Is There Joy in Utter Destitution?

Musings on the Life and Times of Michael K.

When I was thirteen, we moved out to a smallholding on the outskirts of Johannesburg. We still refer to it as “The Farm”, but only about a third of the land was arable, the rest was slate, covered with a thin crust of dust and scrub. There was a borehole and an orchard, a vegetable patch, chickens, three horses, two donkeys, a cow, and two pigs. There was also a family of nine – Wilson and Rebecca M. and their seven children – living in two small rooms behind the three garages that sheltered our Japanese sedans from the harsh African sun. (more…)

The Book Olympiad

“Personally, I’m looking forward to thrashing Ryk Neethling in the 50 Metre Swim & Verse.”

Because my recent literary exploits have caused me to become flabby and withdrawn, I went for a run in the park this morning. As always, my mind raced on ahead, turning occasionally to egg me on, bouncing ideas back at me like little tennis balls. The only one I managed to catch might be of interest to Read SA as a fundraising and promotional campaign: an Annual Book Olympiad. (more…)

Volvo Amazon

My father looked like the front end of a Volvo Amazon. He had one when we were small. A station wagon. White. I have an old movie of him shoo-ing and patting the three of us into the back of the car. Then he closes the hatch and waves to my mother – cameramom, who once shot two minutes’ footage of her gold tooth. Maybe cars are like dogs and their owners; people start to resemble them as time goes by. Whenever I see the characteristic headlights and Amazon grille, they immediately bring to mind his face. I don’t remember much else about that car, but he drove it all over Europe. As far north as Trondheim and as far south as Athens, perhaps even Cairo.

When my dad passed away a couple of years ago, I took it upon myself to search through thousands of his slides, documenting his travels. (more…)

I’m Not Doing This Because I Enjoy It

(Getting the truth whipped into me by Tracey Farren.)

Dear Tracey,

There are many things I haven’t given too much thought. Not because they don’t interest me, but because there are so many other things begging my attention. Prostitution wasn’t really on my to-mull list until I read your book. It’s one of those things you eventually take for granted in Amsterdam, where women in skimpy underwear, posing enticingly, bathed in red light are just as much a part of the cityscape as canals and bicycles and the sweet scent of marijuana. (more…)

Hugh Masekela’s Shy Guitar

Long before I ever started writing, I wanted to be a singer. Mrs. Zeller said I had a good voice. She cried when I told her I was leaving the choir. We used to eat pineapple and raw eggs before concerts. And we had to pull funny faces when we sang. We had to “tell the story of the song with our faces.” Which was naff. Big naff, Mrs. Zeller. Sorry.

Anyway. Last night I went to see Hugh Masekela and his band in the Carré Theatre in Amsterdam. My friend Tony, lover of all things African and life in general, dragged me away from my desk, kicking and frothing. Sometimes people over 60 have a better grip on life’s priorities. Kudos, T. (more…)

Mobile Monument

There are three dead people on my cell phone. At first there was only one: my gentle cousin, who I never got around to calling. A shrink in the making, who decided to terminate his practice ahead of schedule. A nice man – affable, sympathetic, gay. The latter is a pregnant adjective, of course, but I use it only to usher in a sweeping statement: with the exception of some women, there is no other sub-category of human being who can match the unmitigated self-loathing suffered by some gay men. My cousin was a case in point. I am sure everyone around him tried to convince him otherwise, but he was unable to rise to the unattainable standard he had set for himself. I am tempted to draw a comparison with Carl Lewis, offing himself because he didn’t win Olympic gold at pole-vaulting, but the differences between my cousin and Carl are a little too self-evident. Carl is still alive, for one.

Which brings me to the second dead person on my cell phone: my father-in-law. He and my mother-in-law are still together on my mobile monument. Whenever I click through to “pap & mam” to call my mother-in-law, I am reminded of my wife’s envy-inspiring grief at the loss of her father. My own father has passed on too, but it never hit me quite as hard. Having re-read the aforesaid, I realise how cynical that may sound. Perhaps I should be grateful that my own father never inspired that much love, or that I was incapable of loving that much. Sadly, my son has my father-in-law’s eyes, which moves my wife to tears on many a happy occasion. Yes, we’re a cheerful bunch.

Bring out the Kleenex, because I have one last soul in cell-phone limbo: my neighbour, a successful yuppie who had just disentangled himself from a roller-coaster career to wed his sweetheart. He said he was suffering from stress-related backache, brought on by a final dash at the office in preparation for his wedding and honeymoon. Little did he know that the cancer in his gallbladder had already spread to his spine and was racing up the column to greyer pastures. He didn’t even get a chance to round things off. He was flat on his back within a month, with his TV mounted high upon the wall, just under the ceiling. Whenever I dropped in to help the nurse clean the bedding, he would promise to do the same for me if I fell ill. And I would promise to kill him if he didn’t. Oh how we laughed. His name was Pascal, so I still run into him whenever I click through to “pap & mam”. In fact, they’re right next door to each other, which is strangely comforting.

I just went through the list to make sure there were no other souls on my mobile monument. I’m sure others will join them in the years ahead. Several candidates are living lives that invite sudden death, and others are just old. So, for the moment, let me honour this trio of cellular departed with a fitting epitaph: Love Yourself, Love Others, Do it Now.

Eric Miyeni Gets on My Tits

(Voyage of Rediscovery – Leg VI – Lessons From a Literary Sensei)

Dear Eric,

You have no idea how badly you got on my tits in Cape Town. They were still sore when I got on the plane and were to remain an aching souvenir of our early-morning workouts for several days thereafter. Having read your book, I now know that you not only work hard and play hard, but also write hard. Your technique is as intrusive as it is effective: first drive that knee hard into the groin and then help the reader up and explain how this pain can be avoided in future. You are a literary sensei of sorts. Fred Khumalo called you a “necessary irritant”, but that fails to credit the constructive optimism that leaps from every chapter like a happy dog.
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Cruising with Bongani Madondo

(Rediscovery Blog – Leg III – Stargazing with the Stalker Sextant)

Dear Bongani,

You’ll be glad to hear that Hot Type rode around the French countryside on a donkey’s back this summer – like Jesus, but more compact and a lot less eager to please. Your pen is a rapier dipped in ink, so I’ll turn my phrases carefully lest you carve a big B on my chest and an M on my butt.
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