Zukiswa Wanner

Chapter 4

 Sli, on the other hand, continues to blame my eventual fall from grace on alcohol. She says my family seems to have serious issues with the substance and whenever we consume a certain amount we go over the top. She went even further one day when she was cross and said it had something to do with my hotnot genes, though I always believe the genetic excuse is nothing but a cop-out. But she is a doctor. And she knows more about these things than I do. Maybe she is on to something there. Didn’t one of my maternal cousins roll on her baby and kill him when he was a mere three months old while she was drunk? So maybe Sli could be right.

Personally, though, I often choose to blame my mother. She did not drink, why then had she never told us not to drink? Surely the reason she did not drink was because she noticed a family history of bad relationships with alcohol? And lately I have been watching Oprah. Blaming your parents is very valid.

But most of the time I blame me. It was all because of me that I got into a fight with some American R&B star at an After Party. There, I have said it.

Mea culpa, as the old Catholics would say.

But at the end of the day, alcohol or no alcohol, I would still do the same thing today. So here is what happened.

I am sitting with my woman at this party and this retard of a singer tries to come on to Sli, right? He absolutely ignores me and comes up and stands right in front of Sli on those tall bar stools and says, ‘Wattup, shortie? We hevin’ a drink in my penthouse later, wanna join us?’

The man’s lines were as lame in person as they were on stage. There was no doubt about it, he was his own pathetic songwriter. I had only gone to the concert because I had free VIP passes and Sli thought the guy was good. Ja, whatever. But, who did this takalani think he was and what right did he have to come and shine his gold tooth at my woman and think because his ass was coming from the US he could disrespect the men out here?

I tried to be cool, you know, said to him before Sli could answer, ‘She is with me, man,’ hoping he would respect that.

But no. The fool of a singer looked me up and down a couple of times and instead of apologising said, ‘Well, if she is with you she only got to say so, ain’t she, dog?’

Okay. Perhaps I had had one too many and wasn’t inclined to tolerate crap. Especially from a man who knew no boundaries with other men’s women.

I answered loudly, ‘I am not your dog, man. Maybe your mother is. A female one at that.’

By now everyone was openly staring and trying to see where this was going.

‘What did you say about my momma, man?’ Then, turning to one of his bodyguards, ‘Did he just say something about my momma, dogg?’

The guard nodded, starting something.

By then Sli had stood up and was pulling my hand, ‘Asivaye, Mfundo, leave this shit alone.’

‘Yeah, man, go with your bitch before you embarrass yourself.’ Motor mouth singer clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. Everyone had formed a semi-circle around us by that time and I knew it was now a matter of honour. This boy had not only disrespected me but had also had the nerve to call the woman I loved with everything in me, the woman I hoped to be the mother to my children one day, my girlfriend, a bitch. Jozi is my home and I would never have been able to walk it with my head held high if I had let him get away with it. And heaven knows, Johannesburg is small enough as it is. What’s a man to do? I mean, really!

I stood up, to my full six foot two frame, then threw a lightning punch at the American singer, who did not see what was coming to him. The loudmouth fell on the floor like a sack of potatoes and then I remember stepping on him with my canvas boots. Sli says it took four men to remove me from the poor guy, whose broken jaw ensured he would not go to play his Durban and Cape Town legs of the concert. The promoter, a well-known bigwig in the music industry, was furious.

He came up to me as I was walking out with Sli and said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, ‘I don’t care how brilliant a trumpeter you are. Your sorry ass is finished in this town and I will make sure you never play again, you little arsehole.’

Perhaps that’s when I overreacted. I shoved him out of the way, according to Sli, saying, ‘Fuck you and fuck your little American boy, and if you come in my face again, I will mess you up worse than your little boy over there.’

That led to my fifteen minutes of fame.

For the next week, breakfast shows on all the leading radio stations were asking listeners to call in with different opinions on the fight.

From one famous DJ, ‘How much disrespect should Africans take from Americans?’ Which ended up spinning out of control with callers talking of American tourists in Cape Town. Another asked, ‘If it were your woman, what would you have done?’ And from a female DJ who caught a lot of flak with her two-part question: ‘Does Violence Solve Anything? In Our Already Volatile Society, Shouldn’t Mfundo Dlamini Have Walked Away?’

With that one fight, I had single-handedly managed to blow the telephone budgets of a whole lot of offices. The country was on my side from the Cape to Beit Bridge. And many also agreed that I was a brilliant trumpeter, a Kippie incarnate.

Only problem was, no one was brave enough to want to cross swords with the music promoter and business mogul known as Emzee. He had made a pronouncement in everyone’s hearing, and it would be foolish for anyone to try to go against his stated wishes. In one week, I had got my fifteen minutes of fame and ended up with nothing to show for it. Well, except for when the media decided to give Emzee the platform on the fight, which ended with me being labelled Moegoe of the Week in one of the Sunday tabloids he co-owned.

I remember it. It read: Moegoe of the Week: Mfundo Dlamini. Violence does not solve anything. A woman is not taken, she goes, you moegoe. As if I didn’t know that. Of course I know a woman is not taken, but a man does not disrespect another in a crowd.

Do I have any regrets?

Yes. I regret that I broke only one jaw of lenja leyo.

But I was in a fix now, ke. My musical career had come to a screeching halt. I decided I would continue practising and writing tunes at home and also see how many underground free gigs I could take part in. After all, it was rumoured that it was only a matter of time before Emzee died. Z3, it was whispered by those in the know. I would bide my time and as soon as Emzee died, people would be beating a path to my door. I just knew it.

According to statistics, Kwazulu-Natal has the highest HIV prevalence in the country. And it’s all because of that old rogue and founder of the powerful Zulu nation, King Shaka. It was he, you see, who decided that young Zulu men should not waste the kingdom’s time going to circumcision schools but should rather use that time training for the army so that mfecane could be done and done well. Fortunately for the province of Kwazulu-Natal, a progressive monarch is now in power. King Goodwil Zwelithini knows that the warriors are no longer necessary thanks to the SANDF and therefore has seen fit to ‘turn HIV to HI Victory’. Women all over KZN must be celebrating because men will be getting circumcised again thereby reducing the chances of infecting them. KZN Premier, Zweli Mkhize agrees, but in order to avoid the many deaths and the botched circumcisions in the Eastern Cape that make ‘men who are not men,’ to paraphrase a certain Mr. Mgqolozana’s book, young men will get circumcised at government hospitals until legal circumcision schools are up and running – hopefully by June, in time for 2010 World Cup (I am not sure whether soccer tourists who are keen to undergo the experience can be accommodated).

I sure hope it works. Yeah I know I sound a tad negative but I just lost a circumcised relation to an HIV-related illness. The way I hear it, he may have got infected after his circumcision. Word has it that Vuyo (that was his name) spent the celebratory post-circumcision night with a girl who most people but he, knew was infected with the illness. I certainly hope that the Eastern Cape of ‘cleansing’ oneself after circumcision is not the same as the KZN way otherwise there might be little change in the rate of infection. Also, is his Highness really certain that there will not be opportunistic folks who will set up circumcision schools with little or no experience after June and cause botched circumcisions a la Eastern Cape?

Given the number of HIV orphans we have in the country, I personally welcome any initiative that reduces this scourge, as I am sure the rest of South Africa does but perhaps the monarch needs to add circumcision to other solutions? Like say for instance, discouraging 70 year old males from taking a fifth wife who is 19 years old and generally discouraging multiple partners?  

And then again what do I know? I am uncultured.

PS – I wonder whether this means my male Zulu friends will now be abducted a la Fikile so that they can go entabeni?!?!

Ah  but for absolutes. There was a time I would tell all and sundry with a semblance of pride that I do NOT read crime fiction. In retrospect, I do not recall why I said that with pride. Perhaps it was because my idea of crime fiction up until then was James Hadley Chase who I could not relate to. Enter the new phase of African crime fiction and I cannot get enough of it. Angela Makholwa’s Red Ink, Margie Orford’s Clare Hart trilogy, My Brother’s Keeper by Jassy Mackenzie and now I have just finished reading Mukoma wa Ngugi’s Nairobi Heat and I am a convert and not ashamed to yell it on the mountains.  African crime fiction rocks. And it is of the last book that I blog about today.

Meet black American detective Ishmael, a man stuck between a rock and a hard place as he has to investigate the death of an unknown girl found on the steps of an African professor in a wealthy neighbourhood of Madison, Wisconsin.  In the white world that Ishmael inhabits, the perpetrator of the crime must be brought to book, and soon. Because, this is not just a death. It’s the death of a white girl. Those poor whites of America, the Ku Klux Klan, have already started making a noise and they want answers just as much as the white liberals.  As Ishmael says of the quandary he finds himself in, ‘if I was to give advice to black criminals I would tell them this:  do not commit crimes against white people because the state will not rest until you are caught.’ He knows he is racing against time as the heat is on for his boss, the first black police chief in the county.   And yet the professor seems clean. He is, after all, revered the world over for having rescued many people from the Rwandese atrocities and for being a founder of an NGO that now looks after the victims’ interests. Time is running out. How will Ishmael solve this one?

And then a phone call from some mysterious person telling him to go to the root of the problem – Africa. And it is no longer just a crime. It is now a story spawning two continents and leading political and NGO characters. Finding himself in Nairobi partnered with crazy fellow detective David Odhiambo ‘O’ who metes out a justice of his own kind, Ishmael must dig deep to find the truth while trying to avoid the obvious pitfalls surrounding him (the fact that he does not speak Swahili and, even on a continent of fellow black people, that he stands out through his mannerisms and looks).

It is while in Nairobi, that he encounters that breed of person known in Kenya as a KC (Kenyan Cowboy), Lord Thompson, a strange old man and a nemesis  of O. Lord Thompson invites them for tea and later leads them to a place where they almost get killed. The question now is, how much does Lord Thompson know and who is he trying to protect? And where does the beautiful spoken word poet (I hear the pc term is Live Literary Artist now) Muddy fit in all this?  And is Joshua Hakizimana, the professor that Ishmael left behind, as heroic as the world believes he is?

To answer any of the above questions or to tell more would be to give the story away. What I can give away though is Nairobi Heat has a fast-pace that will leave you breathless but never wanting to put the book down until the very last page. As I raced through the book, I found myself cheering on O and Ishmael, I tasted the Tusker on my tongue, and I nodded my head in agreement at the wonderful insights Ngugi brings on the NGO business of ‘saving Africa.’

When you buy books to give away this Christmas, make sure Nairobi Heat is one of them – buy two copies though as you will not want to part with it if you are a bibliophile like me. This book is yet more proof that Africa is, as Siphiwo Mahala would like to say, ‘writing itself out of oppression,’ now if only our politicians would read and discover the secrets hidden between the covers of books, we could catch up in other spheres!

It’s been a week since President Jacob Zuma held an imbizo with 400 artists in Sandton. Except that somehow between the Presidency and the Department of Arts and Culture it was decided that artists consists of filmmakers, actors, and musicians.  I mean honestly I am still confounded on how it is possible that 400 artists can be invited to an imbizo and none of them are writers, dancers, and visual artists. Or perhaps the last three cannot do a good rendition of uMshini Wam? 

I cannot talk for dancers and visual artists of course but perhaps the country’s president did not know that, after the demise of Eskia Mphahlele (rest his soul), the country still had writers. If this indeed is the case, I put all blame at the foot of the Department of Arts and Culture because they seem to do a good job of excluding writers except when they want a poem recited at one of their functions.  No. Trully. In 2005 I attended my first Arts & culture imbizo when Dr. Jordan was still Minister of the portfolio. I attended in my capacity as a publicist for a museum. In the room were musicians, film makers, a dancer, and a photographer. No writer. Not one. Then two years ago a writer friend of mine attended another Arts & Culture imbizo  – no, not as a writer but in his capacity as a journalist. He was not expected to make any contributions to the proceedings and he recalls that a statement was made by then Director General that the writers are ‘alright’ before the DG proceeded to ask what the film makers and musicians wanted.  An interesting pronouncement given that they did not have writers and therefore could not possibly have known whether we were or were not alright. I mean why call it a ministry of Arts & Culture if it is selective of the artists that it represents or listens to? Why not just call it a Ministry of Film and Music?

I was bemoaning this to one of my friends who attended but he told me I did not miss anything. Why? I asked. Because in his I-feel-your-pain manner the head of State allegedly came in with a prepared speech, read it, gave the gathered ‘artists’ just one question each, and then was whisked off to the next public relations pow wow. And yet I still would have liked to be there because I have a few things I would have liked to ask  Mr. Zuma disguised as one question.

• I would have asked Mr. President whether he plans to make a pronouncement for quotas of shelf space for South African books in  bookstores in the same way that there has been advocacy for quotas in music played on radio stations? Now,  I realise that bookstores are not state-owned like some radio stations but given his oratorical skills and charm, I am sure the President could make all the bookstores an offer they cannot refuse (failing which I would try to see how I can get together with Comrade Julius and talk about nationalising bookstores).
• I should have also liked to find out what he is reading or if he does read, and if so, what his favourite South African read is (and here I would ask him to exclude his biography from the list).
• If I had been at the imbizo, I would have asked the State President how he plans to improve literacy in schools when most of his provincial Education and Arts & Culture departments have ignored the offered contribution by writers top visit schools, workshop teachers and read at libraries a la ReadSA initiative.
• I might also have offered my services in a part-time capacity as a speech writer because Mr. Prez, some of those speeches are lacking in shine.

I spent a fair share of last week trying to get through the presidential hotline to ask why no writers were invited to the imbizo. I failed to get through, gave up, and decided to write this piece instead. But here is hoping someone at Arts & Culture and at the Presidency is taking notes and they remember next time that artists go beyond filmmakers and musicians.   And oh, Mr. President, please get in touch to answer all of the above questions and talk about the way forward before I do a one-woman toyi-toyi at the doors of DAC. How do you contact me? Ag dude, google me!

A few months  ago I got an email from a high school mate of mine telling me he was coming back to the continent. Now, I have known Phil since we were both thirteen. Phil was that kid most people in high school didn’t dig because they felt he was too bourgeois (which he bloody was!) but somehow it all changed when we went to college in the States. Anytime I was Zimsick, Phil was the one person I could call and chat to in lengthy phone calls while he was in college in Florida and I attempted dismally to learn the hula in Hawai’I (clear indication that black people having rhythm is a myth).

So when he emails me he tells me he is coming home. And I am bloody excited. I hadn’t seen this cat in ages. So I meet up with him a couple of weeks after his arrival and he hasn’t changed a bit since I last saw him when he was 18 (either that or my brain hasn’t aged. I am more for the latter, eternal 21 and all).

He tells me he is decided to become a businessman and I am impressed being a full-time writer and all and a full-time businessperson in my own way. ‘My sneakers are being launched, yada yada yada’…ok, whatever Phil, I become a little sceptical here. But you know, I do the whole encouraging mate thing.

And then last week I get an invitation.

And lat night I went to the launch.

Jhung Yuro ( www.jhungyuro.com) and True Ambition ( www.trueambitionlife.com ) are not the type of shoes that one would wear to the office unless you work for an NGO, are in advertising, or an artist. But if what my daddy said was true that you judge a man by his shoes, then in casual wear, they are IT and in my eyes, you wear Jhung Yuro and you are all good dude. At the launch, the hip-hop beats were pumping (great for the target market but crap for dinosaurs and anyone over 25 who was keen on the shoes thus my short stay. Oops, kidding. I am really 21.), and Phil was marvellously on board to explain everything to anyone who had any questions about the brand.  I am generally my friends’ greatest critic but I must admit to being impressed (obviously not by the music but by the product itself). The many pairs I looked at were well worth their cost in Rands. The cost and the stitching were stellar and I can see guys wearing them for a ball game, for a non-dressy date, or, because they appeared comfortable enough, for a laidback day at home. Somehow Phil and his partner (non-sexual) Sam managed to find a niche market for something that they are passionate about and it shows. If I had enough of a budget I would certainly have bought a few pairs for some guys I know. As it was, after I left, I sent texts to all my living ex-boyfriends who are still talking to me and in this town to go and check the sneakers at Munk on 10A in 7^th Street in Melville out (now that would be street NOT avenue, babes).

But these two young entreprenegroes are not doing it for Joburgers alone. They have decided that Africa is their oyster and will be setting up concept stores for their brand of sneakers all over the continent. I have it on good authority that they have just signed the lease for their Harare store and will be hitting Nairobi in the not too-distant future. So to all the men looking for a good pair of sneakers that is actually for you by you, it may be coming to you sooner than you think.

On a continent where we have been ingrained to believe that we need someone to give us a job to make it happen, I am proud of Phil  and Sam’s go-getter attitudes in daring to venture where angels fear to tread. I wonder just how much richer this continent would be if more Africans in the Diaspora realised the possibilities that are on their mother continent instead of wasting their brilliant talents as third class citizens in the Western world.

There are those who will argue about issues of crime, corruption and what-not on the African continent and I choose not to dispute that (although I could mention the fact that former French president Jacques Chirac is going on trial for corruption is an indication that crime and corruption are not the sole preserve of Africa and Africans). What I would like to highlight though is that all things concerned, this place we call home is, as the advert highlights, alive with possibilities, and when we put our minds and efforts to it, we can make it work for us.

So as I sit and type this, I raise my cup of tea to a continent of intellectuals that I hope will bring their intellectual property home soon so we can make this continent as great as it should be.

 I raise my cup in the hope that one day we shall be on the cover of some magazine as The Continent of Hope and Achievement as opposed to the Hopeless Continent.

And I raise my cup to Phil and Sam– marketing a designer sneaker brand in an Africa where we survive on less than a dollar a day -now that’s True Ambition!

Following my blogpost of a while ago – It’s Still the Marketing Stupid – , a bunch of South African writers (more than 40 in number) agreed that the time had come that we actively do something about the state of reading  in South Africa of South African works by South Africa. And the ReadSA campaign was born. The energy and enthusiasm from the writers has been stupendous. The support from BookSA and one or two international organisations have been humbling.  Promises of support from the corporate world, seems, well, promising. While the silence from government bureaucrats has been expected – this is one campaign that I, and I know many a South African writer, refuse to let them be lazy on. Let me explain.

The objective of the campaign is to get the nation aware of South African writing while hopefully getting more people to read (we figure part of getting South Africans to read is to get them to know that works are available that they can identify with). With only 18 percent of South African matriculants making it to university, and not all of those graduating, it is quite obvious that there is a need to improve the reading culture in the country. It is my contention that a student who does not read while in high school (or primary at that) will find it difficult to read and do research when at a tertiary institution (IF they make it to tertiary) and I write this from experience. I was a tertiary lecturer last year teaching English Writing. My first exercise with my students was for them to write that oh-so-loved essay by Grade 3 teachers entitled ‘Myself’. I did this so that I could assess the quality of my students’ writing and of course the truth is, no matter how old one is, this essay topic can always be made interesting. The results were appalling. From 30 students, I found only ten percent of the essays worth reading. That’s right. THREE. The students had no idea on how to conjugate a verb – I am not sure whether some of them even knew what a verb was to be honest –and they could not string two sentences together.  All in all a horrible state of affairs for children who are supposed to have passed high school. I also found that few of them had read and only one person in class knew who Can Themba was (the only South African writer they knew). I concluded that there was no reading happening. So I gave them an exercise where every week they had to read something and on coming to class, summarise to the rest of the class what they read. They also had to find ten new words weekly, learn their meanings, and use them in sentences. And you know what? Five months later at the end of the semester, I was reading essays (and fictional pieces) that were vastly improved.

In order to get the ball rolling on the campaign, South African writers decided they would like to make South African reading known and sexy to the public (and that’s the reason I am sending a Facebook message to Gerry Elsdon today with a list of light South African reading after she was quoted in City Pulse yesterday saying she is reading Daniel Silva’s Death in Vienna because ‘I read too many serious novels so this book has allowed me to escape from my everyday kind of reading.’).  To this end, we have decided that the poster idea to advertise SA literature is a good way to go in addition to our online presence. But instead of preaching top-down, we think it best that South African high school students enter a competition where they design a poster on what it means to Read SA. Because we are writers, running parallel to this would be an essay writing competition, ‘Why I Read’ both of which would run for about a month. The winning poster in each province will be the one used for the campaign while the winning school and student in each province will get a donation of books for their library (we are still working on sweetening the deal for a cash prize). The winning essays will be published in online magazine Storytime as well as earn the school and writers some books (and hopefully a cash prize too).  The managers of schools in the deferent provinces have been contacted. Now we await to hear from them on the best way to let the schools know about the campaign. In due course and with more funding, we also hope to do some television adverts pushing the campaign. Ideas for television adverts are already coming in. Last week at the Jenny Crys-Williams book club, Angela Makholwa offered to don a Marilyn dress and stand in a windy street reading. When the dress goes up she modestly covers her face with the book. Or was that Fiona Snyckers?

Since starting the campaign three weeks ago, the greatest challenge had been finding a venue to work from. We contacted various party cadres for the different parties – also known as parliamentarians- in the Education and Arts and Culture portfolios to get them to support this cause. They have been quiet. We also contacted the various MECs of Arts and Culture and Education in each province hoping for a base of operation without any response (see what I mean about lack of government buy-in?). Today that all changed. Thanks to Dr. Pam Nicholls of University of Witswatersrand, ReadSA will be hosted by the Wits Writing centre until December 2010. With a base of operations, this should make it a little easier to fundraise for the campaign and let schools and the general public who may be interested in taking part in the campaign know where to find us.

On an equally positive note, every writer has been keen to work on this with many not just coming up with ideas but getting their hands dirty. Special mention to Damaria Senne who set up the blogspot and Facebook page (please look for it and be a fan), Ivor Hartmann who did the brilliant logo and has offered Storytime to publish the winning essays, Megan Voysey who has been tirelessly sending emails to all and sundry to support the campaign from far away Germany (I doubt it would be possible for her to put in more work if she were in the country), and Thando Mgqolozana who compiled all the lists of the different MECs, Registrars and Parliamentarians contacts. But writers are expected to support this anyway. That great friend of South African writers, Ben Williams of BookSA has reminded us yet again (in case anyone had forgotten) why we love him with tangible support of administrative fees for the campaign, co-hosting of the blogspot, and whatever help we need when we need it. Ditto Frederic Jagu of the Cultural Portfolio at the French Institute.

Now why don’t you come on board and ReadSA? You will love it. For the JDL, while our very own Ndumiso Ngcobo becomes the co-hosting voice of the breakfast show on KayaFM on Wednesday 21^st, at 6pm the same evening, Margie Orford launches her next thriller, Daddy’s Girl at Exclusive Sandton. There will be wine, there will be writers, but more importantly you get an autographed copy of Margie’s book which will be priceless in a few years to come (And you get the bragging rights to your friends to say you met and read one of the best of SA of course!). See you there and bring some cash to buy a copy or two of Daddy’s Girl.

PS – does anyone know where PASA is?

Regular readers of this blog will be whining about my constant excuses for not updating. What can I say? I am a creature of habit and I loyally make excuses. But I do have two valid excuses this time around. One is that I have (with about 30 South African writers) been ferociously working on the ReadSA campaign (http://readsa.blogspot.com) since I got back in the country on Monday 28^th September. The second excuse is that a friend brought me a really good bottle of single malt, and well…you know how that goes.  Enny wey, back to my travels. I was back in Bob’s Own Country. Yup. South Africa’s northern neighbour known to the rest of the world as Zimbabwe.

I went there with some German friends who had never been to Zim and it was an interesting adventure from start to finish. Our driver was a hilarious guy called Funny Mbanje (I kid you not. For those not familiar with Shona lingo the last name means weed/zol/marijuana)./ You can see how his name alone was brilliant material for this sole writer. We got to the Zimbabwean side of the border at around 11 am and the immigration official decided I looked suspicious, ‘like a writer’ he said. ‘You look like Dambudzo Marechera’.  Never mind that Dambudzo had locks and was male and I have a chiskop (bald head) and am female. Additionally Dambudzo was a brilliant writer and I, I just pretend to write, so you see, I was flippin flattered. I’ve never been happier to lose an entrance permit to any country. In the end though, I was allowed in. The immigrant official’s totem was Mhofu which is the same totem as my Zimbabwean mother’s and as every Zimbo knows, muzukuru mukadzi so I smiled and joked accordingly, and got my pass.

From Beit Bridge Border Post, we made our way to Masvingo. My artistic German cousin (a cousin because her surname is ‘Waner’ –or something very similar- and mine is Wanner) was horrified when she entered the toilets in  Masvingo and some male attendant opened the door while she was pissing.  She swore that she was not going to a public toilet in Zimbabwe ever again (yeah right!).  Next we made our way to Great Zimbabwe, the historical site that the country is named after (for those not in the know Zimbabwe means ‘house of stone – zimba remahwe’ . The Great Zimbabwe kingdom existed from the 12^th to the 16^th Century).At US$5 for tourists, I had to use my Zim skills and pretend to be a local in order to get in. Funny and I became the two locals therefore while our three German mates became the foreigners (to be honest this is not the first time I have used my colour as a badge. Nine months ago, Nakuru Game Reserve tried to charge me some ridiculous US$ amount. With the help of a Kenyan friend I pretended to be a disabled Kenyan. I know, not cool. But I am from a developing African nation as well, I can’t understand why I should have to deal with tourist rates I can’t afford). Great Zimbabwe was phenomenal.

Then we made our way to Harare. My German friends ended up camping in that haven of Bulawayo prostitutes in Harare – Oasis Hotel. I swear I did not know about its reputation as a pick-up point until I went to Bulawayo a couple of days later.

The second day saw me hanging out with my fabulous personal designer and childhood friend, the ZimDanish Alice Knuth (yes. I did say personal designer. She designs my clothes so anytime you feel I look wack you know who to blame).  In  the early evening I had dinner and drinks with one of my favourite all-time writers  Shimmer Chinodya (he of the Harvest of Thorns and Strife fame) and later on, a Catholic priest I shall not name in case I get him in trouble with the Pope.  We were at Book Café so yeah, in spite of the bookshop being closed, Book Café Harare still rocks y’all. There was a girl on stage who sounded very much like a Chiwoniso Maraire clone. I sadly forget her name. I do remember jamming madly to her when she did one of the Marshall Munhumumwe cover tracks though.

Then we were off to Bulawayo. Literally translated from the Nguni  as ‘place of killing’,  but widely known in Zimbabwe as the City of Kings because it was founded by Mzilikazi ka Khumalo, one of Shaka’s generals during umfecane and his immediate heir, Lobengula ka Mzilikazi, was the last reigning  Zimbabwean monarch, Bulawayo is a city of wide roads and friendly people. I always seem to forget how much I love the city of Bulawayo until I get there and when I do get there, I remember how friendly its people are. How I can walk in the city without some males verbally harassing me like I find in Harare (think:  ‘sista ndeipi’ and when I ignore, ‘futi wakashata. Hure.’) and more importantly as an artist, how Bulawayo is the one place that I know that writers, musicians, painters and all other sort of artists will have full houses and an audience that genuinely engages them on their art unlike Joburg where when I  ask, ‘any questions?’,  I have to rely on the one friend I have asked to come to the function to ask the question.  It is here where my German friends left me because the US$ policy in Zim had left them cash strapped and they had to make their way back to South Africa (for the uninitiated, make sure when you go to Zim you have sufficient cash as ATMs will not accept non-Zimbabwean cards).

First night in Bulawayo saw me meeting Zimbabwean writer and Jozi resident  Ivor Hartmann and his (and now my) mate Jules in a bar at the Rainbow Hotel. The two guys, who were to become my partners in crime for the length of the festival,  accompanied me to the opening night.

The opening night of the festival was testament to what I am talking about with regards to Bulawayo. In a week when MDC Minister of Diversity (whatever that means), Sekai Holland had said divisive comments about the Ndebeles being cattle rustlers and thieves (and this as a member of a government of national unity nogal, wonder why that was never reported in international press as much as the Grace Nestle debacle?), the Bulawayo group, Black Umfolosi had everyone at the opening ceremony of the Intwasa Arts Festival holding hands and singing their signature song, ‘Unity’. Their lyrics resonated with the crowd and had many getting emotional in a country that’s trying to reinvent itself, ‘ No black, No white, No Shona, No Ndebele.’ For a solid forty minutes, the people of Bulawayo who were in City Hall held hands and danced together. It was the one time I was driven to tears in my mother’s land. You see, I had just finished reading the Catholic Commission’s Justice & Peace and Fr. Auret’s Gukurahundi , a testament of the 20 thousand deaths that occurred during the Matebele atrocities, and I could not understand how a city could be so forgiving. I certainly would not have been . I must admit, I have never had more respect for the people and the city of Bulawayo than I did two weeks ago. I love Accra and being Junior Agogo’s sister, but henceforth, I cannot walk tall without respecting the humanity of the people of Bulawayo.

Siyabonga Bulawayo. Your ubuntu, your spirit of forgiveness, your appreciation of the arts,  and your welcoming attention to visitors is a testament that you are truly, the ‘City of Kings’.

It’s the Marketing, Stupid!

Or at least that’s what I have been thinking for the last few days as I slapped my forehead in between bouts of pondering what the literary industry in South Africa is doing wrong. Y’see, this weekend I was a discussant at the Words on Water Festival : Conversation  Between South Africa and India.  Among the speakers was the feisty and intelligent Indian popular women’s fiction brand known as Shobhaa De. Shobhaa and I had a discussion at length on just how she managed to penetrate the Indian readers market to a point where her vast readers await her next book like JK Rowlings fans await a Harry Potter. And I learnt something that I should have known a long time ago.  Our marketing for literature sucks. That’s not to say that we are not doing it. We are doing it. But we are marketing literature in the same manner that First World literary marketers do for First World writers which already have a captive audience. There is a need to note our market and penetrate it differently in South Africa.

Let me begin with the stats.

• 25 writers (the number is higher) to have emerged in this nation within the last 5 years.
• Triple that amount of books published.
• 1 author that has sold more than a 100 000 copies (you guessed him, John van der Ruit) and the rest celebrate when they hit 5 000 as that is considered bestselling status.

Add the fact that there are no bookshops selling fiction in Johannesburg South and many other places in South Africa and the question must be asked, ‘why even write or publish?’

The most criticism that’s levelled on writers is that after the submission of the manuscript, we sit back and relax and wait for the book to sell itself. I beg to differ on that with regards to South African writers (and you can call me a fictional writer if you like). South African writers are some of the most hard-working marketers that I know. I have never yet known anyone who has turned down a chance for a radio or television interview. I am yet to come across a writer in this country who is approached by a magazine to write an article and they do not do it. This should be enough to put them in the psyche of the mainstream right? Right?

Nope.

Truth is, reading and writers are just not popular culture and much as writers have done the television and radio spots and appeared on newspaper and magazine book pages (in the former generally on inserts which unfortunately I have heard many people don’t read and in the latter on some close to back pages), no-one is going to know who writers are, and the average person who buys their magazine at CNA (couldn’t resist) will not know that South African literature exist.  The only way that South African writers manage to sneak in to the News and Opinion section of a newspaper is when we crack a mention by fellow writer Fred Khumalo on his Sunday Times page, and that’s the height of writers making news. Imraan Coovadia writes a brilliant book and you will have to search the book pages to see its mention. Khanyi Mbau slips on a banana and you can be certain that it will make page 3 of the Sunday weeklies broadsheet…and the rest of us are still not quite sure what it is exactly she has achieved.

But enough about Khanyi. Let me be the first admit that perhaps she is better at marketing than all us literary characters put together…for how else can you explain? That said, those who have some ideas that SA literature  does exist like a certain friend of mine, are of the bent that reading fiction dumbs them down, ‘I only read political biographies’ (and this without even having read my work, never mind other stuff available locally. ouch).

So how do we do this? How do we let the average person know that our work is out there, and when it is, that there is something for everyone even my friend who claims he doesn’t read fiction/South African commentary because somehow Chomsky and Pilger are the last word on that?

Over the last couple of days I have been toying with a few  ideas –  some ambitious, some expensive but I really believe, quite doable but largely with the intention of putting writers and their work in the psyche of the people.

Enough writers  know editors of magazines so surely this is an angle where we can use our influence?  I am thinking Laurian Clemence and  Makholwa on the cover of mass-marketed magazines like You and Drum. Or perhaps Kevin Bloom and  Siphiwo Mahala on the cover of GQ with a tag ‘Men of Letters.’  We could have some light-hearted features in Glamour, Elle, True Love, destiny et al by guys like Tom Eaton and  Niq  Mhlongo telling us why they find women who read sexy  or it could be a male magazine with Bridget MacNulty and Futhi Ntshingila on how charmed they are by men who have read their work.

I see the red flag going up. Some writer is about to highlight that it is not about us but our work. I do not dispute that for a second. And I know many of us are an introverted lot. But could a little publicity be dangerous for the sake of worthwhile book sales?

But let’s not just leave it at the print and broadcast media. Writers, as any other artists in  the country, have a full ministry dedicated to them. That’s right. The Department of Arts and Culture.  Maybe it is time DAC did as much for writers as it does sponsoring jazz festivals. Nothing expensive, something along the lines of those many government posters that people see in clinics, libraries, social welfare offices and Home Affairs departments that people read while waiting for the slow pace of bureaucracy to move.

In the case of the DAC posters, they would be encouraging people to READ SA. Perhaps DAC could be kind enough to even sponsor a public service announcement on television featuring the big man. I am here envisioning Msholozi in a slot telling one of his 40 people at the call centre to ‘take a message’ as he is still pondering at the similarities between Trinity’s father in Fiona Synckers’ Trinity Rising and his Minister of Housing, Tokyo Sexwale. After all, if the government keeps talking about the need for greater literacy, should they not put their money where their mouths are?

And then there are organisations like Goethe Institute, British Council, and ALLIANCE Francaise which have always  promoted the arts in South Africa but which probably need some concrete request of just how best they can help us.

Finally of course, there is the corporate world. Nedbank already sponsors a Read-a-thon but I am sure they could be convinced to do more because I believe the initiative is not reaching enough schools– or failing that, their competition. A Read-a-Thon that’s advertised on television just before Rhythm City or Ben10  will reach more children and more schools than any newspaper adverts. Add to it the brilliant Gcina Mhlope telling a story of why the children should enter and I guarantee you a definite increase in entries.Other corporate sponsors could try to beat that by sponsoring a minute advert on television with a role model on a plane (yes, I know how expensive it is but do you know how much banks make in bank charges per year?), ‘hi, my name is Bryan Habana. When I am on an 18-hour flight to Australia, I keep myself entertained by reading  SA writers.  Do you?’ Or one on the BRT, ‘my name is Julius Malema, when I am tense on my way to a rally, I relax by reading SA…’ (no, that wasn’t a joke. Jules has pull y’all).

And then of course tagline – brought to you by Nedbank (or MTN, or Group Five, or Alex Forbes), greatest supporter of South African Writers. Although if that’s gonna be the tagline, perhaps the sponsor should be SABMiller, for all the inspiration it has given South African writers over the last five years.

How better to market SA literature so that books can be considered as much the art of this nation as our movies, music, and Isidingo. Your thoughts?

Dear Pravin

Excuse the familiarity but, you are a public servant, I am a member of the public, in essence, I am one of the people you work for so I suspect I can afford to talk to you with the familiarity of my employee (if I could afford one after I have paid you guys). OK don’t shut off. Geez, can’t you take a joke? By the way, in case not enough people have told you, you did a great job at SARS and I have no doubt that you are doing an equally good job heading our Finance Department.

But telling you how great you are is not the point of this letter. While I was standing  in the queue at SARS Carlton Centre to file yesterday for four hours, I started thinking about what I would like you to do with the money that I am giving you.

What gives me the power to do this? You ask. Uhhm, well, Prav, I realise, as I do every time I get my IRP5, that SARS takes 25% of my gross income. That’s about the same amount I spend on my child monthly, so I am thinking the nation has become my family member.  Like my son, the nation is one of my dependants. And I should at least make suggestions on how I would like that money I am paying to be disbursed when you say your Budget Speech next year.  We are not even close to your first Budget Speech yet but I am telling you way in advance so that you and your team will not say you didn’t have time to consider.

• Education – Prav, this is a must. Last year I was teaching English to first year tertiary students and I saw the absolute need for more money here. Although many of my students were from former Model C schools, few of them could conjugate a verb, let alone write a one page essay. If these are the students who have passed matric, I shudder to think what is happening with those who have not. Functional illiterates? And I am not just asking for more money so that my books can become part of the coursework (wink wink) but perhaps too for training for the teachers. What? They have sufficient qualifications? Perhaps that’s what SADTU tells you but I have a cousin who is a senior teacher at a government school and I almost cried when I read his reports. I could not understand anything the poor man had written and he was teaching History and Geography…using English as a medium. How scary is that?
• Health – Pravin, forget  the cameras and the newsmen a la Tokyo. Just pop in anytime you want without warning at our nation’s largest hospital, Baragwanath and you will see what I mean. On a regular day in the emergency room, it takes at least the same amount of time it took me to file my taxes for a person to be attended to by a doctor (and that’s if they are lucky). The toilets in the wards are a breeding ground for all sorts of diseases because of their conditions. Then there are people sleeping on the floor because of insufficient beds. Your one certainty is that I shall do my taxes annually. The one certainty some of the sick have when they enter Bara is that they shall die while there. You will weep, your heart will break, and after a visit, you will want to take a lengthy shower to rid yourself of any germs you might have acquired while in the hospital. As if that is not bad enough, the staff is demoralised. So I am suggesting that you not only give Health Minister Aaron more money for equipment in hospitals, but to pay the doctors and nurses a living wage so that they do not run to private practice as soon as the opportunity  arises.

And then there is one department I feel should get as little as possible of my money.

Prav, Department of Defence does NOT need any significant amount of money. We are not at war and we do not need any equipment worth R3 billion. Please.

And  finally a no tax request.

I ask for  zero taxation on one thing – no, not beer. Books, Prav, books.  No more Value Added Tax on books. Books in South Africa are more expensive than anywhere else I have been – and this in a country that claims to want to create a reading culture. When your predecessor, he of the fine cufflinks Trey was asked to cancel this tax, he refused. His reason was that books are for the elite and therefore those who buy them can afford to (incidentally I could not buy his biography because I could not afford to). But should you maintain that? Should not book-buying become a populist thing in a nation that is lagging behind on basic reading skills? Readers are leaders Prav and I want to think that you are keen on creating a nation of leaders. Zero VAT on books, equals cheaper books and cheaper book equals more book sales (hopefully). With more book sales, perhaps writers will finally have royalties worth taxing and your successor at SARS will have more taxpayers and give you more money to disburse on service delivery for the next five years. A win-win situation for you and me.

I trust you will take all I have said into consideration between now and when you write your budget.

Sincerely,

A South African Taxpayer

Soooo, on my way to Heathrow Airport last Thursday I was listening to LBC. The topic of debate centred around some proclamation made by a police chief or other who stated that owing to requests, in a certain London borough, if suspected criminals requested an officer of their religion to come and interview them then the police force would grant that request supposedly because a police officer of a similar religion would be more understanding of the criminal’s reason for acting the way they did. Now, in any other country this would be a non-debate. If you got to Rome you are expected to do as the Romans do and follow Roman law right? But nuuh. Not in politically correct England. A Sikh leader called to weigh in on the debate stating that he thought it was a brilliant idea as it would help victims of crime from marginalised communities to better able relay their complaint since some of them have been in the United Kingdom for 30 years but cannot speak English.

And this is where the debate lost me.

You are in an English speaking country for 30 years and do not bother to learn English?!?! I am sorry. Surely if you are going to migrate to another country and further, be a citizen of that country the least you can do is try to integrate into that community and the most primary way to integrate is to LEARN THE LANGUAGE of your chosen new home?  

A country like South Africa has 11 official languages so this might be tough for a migrant but even then, English is spoken widely and I know this for a fact because when I go to my local police station (or post office, or supermarket) and the person who is serving me speaks to me in seSotho which I do not speak, they revert to English. But England which has a single homogenous language?  

I do realise that when people move from their home country they get homesick and might seek others from their home country who they can relate to. But I think it is also the greatest folly if all one does is hang out with people from their home country and not try to make friends with those of your host country or learn about your host culture (which includes the rules and regulations of that country)…particularly if you choose to be a citizen of that country.

The fact that the London borough I am talking of even agreed to try something like this out shows some serious problems. In an attempt to be politically correct, this can only result in the ghettoization of any group of people instead of creating a common bond between people. Can you imagine someone arrested by Hillbrow Police saying, ‘I refuse to answer any questions unless I can be interviewed by a policeman of Igbo origin who is a Pentecostal?’ You would be laughed out of the police station (before some not-so-pc policeman klaaps you for trying to be a comedian). And yet this is exactly what the police chief and her cohorts who agreed to this are saying.

I was returning from the 31^st Cambridge Literary Festival and I thought further on this. How successful a writer would British writer of Pakistani origin Kamila Shamsie be if she said she was only going to do her readings to British audience of Pakistani origin? I have never been to Pakistan but I know I certainly have an idea of it after reading In the City by the Sea. And where would Gillian Slovo be as a writer if she had decided that because she is an English writer of South African origin she was only going to read writers of a similar background? She certainly would never have given us the Orange-shortlisted and very enjoyable historical novel Ice Road and literature would be all the poorer for it.

Perhaps there is a need to rethink migration before one makes the move. If one is going to move to another country it is of utmost importance that there is an attempt to learn the culture of the new country. Failure to do so can never be positive. Not only does it cause the ghettoization of the migrants but can lead to serious misunderstandings between the old residents and the migrants.

Your thoughts on this. Should migrants to another nation demand separate treatment from the locals because of their different cultures? Or should they integrate and just get on with life?