

Time passed, and presently Elizabeth said to Lucia “My child, tomorrow you are starting high school, please make sure you make your dad proud because he is watching over you and know that he is with you in spirit “.

“I will mom and I promise you” said Lucia and she kissed her mum on her cheeks and went to her room.

Monday was the first day of the school and Lucia was already dressed up for school, agog with excitement. “Today is your big day,” said Elizabeth, “Thanks mum” said Lucia. Lucia told her mother to take her to school and she did so. As Elizabeth was about to return home from the school premises, Lucia said to her, “Mom I love you”. “Me too” said Elizabeth and she went home.

Lucia was on her way to class and she saw two girls looking at her. They came to her and one of them said “Hello, my name is Sharon and this is Emily…welcome to SYDNEY TL High School” “Thanks” said Lucia shyly; then the three of them went to class and they were introduced to their attractive teacher, MR MARVELLOUS CRAIG.

Lucia’s first day at school went well and she told her mother all about it and her mother said to her: “Lucia, please behave yourself at school, be aware of bad friends and always pray,” said Elizabeth.

“I will mum. I promise,” and Lucia went to sleep in her room and was excited about her day at school.

The following day at school, Sharon and Emily, now close to Lucia went to her with Emily saying: “I have a party tomorrow, it will be fun!”

“But I can’t go, my mum will kill me,” said Lucia.

“Don’t be a chicken, you are in high school now” said Sharon, “or you can sneak out during the night,” Then they went to the class and as MR MARVELLOUS CRAIG was busy teaching, he looked at Lucia and smiled at her. Lucia smiled back shyly and Emily and Sharon noticed everything. They said to Lucia “MR MARVELLOUS is a fine guy, a nice guy, if he comes and proposes to you, just say yes…”

Lucia winced. “But I am too young to be in love” said Lucia.

“Don’t worry Lucia. MR MARVELLOUS is very rich and will take care of you” said Emily. The school was out, and Lucia was back at home and her mother Elizabeth, as if sensing something, said to her:

“Lucia, you are my only child. Please beware of bad friends, please”

“I will” said Lucia. The next day at school Lucia was with Emily because Sharon was not at school; she said to Lucia “Come to a house party at Monica’s place tomorrow”

“NO!!” said Lucia.

“Oh you are afraid of Mummy” said Emily and she laughed. She teased the young lady in front of her now blossoming into a very attractive female.

“I will come’ said Lucia in the end.

And after school MR MARVELLOUS went to Lucia and proposed her and she found herself agreeing. Sadly she had forgotten what her mother said. Lucia started going to parties, sneaking out at night and lying to her mother. Lucia would tell her mother that she was going to study but she would wait for her mother to sleep and then go out through the window and come back later at night.

At school “Marvelous” came to Lucia and he said to her “Come to the party and I will be there”

“I will my love” she said, now having a crush on him. She kissed MR MARVELLOUS on the lips. Sharon and Emily knew that Lucia and Marvelous were now close. “I love him because he gives me money” Lucia told them, “you know my father is dead”

“Just accept the money, my friend” Sharon said and they told Lucia to come to the party and because Marvelous will be there. Lucia now met with Marvelous after school.

Elizabeth called Lucia one Saturday morning and said to her. “My child, many girls are pregnant and some are dead, please promise me that you that you won’t be one of them and that you will take care of yourself and love yourself”

“I will mum,” said Lucia guiltily, knowing that she was no longer a model daughter. Yet her mother now kissed her on the cheeks and forehead.

The grand party arrived and Lucia told her mother that she was going to read, but she wanted her mother to go to sleep so that she could go to the party. Elizabeth went to the study room and saw Lucia apparently reading - not knowing that she was pretending and she went to sleep. When Lucia saw that her mother was sleeping, she got out of the window and went to the party.

At the party Lucia met Emily and Sharon and Mr. Marvelous was there and he saw Lucia looking at him and called her. Lucia was tentatively shy, but Sharon said: “Your man is calling you, go now,

“OK my sugar daddy needs me! See you girls,” Lucia quipped.

When they were together Marvelous said to Lucia “Come with me and I will show you something” Marvelous took Lucia to the backroom and made love to her. Lucia was in a whirl as she went back to the party. She confessed to Emily and Sharon that she had slept with Marvelous.

As time went on, Lucia started feeling unusual but thought it would go away, but it didn’t. Elizabeth noticed something wrong about her but she thought her daughter was just gaining weight and she carried on with her life.

After two months Lucia found out that she was pregnant and that Mr. Marvellous was the father of her un-born child, and told her friends about her status. Emily and Sharon said brusquely: “It’s your fault that you slept with him and it’s up to you to see what you do with the baby”

“I thought you guys were my friends!?” sighed Lucia in despair. They laughed all together and said “You are on your own, we are not friends with pregnant people”. They left her alone and told the whole school about her pregnancy and that Mr. Marvellous was the father.

Lucia’s world came crashing down on her and she felt all alone. She told Mr. Marvellous that she was pregnant and that he was the father of her un-born child. “What?!” exclaimed Mr. Marvellous. “I have kids and a wife, now you are telling me that I’m the father of your baby? You want to destroy me!” With his rage he slapped Lucia in the face and by so doing he left for his car leaving her standing on her own.

The next day Lucia did not go to school. She did not know how to tell her mother that she was pregnant but instead she locked her self up in her room crying and crying. She knew what her mom’s reaction to the news would be. At a distance, Elizabeth heard Lucia weeping and came rushing to her room which was unfortunately was locked. “Lucia, Lucia open the door honey” “No, I don’t want to” “Honey but why not?” “Just go away, I have disgraced you Mama”

“Open the door for me, PLEASE!!!” “I won’t”. And Lucia cried even more loudly. Elizabeth had heard enough. With all her might she slammed her rotund body on the door until it opened and she gained entry into her daughter’s room. “Lucia, what did you do, tell mommy what’s wrong” “Mom, I did not honor my promise to you and dad” “how my child, tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can be of aid”.

With her imagination going wild it was hard for Lucia to murmur the words, but she finally said “Mom I’m…..I’m pregnant”

“You…..you….Lucia you are what?!!!”

“I’m pregnant and the father is none other than my school teacher. And he’s very angry with me too”.

With the thoughts of how her daughter disgraced her, Elizabeth started to cry. “I told you to behave and you went out and slept with your teacher, why? Why did you do this? And Elizabeth looked at Lucia and cried.

Lucia went to the kitchen and took out a knife. “Put that knife down” said Elizabeth. “No mother, I am killing myself” said Lucia with determination. “No, don’t” said Elizabeth

“Bye mom” said Lucia pointing the knife on herself, “No we can talk about this, you are my only child Lucia, please don’t kill yourself” said Elizabeth.

“Bye Mom” reiterated Lucia, a glint in her eyes. She stabbed herself on the stomach and blood came out, and she fell, face down on the floor. Elizabeth, screaming shrilly, looked at her muttering “IF ONLY YOU LISTENED”

Lucia cried, “I am sorry mother”. She closed her eyes and died, blood dripping from her lifeless body, Elizabeth cried a lot because her only child was dead. She stood there looking Lucia, tears coming out of her eyes, “If only you had listened, my child” said Elizabeth, and she continued crying because she knew that her only child will never come back to her. She tore her dress and covered the face of Lucia and continued crying. The horror, pain and distress, was too much for her. A few minutes later, she had a heart attack and also died.
Copyright Teboho Masakala

HOW DO I TALK ABOUT MY ORDEAL?

Book: How do I talk about my Ordeal?
Author: Maxwell Perkins Kanemanyanga
 
Review by Paul Lothane

This work, How Do I talk about my Ordeal? follows on the heels of the author’s first book, Enemy of the State (2009). This new book reinforces the literary fecundity of the author, Maxwell Perkins Kanemanyanga.

Kanemanyanga has the penchant to produce works that are somewhat didactic, with moralistic undertones. It is no surprise that this continues in this new work, starting with the Introduction. This gratuitous, sometimes irritating approach can be seen from when Gogo spouts the following to a nurse in the very first story:

“But gogo tell me, what is wrong with our society today?” nurse Sibanda asked gogo maMoyo as they were waiting for the results.

“Uh, it’s not easy. You children of today don’t listen to your elders anymore. You say you went to school and us we know nothing. But look at me; I have seen my grandchildren, something that you are failing to do. You are dying young. Go to the cemeteries you will see what I am talking about. Born 1980, died 2000, born 1981 died 2009, born 1985 died 2010. During our time we learnt how to cook like our mothers but now you, learn to drink like your fathers. The young men are like bulls. They leave babies all over they go. The first born is in Bloemfontein, second born in Eastern Cape, the third born in Polokwane all with different mothers. How do you survive this disease? Your children grow up without guidance, because they don’t know their fathers. Every day they are introduced to a different man saying he is your father. A child needs a moral compass. That means instilling a sense of right and wrong. The moral compass for children is their parent’s behaviour. Unfortunately for you children of today, family is no longer important and that is very bad. By the time you will you realize this most of you will be dead.”

An ominous forecast. Yet despite her horrifying ordeal, Maze the young lady violated in the opening story manages to go on with life. As the aphorism points out “As they say the axe that cuts quickly forgets but the tree that was cut will never forget.”

Yet this initial story, like others, goes on and on to the point of becoming tedious. One gets the impression that perhaps this story should have been further developed into something like a novella.

Once again, fine expressions intermittently come to the fore and are lavished on us; the display of eclectic knowledge and references still predominate; eg “She remembered one of the best statements from William Shakespeare’s books and tears began to flow on her pretty face. “The liquid drops of tears that you have shed shall come again, transformed to orient pearl advantaging their loan with interest of ten times double again of happiness.” And the likes of Martin Luther King Jnr are quoted with relish too.

We have what comes close to true pathos in the story “Beautiful Ghost” as a woman is abused and humiliated by her husband. “One night she heard her husband arguing with another woman in the next room. What else could she do anymore? Was it because she was dying? But she had always been there for him. In the dawn of that same night Janet passed away in the arms of her mother whilst, her husband was sleeping in the arms of another woman. She died with a heavy painful heart.” This is heart-rending.

Yet the story is a rather disjointed one that can easily confuse, with the didactic fulminations once again overdone, and the authorial intrusions sometimes jarring. The author wants to make a point here, and certainly does so.

The story, “Baby from the plastic” might have been a success, but once again it is marred by the author’s penchant to go on and on -even including a long discourse on football, Arsene Wenger and his regime at Arsenal. It is clear the author loves football. But here in this context it comes across as gratuitous, over-stretched and even boring.

By and large, this is an impressive work by Maxwell Kanemanyanga; his commitment to his art, his principles (even if overdone to the extent of marring his artistic level), and his love for general knowledge have to be commended.

Kanemanyanga started his literary career by publishing two books of short stories. Many in the literary fraternity will now reckon that his next step should be a novel or at least a novella. In these days where when imaginative writing is thin on the ground at grassroots level, one can not but wish Mr. Kanemanyanga all the best.

BO NAKA DI MARIPA

Book Review by Pule Lechesa

Book: Bo naka di maripa

Author: TSELISO MASOLANE

 

The multi-faceted Sesotho Literary Museum Curator, Tseliso Masolane has published his scintillating Sesotho poetry anthology titled; Bo naka di maripa equally translated in English as Life is rigmarole.

It is discernible that the title of the book is quite apposite and prudently chosen as Masolane’s poems chronicle many facets of life’s complexities. It can be rightly regarded as a must read, a page-turner, coherent, didactic and thought-provoking to boot.

I want to briefly draw readers’ attention to one of such thought-provoking and morally charging poems which is Kgowanatshwana, meaning in street lingo a “Coconut.” In this poem the poet laments the manner in which some blacks now raise their children, allowing them to behave like disrespectful euro-centric children. The first stanza reads thus in Sesotho:

KGOWANATSHWANA

Ka re ke dumedisa ngwana ka hlollwa,

Ngwana a mpuela se bodila sa metsing,

A re “kutmoning nika,” yaka ke a lora,

Ngwana ke enwa e se e le kgowanatshwana.

You know what, experience has taught me that the quintessence of the original message is often and inevitably lost in the translation. Nevertheless for the sake of my English speaking readers I deem it fit to attempt to translate some of these Sesotho poems and sentences that I referred to into English:

COCONUT

Exchange of greetings with a boy left me gaping,

Replied he disrespectfully in whites’ odd language,

He to mine chagrin said: “Good morning Nigger!”

This seemed like I was caught up in some sort of reverie,

Black outside and white inside, a typical coconut child.

After reading this poem the well-tutored reader’s mind might well go to Franz Fanon’s ideology, simply couched here as a reluctance of many Blacks to make “a constant effort to avoid their true selves, their individuality; to annihilate their identity as black.” Seemingly, the poet shares Fanon’s sentiment as his deep-seated concern is that so many blacks no longer teach their children to speak their mother tongues eloquently and love their culture.

According to the poet, his friend’s children converse in English with their nasal passages bizarrely twisted. They all have English names such as Macdonald, Marry Anne and so forth. It is didactic as it teaches us that this situation must be nipped in the bud. His worry is that our culture is fast deteriorating amidst the youth.

It is also worth mentioning that the poet’s poems have echoes of some of the great panjandrums of Sesotho literature such as Winston Mohapi, Dr KPD Maphalla, Jim Mokoena and many others. You can also see that some of his poems were influenced by prevailing socio-political aspects.

Poems such as Sekehela tsebe (Be all ears!), Tau ya leloko la Rantsho (The lion of Azania) and Mofoka (Kind of creature) are protest poems.

BAHALE BA RONA

Phororong tsa madi a bana ba batho,

Ka bona mefehelo le menyepetsi,

Ha ata dikgutsana lenyenenyene,

Bahlolohadi ba tlala ntlo,

Ba re bakela mahlomola.

Fatsheng lena la manyampetla sethala,

Ho sutha dikakapa natla tsa ho tshetjwa,

Ho ketoha dikgabane ho sala mofoka,

Bona bo nthofela, baqabanyi le mahata.

Tsenene ya lefu tjhatjhametsa nna,

Ke mpe ke ye badimong kgotso e hlahe,

Hoba ho wa dikwankwetla tsa setjhaba mofela,

Ho sala rona bohaholetho, melora.

Mmokeng wa dingangele bo okanketsang,

Moo ho setseng rona methwaela,

Bo nna ha ke tsebe ke a fihla,

Leha ditaba di le mosenekeng ho le thata,

Pelong tsa rona le ke ke la hlakoha.

Meya ya bora ya hwasa ya tlala lefatshe,

Moo ho setseng rona methwaela,

Bo nna ha ke tsebe ke a fihla,

Leha ditaba di le mosenekeng ho le thata,

Pelong tsa rona le ke ke la hlakoha

Lona batshireletsi ba setjhaba boreng,

Maphelong a rona le tla dula le phela,

Eyang ka kgotso Moreneng,

Lona bahale ba rona.

The English version reads thus:

OUR MARTYRS!

Torrential blood of Azania’s sons and daughters!

I witnessed melancholy and the shedding of tears,

Unprecedented escalation of orphaned children,

Respective households teeming with hapless widows,

They brought about excruciating agony in our lives.

This earth is abounding with escalated mystification,

Trustworthy gallant men continually pass on like flies,

They die, paradoxically, leaving behind simpletons,

The typical nonentities, evokers of war and liars.

Pain inflicted on me by claws of death is unfathomable,

Let me die so that mine death can let peace prevail!

Gallant men are becoming few, snatched by death,

It is only the useless ones who are left, ashes.

In the courtyard of pig-headed people, quasi-brave men,

The marvelous wisdom of the wise men is divulged,

In the abyss of the murderers’ heart oozes abhorrence,

The abhorrence capable of killing the quintessential heroes.

The wicked souls are gangling to imbue the whole earth,

Courtyard left with few fatuous men with coward’s proclivity,

Those refusing to be drawn into the status quo,

When the pawpaw hit the fan – in the middle of warfare,

Your names shall for keeps be engraved in our hearts.

To you who protect our nation against the enemies!

In our respective lives you will remain alive eternally,

Fare thee well! Go in peace to the Living Lord,

You our gallant martyrs! 

This poem adumbrates the words of Winston Churchill: “I see the damage done by the enemy’s attacks but I also see… the spirit of unconquered people.”

Churchill uttered these words during the Blitz of May 1941, 681 German planes dropped 870 tones of high explosives and 112, 000 incendiaries on the city of Liverpool. Some 1,700 Liverpoolians died in the bombardment of May 1-7 and 76,000 were made homeless, and this was only one week raids which lasted from 1940 to January 1942 and killed around 4,000 people of Liverpool, Bootle and Worrall, injured 3,500 and destroyed 10,000 homes.

The rapt reader is also likely to be somewhat confused when the poet apparently starts wishing himself dead! I do not know how the poet’s death will bring about peace in the world. 

Tswere Mohlakeng (Serinus Canicollia) poem has an aphoristic crispness which co-exists with the remarkable metaphors (Yare di kopane dihlopha kwana Kapa, Nthabiseng ntswe la makatsa ditjhaba, Makgowa a ema matlotlosiya a makala, Bo-Aunoi ba hlollwa yaka ba a lora Stanza 13 The nations had gathered in Cape Town, When Nthabiseng’s melodious voice hypnotized people, Whites assembled in disbelief, Old whites marveled at this dream like scenery.) 

I must confess that some of the poems appear to be weakened and attenuated by the poet’s choice of titles. Let us study another of the poems, Toka e kae which somewhat lacks lucidity.

The poet recounts his complaint and his humiliation in court by the magistrate and the court orderly.

TOKA E KAE

Ka kena la pele kgotla ka hlollwa,

Kgabane purapera ke tse ntsho ka nkane,

Meriri e bosweu ba lehlwa,

Ruri mona ke sa tla bona disala.

Motho a kena ra kgahlapetswa,

Ha thwe: ‘‘Kaofela raohang bo!’’

Athe disono ha re na le lebe, le kgotso,

Re mpa re panyapanya ka kgotso.

Enwa ke ya jwang motho,

Ya hlonetjhwang hakale ke ditjhaba?

Bohale ba hae bona ke ba tau,

O kgaruma hang kahlolo ya be e dihilwe,

Banna bonang meleko e a latela,

Motho o ikana a ba a hlapanya,

A kopa ho ba hae badimo ba mo thuse,

Hoba mona ho batlwa nnete feela.

Eseng jwale ke fihlile lehodimong,

Ke moo batho ba phahamisa a matona matshoho,

Ba re Modimo a ba thuse ba bue nnete,

Ena nnete ke e jwang e tshweu ka mmala.

Thakamphato kahlolo ke e boima,

Ho thwe o tla shwella tjhankaneng lefifing,

Hoba o ile a sheba aunoi hampe,

Ke re na toka e kae?

WHERE IS JUSTICE?

Mine first appearance in a court of law mystified me,

Legal luminary was clad in his must wear black cassock,

His hair was evidently as white as the snow,

Gosh! There is no doubt I am yet to see miracles.

The legal luminary entered and we were ill-treated,

The court orderly callously shouts: ‘‘All rise in court!’’

We feeble ones worried not as we had done nothing bad, cruel;

We just twinkled our eyes with a peace of mind.

What kind of creature is this one,

Creature respected by the whole nations?

He is as fierce as the wounded lion,

He roars and in a jiffy the judgment is passed,

Brethren, look the worst are still haunting us,

One swears to speak the truth by heaven and earth

Begging his ancestors to come to his aid

As this place confession of nothing but the truth matters

Maybe I am in God’s heaven,

People are raising their right hand to take an oath,

They ask God to help them speak” nothing, nothing but the truth,”

What kind of truth is this fabricated one.

Our beloved fellow got a heavy sentence,

He has been condemned to die in prison

For just ogling at a white woman with Cain’s eye,

Where is justice? 

The core of this poem is the imprisonment of a black man who was tried for looking at a white woman in a “suspicious” way. This act warrants a bout of acute injustice. How can a person be given the death penalty for such a petty crime? The reader would have appreciated more light being shed on the real injustice.

To expect any change in the status quo would be to infringe the legal principle or court procedures. The poet spent much time talking about the court procedures instead on dwelling on the injustice that the accused faced.

Many purists will maintain that it is not right for us to borrow from other languages. Whenever the writer does that he/she must make sure that the pertinent word or phrase is put in inverted commas, or italicized. This is evidence of some laxity on the part of the author here.

The following words, to mention but a few, were in inverted commas: talente – talent,Diwarante- Warrant, Sapina – subpoena, areste – arrest, Akhuse - accused and so forth. 

The words such as Bikishoto (Big Shot), and Saemane (Summon letter) are unfortunately not italicized nor put in inverted comas, and that makes these words Sesotho words. Arguably the poet intermittently loses concentration which is a stylistic infelicity committed by many Sesotho writers who beef up their poems with street colloquy. 

The first black woman to publish a Sesotho poetry book called Bolebadi (forgetfulness) (Morija Printers 1951) Emily Selemeng Mokorosi made the same mistake of borrowing from other languages. This did not augur well with one of the pioneers of Sesotho literature; B.M Khaketla, and he does not mince his words in the preface of his book Dipshamathe (Educum Publishers 1952). 

Mr Khaketla expressed his disapproval of poets borrowing from the other foreign languages:“…dithothokiso di senngwa ke bohlaswa ba mongodi ka ho kenya mantswe a mangata a senyesemane, a sa hlokahaleng empa a Sesotho a ka hlalosang hantle seo mongodi a se bolelang a ntse a le teng.”

(…the poems are spoilt by the poet’s recklessness in borrowing many unnecessary words from the English language, borrowing words even though we have pertinent, more descriptive Sesotho words that could be used.) 

He went further to say “hona ho emisa mmadi hlooho, hoo a beng a makale hore na ha e le hore o bala reneketso ya Sesotho kapa ya Fanakalo, hoo e leng hona ke hofe.” (This baffles the reader and he or she winds up not knowing whether he is reading a Sesotho, English or Fanagalo poetry book or not.)

As general writers or critics, we have to be careful not to confuse or perturb our readers in this wise. On the whole, there is no denying the fact that the poet is linguistically gifted with complementary impressive diction. He brilliantly employs a wide range of literary devices in his pungent poetry.

TENTATIVE THOUGHTS ON LITERARY CRITICISM

By Raphael Mokoena

It is shocking the general ignorance that surrounds the sphere of literary criticism; which has actually been around for centuries. In Africa it is not uncommon to see some experienced writers, never mind highly educated people regarding literary criticism as a much despised, negative thing. It is not uncommon to hear critics even being called “failed, frustrated writers”

Criticism continues to cause hatred and divisions amongst many African writers who should know better. Some even go as far as claiming that it is ‘unAfrican”, as if books should only be praised and not evaluated in any way. The simple truth is that if our writers really want to be taken seriously or respected beyond their family or closest friends, they have to be criticised.

Unfortunately that is why so many African writers are completely ignored or not acknowledged in the real literary world. There are writers who claim to have published 2,3 and more books who have never been evaluated even in the mildest manner. Such are not genuine writers; they are at best ignorant dabblers. Why are some writers scared of criticism?

In the western world, books – and even movies – stand or fall according to criticism. If critics do not like a movie then it can result in financial disasters of loss of millions of dollars or pounds...writers whose books are given a pass mark will invariably have good sales and receive tremendous boost to their writing career. More important, such books will go down well during the passage of time for coming generations. The reviews, criticisms etc will in many cases out-last the physical book itself.

Let us go back to a few early African books published which history has now deemed great successes. Amos Tutuola’s The palmwine drinkard was published overseas many decades ago, and nobody seemed to take note initially. Then a well known poet, Dylan Thomas chanced to read the book and praise it! Almost overnight his critical opinion pushed the book into an African classic and Tutuola into one of the all-time great African writers. Without Dylan writing about the work, the book will probably have been forgotten quickly. Other writers like Chinua Achebe and Ayi Kwei Armah received incredible boosts from early positive reviews too...decades after such reviews were published they still appear on the blurbs of reprints of these books!

Another interesting thing is that despite what some might claim that critics are “frustrated writers”, a large number of them, perhaps even virtually all of them are successful or distinguished writers. Such is the case in Africa too. Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ngugi, Molara Ogundipe, Es’kia Mphahlele, Njabulo Ndebele, Lewis Nkosi etc are/were excellent writers as well as literary critics too.

Still staying in Africa, why do we regard such writers as outstanding anyway? The real reason is because their books have attracted tremendous critical attention. Whenever we try to do research on them we realise there already exist so many studies published on them. Writers like Achebe, Es’kia, Ngugi, Soyinka, Armah, Ndebele, Senghor, Bolaji, etc can boast of at least ten to twenty different critical books published on them.

Yet this, by world standards is actually nothing much! Great European or American writers like James Joyce, Samuel Becket, Virginia Woolf, Mark Twain, the Bronte sisters, etc have HUNDREDS of such critical books published on them. We need not imagine how many hundreds of books have been published on William Shakespeare! It is clear that the western world puts emphasis on critical appreciation of its writers. Hence their immortality and respect is assured for ever. So, why should Africans be scared of what would reinforce their literary legacy?

Okay, so there are “sympathetic” critics, and those who are more ruthless. I do not believe that even “ruthless” critics can destroy a book amongst discerning, intelligent readers. All the great writers have been ruthlessly criticised every now and then; and it even often generates more interest in a book. In South Africa a critic like Crystal Warren is obviously on the sympathetic side; whilst the late Lewis Nkosi, and the likes of Pule Lechesa can be categorised as “more stringent” (rather than ruthless!)

I grew up in the Free State and I am proud to say that the Province is one of the most vibrant in Africa when it comes to literary appreciation. Scores of reviews written by myself, Pule Lechesa, Paul Lothane, etc have found themselves in many journals and centres of literature around the world. The success or failure of any published work depends on how many reviews, studies it can attract; and Paul Lothane recently got it right when he wrote this about the work, Free State of Mind (Authors: Nthabiseng Jah Rose, Rita Chihawa and Lebo Leisa):

"...The book, Free State of mind has also been a critical success. The poetic work is the brainchild of Nthabiseng JahRose Jafta, Rita Chihawa and Lebo Leisa. It is a great achievement that the book has attracted positive reviews from literary figures like Bolaji, Hector Kunene, Mathene Mahanke, Napo Masheane, Sabata Mpho Mokae, Mpikeleni Duma, etc..."

I have not read the book,(Free State of mind) but after reading all the reviews of the work on the internet (even including that of Pule Lechesa), like everybody else I can say the book is very successful. That is the reality of literature. The academics call it the “oligarchic” approach – i.e those interested anywhere in the world will check whether there are any reviews etc of a book, read them, and form an opinion based on the majority.

And as for those writers who never attract any such reviews or criticisms, it is a shame indeed...

THE PYRRHIC VICTORY by Omoseye Bolaji

A short story by Omoseye Bolaji

Tebogo Mokoena was quite elated to see his old friend, Biggie - even as darkness encroached upon them. Tebogo was visiting "his" Botshabelo after a long time and to his shock had chanced to see Biggie. They had
agreed to have a drink to celebrate their serendipitous encounter!

Tebogo, more familiar with the terrain guided Biggie to a nearby pub hoping that it would still be open. "If Charles is there he'll keep the place open for us alright" he said. "Charles is the guy who takes care of the pub...cleans, serves people. A friendly, if lugubrious person,"

Biggie grinned. "Lugubrious, eh? That's a word I like!"

Charles was indeed delighted to see Tebogo and could hardly believe his eyes. "Ntate!" said he. "It's been a long time. I was just about to close this place...no customers...but now it'd be my pleasure to serve you.
How's your wife?"

"Khanyi is fine," Tebogo said. He knew Charles was most likely still alone; sadly in his relative poverty. So Tebogo just said: "And how's your boss? (the owner of the pub)"

Charles grimaced. "You know how it is. I am a slave, but no complaints..." He went on to serve both young men who were now ensconced behind one of the tables. As Tebogo took in the news briefly on a TV set, Biggie perused a newspaper.

"Come and join us," Tebogo said generously to Charles. "You are my malome and by rights you should be on your way home by now...let me buy you a drink...come and sit with us" Soon Charles was beside the other two, drinking.

Biggie suddenly laughed. "Hey Tebogo!" he said. "I have always liked this word, or rather phrase...the expression: pyrrhic victory, I'm sure you know what it means," Tebogo nodded.

"What's a pyrrhic victory?" Charles asked.

Tebogo replied: "I think it is a type of success, a type of victory so costly and terrible that one cannot be happy about it. Eh, Biggie?"

Biggie grinned. "Yes more or less. Legend dates it back to King Pyrrhus of Epirus who 'won' a war at such cost that he said something along the lines: 'if I have another victory like this I will be completely ruined and finished!'" He and Biggie laughed.

But Charles was strangely quiet; a saturnine, mournful expression on his face. His mien embarrassed the other two. Presently Charles said: "Pyrrhic eh? Interesting. It reminds me of my life, my fate. I never
told you before, Ntate Tebogo why my life was ruined. You can say it was a pyrrhic victory for me..."

Both men, startled and moved by the genuine pathos in Charles voice stared at him, listening as he went on: "You don't know my background, but for once I will talk about it. Obviously you must have heard from
others that I used to be quite comfortable, with a business I was doing - the family business I inherited. I had a decent house and cars. All was going well till I fell crazily in love - or lust - with a certain woman. She was the most beautiful, sensational woman I had ever met.

"The point is I told myself that I must have her at all costs. I was told by many that she was a mercenary, she ruined men with all her demands but I did not care. I was quite ready to be destroyed for this gorgeous woman to be my own. I did not care whether she liked or loved me or not. I just wanted her the way a man wants a woman...

"At the time I had the resources and set about the task. Although I had been warned she was a very 'expensive and greedy' woman I was still surprised at the extent of her greed. Nobody could buy so many useless expensive clothes etc and make financial demands like she. But as long as I kept on dishing out the money she pretended to like me and at a point even moved in with me. I got what I wanted - but at what cost!

"I neglected the company and spent all the profits and savings...but at that time I did not mind, so long as Betty - that's her accursed name - was with me. Well - the truth must be told (we are all men) it
got to a stage where I was bankrupt. Completely. Betty sensed this and started becoming hostile...to cut a very painful story short, she finally announced (when there was no more money to spend) that it was
better we ended it and just remained friends. Friends! Even that was a  lie; she could not wait to be rid of me!

"Meanwhile I lost everything...I was alienated from my family, my company liquidated, I lost the house, cars...everything. But this does not really pain me. What will always haunt me is the despicable way I
treated my mother when i was crazy over Betty. At a stage I heard my own mother cursed me. She died before I could make up with her. The funeral was hell a thousand times over for me as the story spread
about how I, extraordinary buffoon that I was, had let a woman destroy my life. It was terrible..." At this stage tears came into Charles' eyes.

Tebogo, always empathetic, turned his face away with sadness. Biggie seemed rooted to the spot, his face implacable and now rather haunted too. Almost unconsciously Tebogo squeezed Charles hand. Tebogo
thought: Everywhere men are complaining about how women are ruining and using them these days; I am so lucky to have a wonderful, good, caring wife. Poor Charles...

"Ah I was a laughing stock for years my friends..." Charles went on. "It is a pity when one is crazy over a woman one is just that - crazy. One becomes like a wilful dog refusing to heed the whistle of its owner...it is like a curse. I lost everything. I was close to suicide when two things happened to keep me alive somewhat: firstly a distant cousin of mine, knowing my plight gave me his small mukhukhu to stay in. It is a beastly, disgusting place, but I appreciate it. Then I was given this job by another man who had heard what had happened to me,"

Biggie was thinking that yes, Charles' plight was unfortunate but it was not the end of the world. He should move on. He is a defeated man psychologically, Biggie thought. That hang-dog expression of his and
the sickly, weak way he carried himself. What he needed was some spirit! Charles must bounce back!

Biggie said diplomatically: "Eh Ntate, you know it is not really the end of the world. Whilst we are still alive great things can happen to us again. At least you are still alive..."

Charles' mournful look became accentuated. "Actually I am not really alive. I am a dying man. There is no fight left in me. I must just wait till the inevitable end comes. You see, Betty also gave me aids...hiv...she herself died from it a couple of years ago,"

Tebogo winced. Biggie felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. Nobody deserves this, he thought.

Charles sighed. "So you see, I understand what a 'pyrrhic victory' can be. I wanted Betty at all costs...I got her, and I was ruined in the process. Suke..."