the book of not.

Is a sequel ever As Good? I’m not sure.

It’s confusing because often with sequels, you are keen and excited and salivating for more plot. (Sometimes you’re not – in which case you weren’t even aware there was a sequel and no one gets hurt). Tessa warned me against any sequel to ‘Dune’ by Frank Herbert. She simply said, Don’t do it. It’s not Good. Stay Away. Anything else written by him (or his sons) is not worth it. And I’ve listened to her quite happily since… (that girl has no idea the kind of control she has over me).

I’m glad no one told me to stay away from The Book of Not, the sequel to Zimbabwean author Tsitsi Dangarembga’s first book Nervous Conditions. Which I have already written about here and which I loved reading very much. When I found out there was in fact a sequel I became really excited and my sister and her husband bought it for me online (fancy, no?) for my birthday. Hooray.

It was so lovely to continue the tale that was already pretty fresh in my memory. Naturally it remains a different story. Tambu, the main character is a teenager now and not a child. Rhodesia is painfully and violently turning into Zimbabwe as the beginnings of the civil war seep into daily life. Most of the book takes place at her boarding school; she is one of the six black students on a scholarship at one of the best girl’s convent school in Zimbabwe and is doing her utmost best to prove herself as a legitimate human being by succeeding academically. And her life continues to be pretty shit.

It was a difficult read, not in terms of structure or language or plot. There was something else that made it difficult, a bit messy and all over the place. The book felt uncertain of itself in a vague, sort of violent way, it looped and repeated and faded off into tangents in a disarmingly tragic manner. Which is exactly it and exactly right, this unsettling tone is completely appropriate for such content. Set in a country that is changing messily and violently, about a girl uncertain of who or where she is in an always-shifting but never-changing quandary.

It became increasingly painful to read of this young girl thrust into political and social fuck ups without being equipped or told where and how to direct her anger and identity. There is not one adult or person available to Tambu to help her out and help her grow, she is isolated in a terrifying way. At least in Nervous Conditions there was the incredible character Nyasha who for some reason fades away in this sequel.

I think what made it most difficult was the ending, which just like Nervous Conditions, had no resolution or conclusion. And again you could argue that this is apt for the condition in Zimbabwe and almost every African country – very little sense of warmhearted endings. But the book cut off mid-way as though the author suddenly felt like she couldn’t say anymore and so didn’t. Apparently, she is working on a third novel to complete the series.

Either way, it was incredibly disheartening. 

I may take a break and delve into a new Ursula Le Guin book I recently purchased. My current feelings regarding this particular human race makes me long for stories set on an entirely different and imagined planet, please. I have also been reading some collected essays of Chinua Achebe (which I’m almost finished with). He is incredible and totally brilliant.

Ok.  

A picture of not the most aesthetically pleasing book cover there is:

brother of the more famous jack.

This book by Barbara Trapido is one of Katie's other most favourite books. Katie was my housemate and is one of my best beloveds. I had seen this book in our sweet little flat and kept meaning to read it. Now I've moved out of our sweet little flat and I'm all reminiscent and forlorn. So when I saw a copy in the second hand bookstore I frequent (the exact same edition as Katie's) - I bought it out sentiment for days now gone.

I assumed the author was British so kept it aside for next year but then I noticed the write up on Barbara Trapido and saw she was born in Cape Town, grew up in Durban and studied at the University of Natal. (Ha!) Which pretty much makes her South African, even if she emigrated to London. JM Coetzee is now an Australian citizen (gross) and he's still hailed as one the most prominent South African authors of our time. So there.

I read the book in one day. Which says a lot about:

a. How absorbing I found the book and
b. How unemployed I actually am.

I found the story to be funny and sad and sweet and charming and very, very British. It was so strange to be swirled into the delightfully sinister world of English academics and novelists who are witty and knitty and full of safe, deviant ideas of fun and sex, who outrageously say 'fuck' a lot in their charming English accents and who bravely write books whilst reading the Guardian and planting potatoes.

After reading about Angolan immigrants living in Johannesburg, the complexities of being a pseudo white South African liberal in the seventies and the grandiose ongoings of southern Africa in 1830s through the eyes of the Barolong tribe - I couldn't get enough of the frivolous conversations of the daughter of a greengrocer, Katherine and her introduction into the intellectual world of her philosophy professor and his jumbly family romping about with violins and Russian novels. (Excuse the length of the sentence).

It was strange and lovely to read such an oddly familiar story and almost, nearly unenjoyable but I had a very good time reading it and didn't like it at all. I'm in a bit of lonely, radical, idealistic place right now so naturally I found the feminist themes a bit too subtle and possibly even weak. And at the end of the day, us clever girls who get degrees, live independent lives, move to Italy, have many lovers and tell many stories will ultimately one day get to marry a British novelist, make quirky babies in a sweet rambling home and plant apple trees and then our dreams really will come true. Hooray for aspiring novelists who clean up after themselves! Oh! The husbands they will make!

I'm not sure what to make of this book. I think it is about how to be the wife of a British intellectual. And I don't know if I'm very interested in that.

Here are some book covers... I have put them in an order in which they get progressively uglier.

(This is the one Katie and I have)

(Quite nice)

(What?)

(AAAHHHHHHfuck)

mhudi.

I liked this book so much. Aside from enjoying the actual reading of the book (strange sentence), I actually loved the object, the book itself. It has these great pictures in it that I will scan in and show you. And yes - books with pictures in them are still marginally better than books without pictures in them. (Depending on, of course, the book and the pictures.)

This is the copy I have, part of the African Writers Series:

Isn't it beautiful? The first thing someone would say about this book (and it is the first thing I usually say) is that it is the first novel to be written in English by a black South African. Sol Plaatje, the author, was also one of the founders of the South African Native National Congress (today known as the ANC). It was definitely finished by 1920, possibly earlier (many people say 1913) but only published in 1930.

It is an epic historical piece of fiction set in the 1830s and there is a lot going on throughout the whole book. It reminds me of Shakespeare and tells of grand battles and grander love and all of those wonderful things that makes violent human beings so shitty and confusing and fascinating.

I don't feel like I am knowledgable enough to expand fully on this book... Do you mind if I quote from the back of the book? Cheating, I know, but surely that's what they are there for?

"Mhudi, a woman of endurance and courage, saves her future husband Ra-Thaga at a time when Mzilikazi's Matabele soliders raiding the Barolong in Botswana..."

Then Bessie Head says it's a beautiful book and I nod in agreement. But there is (much) more to the story than that. I've never read a novel about South Africa in 1830s that had no English characters. You read about the defeated Barolong tribe, crushed by the Matabele soldiers. But you also read about the Matabele and their king, the ruthless Mzilikazi and somehow Plaatje gets you to empathize with both. You read about the Boers and get a taste of the terrible things yet to come. Interesting and strange dynamics regarding gender, considering the extreme patriarchal set up our heroine, Mhudi, is pretty sassy and incredible. You get a sense of the magnitude of violence and injustice, when thousands of soldiers with spears die simply and quickly from the gunfire of White Europeans.

Despite all of this, you somehow feel good and the end of the story, I really can't say why or how.

I desperately wanted to be clever when writing about this book. And I promise I do have clever thoughts when reading but they go away when I try write about it. Egh. What's the point of a blog, anyway?

Here are some pictures:

(I have searched the entire book and I still don't know when these exquisite pictures were created or who made them... If anyone knows - let me know!)