Siphiwo Mahala

I’m writing a movie script. It’s a police drama—South African style. I don’t know what it’s called yet, but I know it’s gonna be a blockbuster. Some may wonder what business I have writing about police activities. Wait a minute and you’ll see that I have very vivid memories of dealing with the police from a very early age.
Like any child growing up in a township in the 1980’s, any business involving police never augured well with me. My first encounter with the police was back in 1983. I was young, very young but the memory of that encounter still lingers on my mind like a hideous nightmare. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was lying on the bed with my father. My father was one of the most fantastic storytellers that I have ever known. But this day his storytelling was interrupted by a knock at the door. If you lived in South Africa in the eighties you would know “the police knock”. It was unique. You would never mistake it for anything. In fact, it was less a knock than the thumping on the door! It reverberated like a thunderstorm in our two-roomed house.
Instinctively, I jumped to open the door. I removed the metal latch and the door swung open. I was engulfed with a shade of blue. There in front of me was an enormous white man in a blue police uniform. I had seen him before. Everyone in the township knew him. Older boys used to run for cover at the sight of his yellow police van which spotted a BDK registration. It didn’t matter that they were not involved in any unlawful activities. Their sin was being young men in a disorderly state.
I had never seen the horrendous policeman so close. He was right in front of me. In my father’s house. In our home. I still do not understand how he managed to walk through the door because the man seemed bigger and taller than the door.
“Ngubani lowo?” my father shouted from the other room asking who it was. The white man went past me.
“Heyi, yiz’ apha wena!” He had called on my father in a very demeaning manner. “Heyi” is very offensive and was viewed as a derogatory word to use among our people. If you wanted to pick a fight, you would start by saying, “Heyi, where are you going?” and your potential victim would respond by saying I am not “heyi” to you. An argument would erupt. And then blows would be exchanged.
But now the policeman was referring to my father as “heyi” and my father complied with his orders. My father had spent that very afternoon regaling me with heroic stories of him and his three brothers. That no one could defeat them in stick-fighting. From the Great Fish River, across the Tyhume River and throughout the entire region of the AmaTola Mountains, the brothers were respected warriors. No one could beat them, he had told me. The evidence was the scars that criss-crossed his forehead.
My father had been called outside by the policeman. His manhood was diminishing right in front of the nosy onlookers. He didn’t have his stick with him. The policeman had his gun with him. My father was there talking to the enormous policeman. And I heard my mother’s voice. My mother, the soft-spoken Christian woman, sounded different. She was shouting. I never heard her shout before. But that day she was shouting. Shouting at the white policeman. I was proud of my mother.
The door opened gently. It was my father with my mother on tow.
“What are they saying, dad?” I asked.
“They say I stole a car.” He duly explained.
“When?” I am not sure whether I was asking when he stole the car or when the police say he had stolen it.
“Now.”
“But we’ve been here all day.” I said obviously perplexed.
“That’s what I’ve been telling them. But they found the car outside our gate.”
“What colour is it?” I asked getting curious.
“It’s red.”
A red car outside my home. How I wished the car could be given to my father if it was lost. He would learn how to drive it and would surely take good care of it. I had picked up a stray puppy and grew very fond of it. I named him Chomie because he became my friend. The same could happen to the car if it was lost. It’s no big deal, I concluded.
The door swung open again. It was the stout policeman. “Yiz’ apha!” he had said and my father didn’t move an inch. I looked at my father and his face contorted in a defiant grimace. The policeman pointed at me with his fat white index finger.
“Heyi, ndithetha nawe.” He said, making it clear that he was calling me and not my father. I noticed for the first time that he had grey eyes. I never knew that white people had grey eyes. May be with those grey eyes he couldn’t tell that I was a child, I said to myself inwardly.
“Heyi, ngumntwana lo.” I felt so proud when my father said “heyi” to the dreaded policeman, telling him that I was only a child. The policeman fixed his gaze at me and, in the same way my father had done earlier, I got up and went outside with the policeman.
“Who stole that car, is it your father?” He asked in Xhosa. I looked towards the direction he was pointing to and there were many cars. I tried to respond but my throat was dry and nothing audible came out of my mouth. He repeated the same words. I swallowed saliva and gave it a try one more time. I heard my hoarse and shaky voice saying, “I don’t know.” As soon as those words came out of my mouth I felt a warm liquid trickling down my cheeks.
“Listen boetie, did your father steal that car?” The rhino in front of me persisted. He spoke slowly through clenched teeth putting emphasis on each syllable. He touched the bulge on his waist like a cowboy getting ready for a gunfight. My favourite TV dramas at the time included Magnum P.I., The “A” Team and Knight Rider, and from these films I knew very well what police kept on their waists. The thought of violent death visited my young mind for the first time. My mother screamed that the policeman was about to kill me. My father shouted that the white pig dared to touch his son. I wet my khaki shorts.
Until that day, I always looked up to my father. I knew my father was invincible. But at that moment I wondered what my father could do against such an enormous white man. My father was a small man and his homemade rusty bayonet did not stand a chance against the white man’s gun. Numerous guns. I had never seen so many cars around my home before. They were driven by the police. And police had guns.
“You are not taking my son anywhere,” my father kept shouting at the white man. “You rather kill me,” he offered himself as a sacrifice. The enormous white man
in front of me had bended to my height. I could smell his warm whiff. He was talking but I couldn’t hear anything anymore. I was crying. And he beckoned me to go back to the house. My wet shorts were stuck to my skin as I walked. My father was there talking to the policeman. I wondered if the policeman was going to take my father’s life as my father had offered. I didn’t want to loose my father.
After what seemed like eternity, both my parents came back with undisguised fury across their faces. My mother was grumbling about disrespectful white men. My father couldn’t believe that they would accuse him of being a car thief whereas he could not drive even a tractor. I wished my father had a car. Red car, red car, how I long for you.
“Mom.” I called out to my mother.
“Yes, my dear little boy.” She had said in English and forced a smile as she turned to look at me. The phrase was from a nursery rhyme she had coined me: “Oh my dear little baby; Oh my dear little boy.” I would giggle and kick the air as she held me above her head and repeated the words. Those were just about the only familiar English words to me even though I didn’t know what they meant at the time.
“I hate white people.” As soon as I said those words she took a glance at my father. I also looked at my father. He took the blanket and covered his face. My mother drank water from a jug and hummed her favourite church hymn. I was disappointed that my comment was not received with any adulation.
There was another knock at the door. Gentler this time. It was another white man. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt. He had hair on his arms. He had a star outside his left chest-pocket. He had nicely trimmed black hair. He was clean shaven. He was handsome. If he was in a movie, he would definitely be a starring. Handsome people don’t deserve to be thugs!
He spoke in a language that I couldn’t understand. My father responded without getting up. The white man said something to my mother too. My mother responded in a strange language. White people’s language, I assumed. The white man turned to me. He pulled my cheek gently with his two fingers and said a familiar sound. The same sound that my mother would make when she saw a cute baby. He made a gesture like a good bye. I lifted my right hand and waved at the handsome white man. He was smiling as he opened the door to leave. That was the last I saw him. And the last time I saw a white man in our house that day.
My mother screamed that the bread she was baking had burned. She switched off the primus stove. And only then was I conscious of the smell and the smoke that filled the house. I took off the wet khaki shorts and got into bed next to my father. I asked what the friendly conversation was all about and my mother told me that the white man that came last was a traffic officer. He had seen and chased the thief all the way from Port Elizabeth but he got away. He knew what the culprit looked like. And that it wasn’t my father.
But my movie is not about this traumatic experience from the bad old days of the 1980’s. It’s about today’s incidents. And I want it to feature prominent individuals. I want my starring to be our King of Police. I like the guy. I believe he possesses features of a movie star. He is one of very few politicians who do not have a round belly. He is tall, dark and handsome. His bald hair, toned body and stylishly trimmed beard all remind me of the hunky Keenen Ivory Wayans from the 1994 action comedy, A Low Down Dirty Shame.
Mine won’t follow the clichéd motif of a cop who’s been expelled from the force and comes back to investigate the case without the permission of his bosses; takes risks and cracks the case, something that will earn him praise. I think that kind of plot is archaic now.
There are more interesting police stories in South Africa today. Not long ago, Traffic Officers embarked on a strike and there was a looming threat that they would exchange fire with the members of our Police Service. I wasn’t sure which officers mattered most to society. Shortly after this strange incident, the soldiers marched to the State President’s office, The Union Buildings. I feared for my life as the police dispersed them with rubber bullets and humiliated members of our national defense force. The soldiers promised to hit back. I’m grateful sanity prevailed.
And as we speak, the former top cop is in the dock over his dealings with some drug lords. There’s a subplot of the death of a mining magnate. The dead man is implicated as a sponsor of some young lions—our future leaders. Come on, that should be the juiciest one especially when the man who replaces the top cop wears cowboy hats! My cast is increasing. This is all material for a blockbuster. But that is a script for another day.
My current movie stars only one man. Our King of Police as a no-nonsense cop who goes to the heart of the matter. The tagline of the film would be “He is armed. He shoots to kill!” and Mandoza’s Nkalakatha will be the sound track. I want my starring to be more like a thug with a police badge. He will be motivated by the desire to prevent and combat crime, by all means. I haven’t decided on my setting yet, but it must be a slum where crime is more prevalent. There will be a gun-totting gang that is terrorizing the community. And the King of Police will go there to find the kingpin.
You see, bravery is one of the main characteristics of a starring. He must go where no one else would dare set a foot. He must be armed with two firearms. One on his hip and the other secretly strapped to his ankle. After shooting down all the kingpin’s henchmen, he will chase his main opponent who will keep disappearing between the shacks. They will exchange fire until he runs out of live ammunition. He will then pull out his spare firearm and shoot the fleeing gangster in the head. He will go to the dead body to say words of triumph like, “Tell all other dead thugs there’s a new cop in town!”
But when he gets to the spot where the lifeless body lies, he realises that the gang leader had escaped. The dead body is not the gangster. It is the body of a three year old boy with a deep wound in his forehead. The boy was playing with his friends when he was mistaken for a criminal. The dead boy is the King of Police’s son. The King of Police’s only son looses his life because of mistaken identity. I wish I could write this as a movie script. But this melodrama is unfolding in our day and era.

Spring has come. The citrus season is over. There are no more lemons to talk about with Oupa. For after almost a year in this neighbourhood he remains the only neighbour I know and get along with. My good neighbour still can’t speak a single word of English. Given the deficiency of my Afrikaans, I have to think about each conversation in advance.

One Saturday morning he catches me picking up some dirt in the yard and he says something to the effect that this should be my “sport”. Cleaning? My Sport? I wonder if he is commenting on my impairment as a gardener. I’m not lazy I just don’t have time to work in the garden. It’s not an attractive hobby anyway. Grass is growing up the wall, dry leaves are scattered all over the yard and the clearly neglected lawn has been thirsting for water throughout winter. My braaing stand is standing in a corner full of ashes since the last time we had a braai way before we were hit by the recession. I am well aware of the fact that my yard is not the tidiest but I don’t need an old man to remind me about this.

But he belongs to another generation and I don’t wanna disrespect elders, especially a neighbour. And the only one I know nogal. Besides, given our linguistic barriers, disagreeing with him might prove difficult as I hadn’t prepared for it in advance. “Yes, this should be my sport,” I repeat his words, for that’s the routine of our conversations. He continues with the conversation but I miss a lot of what he is saying because his dog is barking. I’m irritated by the dog because this moment is not only important for me to get to know my neighbour better but also to increase my Afrikaans vocabulary. He catches my eye staring at the dog and feels obliged to explain that the dog is new. His pug (which I also didn’t like very much) had died recently. In addition to the dog, Oupa has three big cats that I suspect are close cousins to leopards. You’ll understand what I mean when you see those massive animals.

And now we talk about cats and dogs; dogs and cats all the time. No more lemons! My sober mind tells me that the animal conversations are more sustainable than lemons. Actually, I don’t know why I didn’t think about them in the first place because I wrote good compositions of “My Hond” and “My Kat” at school. These lessons would for once in my life come in handy. I know my Afrikaans compositions were good because I memorised everything that our teacher taught us (which in turn, she probably read during her school days).

The animal conversation network is increasing rapidly. Just a few days ago I was walking to the shop and speaking on the phone. Suddenly a car makes a screeching stop right in front of me. I lift up my head and realise that I walked in front of the car as it was approaching the driveway. I apologise profusely. I’m not the one for fights, not especially with neighbours. In fact, I subscribe to the Michael Jackson philosophy (bless his departed soul) that “I’m a lover not a fighter.” The old man behind the wheel gestures at me and I take that as a warning.

This is a military area. In the past the area was meant exclusively for military officers and most of my neighbours served in the army at some point. I mean truly military men and not those guys you saw struggling to climb over the Union Buildings fence a few weeks ago. If a soldier wags a finger at you and brings his car to a screeching halt you are bound to tremble. At least I did.

I end my call unceremoniously as the driver gets out of the car. I’m about to apologise for walking on his driveway when the man hastily gets out of the car. I notice that there is something peculiar about his walk. He must have lost his leg in the army, I make a mental note. With a big smile across his wrinkled face, he stretches a hand to greet me. I am relieved that this is a friendly encounter and I happily shake hands with him. He introduces himself as…well, I’ll just call him Mr S. Now I’m happy about two things. I am not just getting to know another neighbour but this one can speak English too. That’s a bonus!

In a telling way, Mr S asks if that is my house. I respond in the affirmative and tell him how happy I am to finally meet him. In a deep Afrikaans accent he says, “Nee, I see you and your
wife drive in and out all the time. Even at night sometimes.” So he’s been watching our moves, I say to myself. “But you guys are so quiet.”
“Are we?” I say listlessly still amazed that he’s been keeping an eye.
“But that’s a good thing,” he adds. I’m pleased that we have a good record so far, but he is oblivious of the fact that soon we will be bringing the house down. We’ll be hosting a surprise party for a friend of ours in about two weeks. It is our responsibility as young people to bring life to the neighbourhood.
“I like this area.” I try to change the topic.
“Yah, it’s a good area—quiet and safe. But you must get a dog.” He warns.
“What for? This is probably the safest area in town.” I say because I know the area is relatively safe but it will be interesting to hear from a legendary resident. No one will ever mess with a neighbourhood where there’s an R4 rifle in almost every second household. ADT has no business in our neighbourhood. We are our own Armed Response. Okay, that’s just me threatening criminals who may be visiting this blog!
“No, it’s important to have a dog. There’s crime here. The dog will bark when
somebody tries to break into your house.” He justifies his point.
“But have you ever experienced crime here?” I’ve been curious to know because in my reasoning only a foolish thief with a death wish would try to steal from a military village.
“Oh, yes. We found our old dog floating in the swimming pool. Somebody must
have poisoned it.” He says trying to convince himself.
So, his crime testimony is the death of a dog which he suspects must have been poisoned and thrown into a swimming pool. Suffice it to say nothing was stolen!

A few days later my skorokoro coughed a few times and collapsed. After several attempts trying to resuscitate it I had to face the reality that it’s dead. Counting the years that I’ve been driving it without changing anything (other than tyres, oil and fuel), I know it needs a new battery. After buying the battery now the challenge is to remove the old one. I battle with it for several hours and decide to call on my good neighbour, Mr S. He’s a driving instructor and should know a thing or two about cars.

Mr S comes immediately and I introduce him to my co-worker who’s a friend visiting from the Eastern Cape. ‘Oh, I’ve seen you before. That was you the other night coming from the
shop with bread.” He says with a smile and my friend agrees. They go on about the happenings of that night which I was not privy to. Apparently it was quite late and my friend had to buy bread from the 24 hour garage nearby. Mr S, who by now is clearly the self-appointed neighbourhood watchman, followed the strange man and asked him where he lived. My friend had to prove that he was resident there by opening the gate with a remote control.

The happenings of that late night encounter having been clarified, I want to seize this opportunity and get to know the old man better. I’ve been dying to ask Mr S about his life in the army. In fact, I concluded from the first day that he lost his leg in the Second World War. I wanted to hide myself when he objected, saying it was actually a car accident. That’s why he decided to open a driving school so that he can teach people how to drive properly and minimise accidents on the road. I couldn’t agree more. He goes further to tell me that he is selling his daughter’s motorbike. Reason. He hates motorbikes. That makes two of us, I say.

They seem fun but any accident in a motorbike is a serious one. Even if you were riding at 60Km p/h when you fall it is your body that goes to the ground. But Mr S has a long history with motorbikes. First, his son drove one and he would be out late at night clubbing his youth away while the father stays awake worried. The young man would arrive at ungodly hours and the little machine would wake the whole neighbourhood with its loud engine.

The second testimony is about his daughter and her motorbike-riding boyfriend. Apparently this young man, who was supposed to be taking her out, didn’t know much about his father-in-law. And guess what mode of transport he used. A motorbike. How can he ever think of making the daughter of Mr S ride a motorbike? Over my dead body, Mr S tells me that’s what he said. They must either take a bus or the young man must borrow a car from his parents. I wonder if that was going to be the first time that the couple rode the roaring machine together.

As fate would have it, or rather, as Mr S had warned, soon there was a dead body. And it was not Mr S’s. The young man met a fatal accident while riding his motorbike. And fortunately for Mr S his daughter was not there with the boyfriend. In a typical storytelling formular, Mr S concludes by telling the moral of the story—the daughter later came back to him and said, “Daddy, you
were right. You saved my life.”
“I told you, this thing is dangerous.” Says Mr S, clearly pleased with himself.

So Mr S does not only provide free neighbourhood watch. He is watching his family as well. And perhaps to him the whole neighbourhood is family. Welcome to my neighbourhood!

I lead a boring life. I neither smoke nor drink and I’m always immersed in books. I was lucky to meet a companion with similar habits. Now we are a combination of a boring husband and a boring wife. The two of us are not the most sociable couple.

In the past three years we’ve changed residence twice and meeting new neighbours has been such a mission. Our rural background forbids us from staying in flats and townhouses. We can’t imagine our children growing up independently without the influence of unruly city brats from neighbouring flats. The cheap exotic houses become our obvious choice for a home.

The importance of having a good relationship with the neighbours cannot be overemphasised. Wine or beer of any kind plays a pivotal role in sowing the seeds of good neighbourliness. The fist place we bought a house in was a new development area and I was the first individual to be resident there. My family was to join me later as my wife was busy sending applications left right and centre trying to secure a job, any job, in Gauteng Province. With time I saw more houses with curtains, a sure sign that there were new neighbours around.

At the time I used to leave the house at 5AM and return in the evening at about 19h30. I didn’t even have a TV set so my neighbours wouldn’t even notice when I’m home in the evening. Of course, at the time I used to indulge on take-aways so I hardly spent time in the kitchen—not that I am not gifted in that department. I just love my Steers burger, that’s all. I was working on my novel at the time so neighbours would barely catch a glimpse of me on weekends either.

I met my Venda speaking neighbours well after a year. It turned out that they only came home on weekends as both the husband and wife worked in North West province. I promised to look after the house during the week and they promised to do the same when I leave for Eastern cape during December holidays. I planned to visit them on the day of the over-glorified Soweto derby and my first disappointment was that while I favoured Chiefs, my good neighbour was a staunch Pirates fan. Anyone would know that rivalry is imminent in such a situation.

I sat there while chiefs walloped Pirates and I had to limit my excitement, lest I upset my newly acquired friend. I have heard stories of people that get killed over soccer arguments and I didn’t want to be a statistic. Things were made even more awkward when he offered me beer and I refused. I almost vomited when his wife offered me their traditional delicacy called something like Mopane worms, which to me looked like larva. Now, my biology studies told me that larva develops into a fly and eating that is no different to eating maggots.

We left this area and moved into what practically is an old village for white Afrikaners. I didn’t pick this up in good time because the gentleman from whom we bought the house was relatively young and spoke English well. I even developed a good relationship with him especially because we are both Blue Bulls fans. I realised later that befriending him won’t be very helpful because he won’t be here when we reside in the house anyway.

Now, unlike my previous residence, in a retirement village neighbours are always watching your moves like hawks. They know what time you left home, what time you came back, who visited you, and they see you when you throw a chocolate wrapping paper carelessly. Basically, it is more like your house is under surveillance. This should guarantee relative safety but one gets suspicious when you don’t share a common background with the neighbours especially in Pretoria where there’s a history of racially based violence.

So I try to brake the ice, I had nothing to loose after all. I extend my hand over the fence to introduce myself. The old man next door responds in Afrikaans and stretches his arm to greet. Well, I love people who love their languages, so I continue with the conversation in English. I did this before, I had a 30 minute conversation with a guy who spoke Afrikaans while I spoke English. I understood what he said in Afrikaans but could not respond in the language and the same applied to him. I tried my luck with my new neighbour but he told me straight that he cannot understand English.

Now, I did Afrikaans at school but we all regarded is as the language of the oppressor as a result we were quite hostile to it. We learned it only for the purposes of passing exams and we were not very enthusiastic to learn to speak the language. With my neighbour speaking Afrikaans only it meant I was the only one in my family who could have an inkling of what they are saying. My wife is from the former Transkei Bantustan and never did Afrikaans at school. When I converse with the neighbours I speak on behalf of my linguistically challenged family.

Somehow I manage to string together a few Afrikaans words and my Afrikaner neighbours turn out to be the nicest neighbours we have ever had. They have a lemon tree and one day I asked for lemons because I could see them falling off from the trees. They brought me a sack and a few days later I thank them for the lemons. They say they can give me more. With my lack of Afrikaans vocabulary, our conversations are punctuated with lemons and now we get a sack of lemons from the neighbours every two weeks.

I call my neighbours Oupa and Ouma. They are probably in their late eighties and I must say they continue to impress me. They probably know the formula of my conversations. When I see Oupa I ask, “Waar is Ouma?” and vice versa. So this day Oupa tells me that Ouma went to a hair salon, and I wonder why would a woman of her age bother doing her hair. She is under no obligation to impress the guy. He can’t divorce her now. He needs her company as much as she needs his.

My second shock came a week ago on Saturday 1 August, probably the coldest day this winter in Gauteng. Wind was whistling outside my window and I remained in bed contemplating fetching the book that I was reading from the car. After several hours I had to brave the cold. I couldn’t believe when I saw Oupa struggling to shield a bunch of floors against the strong wind. The man had braved the cold just to buy flowers for his eighty something year old wife.

I imagine that this couple probably has shielded their relationship from many storms over the years. I thought that may be I can learn a thing or two about life from the old couple. I see compassion in their eyes. And that is all the more reason to believe in love.

To be continued…

I wonder if Teko Modise’s poor showing at the Confederations Cup has anything to do with the pathetic adverts that he had to do for the various brands. Teko is a great footballer and I love him for that, but my goodness, he’s such a lousy actor. Think of the Coca-Cola advert where he just shouts “Higher, ladies, higher!”, and may be the MacDonald’s one where he plays around with a ball and spots a potential player-escort in the process.

But one that I find extremely absurd is the Samsung advert. Here comes Teko Modise, the great South African Footballer out of what appears to be his private jet. Oh please, how many PSL players own private jets at the moment? In any case, here he comes out of the plane and takes his sunglasses off. Now, I have my cheap sunglasses and I’ve been in a plane before. Isn’t it most likely that you would put the sunglasses on when you get out of the plane instead of the other way round?

As Teko gets out of his jet he is surrounded by a bunch of guys in dark suits and sunglasses. Are they supposed to be bodyguards? Now, how many public figures in South Africa outside the political arena have bodyguards? You’d even find politicians such as Bantu Holomisa walking around without any bodyguards at times.

The great Teko gets out of the plane in this outlandish airport and a string of long cars are awaiting him. As his entourage drives out of the airport he notices this sad African boy who was hoping to get the much sort after autograph from him and, I suppose, Teko orders the entourage to stop. He gets out of his limousine and takes out his Samsung mobile phone. He uses his phone to take a photo with the now clearly ecstatic boy and leaves the phone with him. Teko doesn’t even bother to take his sim-card where he supposedly stores contacts for his loved ones.

Now I’m beginning to wonder if so much patronization of an individual didn’t get to his head in the field of play. The guy is still young and there’s a great promise in his legs. May be instead of letting his legs speak for him, he spent too much time thinking about how best he can meet the expectations of the fans, international scouts and the sponsors from the various brands that he’s been advertising.

The much anticipated second public lecture hosted by the DAC Book Club was delivered by Vikas Swarup on Friday 12 June at the National Library, Pretoria. Over two hundred individuals braved the breezy evening to listen the outgoing Deputy High Commissioner of India talk about his widely acclaimed novel, Q&A, which was turned into the blockbuster movie, Slumdog Millionaire.

Swarup proved more than just a diplomat and a writer, but an eloquent public speaker as well. He kept the audiences captivated as he related his experience of having written the international bestselling novel and the subsequent adaptation into the multi-award winning movie. Q&A took two months to write in 2003 and even before its publication in 2005, the author received an offer for a movie deal in 2004. In addition to several awards, the book has been translated into 42 languages worldwide.

During the discussion that ensued, the participants wanted to know how it felt to give somebody else the responsibility of turning his book into a movie. Some clearly felt that the movie did not do justice to the novel. In a nonchalant but profound manner, Swarup likened this process to giving away your daughter for marriage. In this case, the movie becomes “your son-in-law and you never speak badly about your in-laws in public.” However, Swarup was consulted every step of the way and he advised on certain aspects of the movie and he is happy with the final product and its success.

Swarup also tried a hand in poetry after a brilliant performance by the much admired Masoja Msiza. In a hilarious manner, Swarup recited his instantly formed “poem” about how Msiza was “stealing his thunder”. On a more serious note, Swarup congratulated Msiza and acknowledged that South Africa had abundance of talent. He encouraged the culture of reading, which is essential for anyone harbouring ambitions of becoming a writer. These words echoed Ms Rachel More, the Deputy National Librarian’s statement that, “if library is the hospital of the mind, all of us would not mind being patients.”

The much anticipated second public lecture hosted by the DAC Book Club was delivered by Vikas Swarup on Friday 12 June at the National Library, Pretoria. Over two hundred individuals braved the breezy evening to listen the outgoing Deputy High Commissioner of India talk about his widely acclaimed novel, Q

Today marks the end of my favourite period of the year—when we get public holidays in almost every week for four consecutive weeks. It is national Worker’s Day which we celebrate by not going to work. Four days earlier it was national Freedom Day and before that it was the Easter Weekend. As if that’s not enough, this year we had a bonus of another day as the whole country went to the polls on the 22nd of April.

What I like most about public holidays is that I get to do things that are impossible to do when I go to work. Today I watched Morning Live and Vuyo Mbuli was making fun of some nicknames and in some instances names that get lost in translation. He made reference to some former soccer player whose surname is Padayachee, and was popularly known as Naphakade, which can be loosely translated as omnipresent in Xhosa.

This reminded me of my own predicament back in 1997 when I was doing research in the farms in the area between Grahamstown and Port Alfred. Using a map to follow directions I came to the spot where the farm Pinelands was supposed to be but residents there did not seem to know the farm I was referring to. It was much later when one old man asked if what I was looking for was not what the locals called KwaPamlenze. It appeared that I was indeed at Pinelands.

The loss or change of meaning between languages was back to haunt me as I was writing the Xhosa version of my novel, When a Man Cries. In the first instance I grappled with the title itself. The direct translation for “when a man cries” would be “xa indoda ikhala” and this did not resonate well in my language as a book title. So, I found the most suitable cultural relative as Ingakhal’ Indoda. Which means….well, I don’t really know the direct meaning except to say it’s quite close to “when a man cries.”

What I also found particularly interesting is that there are things that one can say without trepidation in English but the same things are culturally reprehensible in Xhosa. Now that I have finished the first draft of the novel I realise that as much as a lot may be lost in translation, much more has been regained. I find the process of writing the Xhosa version of the novel as actually the reclamation of the original thought and idiom transmitted through the English language in When a Man Cries.

“Writers have egos,” a colleague argued the other day. “You must be moderate when you criticize their works,” he continued cautioning our book club members ahead of a session where we were due to host an author.

Although I didn’t agree with him at the time, I tend to echo his sentiments nowadays. I hate to admit it, but I am egotistical. And apparently I am not the only one. The legendary James Matthews writes somewhere about how, some five decades ago, one guy on noticing him at an intersection in the opposite car lowered the window and started reciting one of his poems. I tried to get the old man to elaborate on this the other day and he said it was nothing compared to how he felt when he first had a copy of his first published book in his hand.

On his way from the post office where he collected the book, he decided to sit down in the middle of nowhere and page through. That was because he couldn’t wait until he got home. He imagined that the passersby must have thought he was on some substance because he just sat there alone and started laughing his lungs out. It seems like that tradition still continues. I remember pulling over from the N2 highway to open the box after collecting the first copies of my book from a post office in Midrand, Johannesburg.

But again, this cannot be compared to the experience of seeing someone for the first time picking my book from the Exclusive Books shelves, browsing through and buying it. Now, don’t think of me as a stalker but I do remember keeping an eye on the lady every step of the way. Seeing her buying and actually reading the book immediately afterwards gave me the same kind of sensation I had when I first shook hands with Madiba. I considered telling her that I wrote the book but I thought better of it. I have had many such moments ever since.

One of the fascinating stories that boost one’s ego to the extreme is that of a widowed neighbour in Grahamstown. The old woman decided to buy my book with her pension money even though she can barely read a word of English. She has adult children who have good jobs but are not fully acquainted to the culture of book buying. She allows her children and grandchildren, their friends and other neighbours to read the book at a fee of R20. In return they have to narrate the story to the old woman. They have learned to buy their own copies since then!

I have heard many other interesting anecdotes from my fellow scribes. Among others my friend, Zukiswa Wanner, who happened to sit in a taxi next to a lady that was reading her debut novel, The Madams. Well, she couldn’t suppress the urge to tell her that she wrote the book to which the lady responded with a frown and gave her that look that says “you must be crazy.” Seeing that Zukiswa was adamant that she actually penned the novel, the lady just asked, “Manje, ufunan’ etaxini?”(and now, what are you doing in a taxi)?

I had a similar experience this past weekend. I was busy talking on the phone when this lady smiled and mumbled something curiously pointing at my books. I had a copy of When a Man Cries and Bessie Head’s When Rain Clouds Gather in my hand. I had to end the call and hear what the lady had to say. “That’s a nice book,” she said pointing at the books. I asked which one and she said “That one, When a Man Cries, I read it last year and I really enjoyed it.” She was smiling from ear-to-ear all the time and spoke with a somewhat childlike excitement. “I wrote the book,” I said and she immediately grabbed the book from my hand and compared the face in front of her with the picture on the back cover of the book.

What followed was me interviewing her about how she came across the book given the limitations of our distribution channels and the sad reality of the lack of a culture of reading. I was pleased to hear her saying she makes it a point to read South African literature. I realised then that it is fulfilling to have one’s ego pampered by a total stranger every now and again. I wonder how many writers “google” their names just to see what the world has to say about them and their works. I may be the first to admit it, but I have a strong suspicion that many writers have had such self affirming moments.

The following article appears in the December issue of Kha ri Ambe, an internal newsletter of the Department of Arts and Culture:

“Book Clubs are mainly for recreational reading, but even as recreation, it is possible to implant the habit of reading as a means of acquiring information and knowledge amongst millions of people,” argued Dr Z. Pallo Jordan, Minister of Arts and Culture. This statement can be the summation of the objectives of the DAC Book Club, whose first anniversary was celebrated at the National Library on Tuesday, 25 November 2008.

Established a year ago, the DAC Book Club was formed with a view to encourage the culture of reading and writing among the employees of the Department of Arts and Culture. Since its establishment, the DAC Book Club has not only become one of the simplest and most dynamic means of encouraging the culture of reading, it is also a powerful vehicle for promoting South African literature. Since January 2008, the DAC has hosted twelve guest authors whose books were discussed among the DAC personnel.

The lack of a culture of reading remains one of the major challenges that confront the South African society today. Literacy underpins development in all sectors of society and to invest on the development of a culture of reading is to contribute towards building a prosperous nation. To paraphrase Minister Jordan, if our society is to become a successful nation, “we must open up that treasure trove of humanity’s achievements, dreams, aspirations and folly that is carried in books, to our people.”

The Book Club has indeed transformed many lives as several members have read more books in a single year since their school days. As a result, the members of the book club appreciate books even more and have become regulars at book shops since the establishment of the book club. Officials in the Department are encouraged to take the idea of book clubs to their communities, where they can encourage their families, friends and relatives to read.

It is fitting that this occasion was held at the National Library which, in line with its mandate, is “home” to all South African books. This sentiment was articulated by Minister Jordan as he remarked, “A Book Club in a department like ours can have a most significant impact precisely because we are the custodians of our nation’s cultural heritage.” It is also strategically significant that the DAC embarks on this initiative with the aim of encouraging other government departments and related institutions to do the same.

The DAC Book Club embarks on this initiative at an opportune time when South African literature is burgeoning at unprecedented heights and a number of writers gaining wide recognition. In attendance were award winning writers including the latest winner of the Noma Award for Publishing in Africa, Zachariah Rapola, South African Literary Awards recipients, Prof DBZ Ntuli and Chris van Wyk, among others. As our literature flourishes, the need for engendering wider audiences becomes more crucial.

The programme was also dedicated into celebrating one of the living custodians of South Africa’s literary heritage and a founding member of the Book Club, Prof Keorapetse Kgositsile. President Kgalema Motlanthe recently recognised Kgositsile, who is also the reigning Poet Laureate and Special Adviser to Minister Jordan, with the Order of Ikhamanga in Silver for his exceptional contribution to Literature.

In paying his special tribute to Kgositsile, Minister Jordan remarked, “In addition the outstanding contribution he has made to South African poetry, Willie Kgositsile has been a political activist all his adult life. He is, and I say this with some trepidation, perhaps one of the few poets who have always been able to blend his politics with his poetry without compromising either.” Also paying special tribute to Kgositsile was the legendary musician, Vusi Mahlasela, who did so in the best way he knows how. He performed some of his classic tunes, including a song that was originally written as a poem by Kgositsile.

Kgositsile shared the stage with young and dynamic poets like Vonani Bila, Phomelelo Moshapo, Mandisa Phandliwe and Masoja Msiza. The occasion was indeed a feast of creative explosion to literary enthusiast and a new leaf of literary exposure to those who were not avid followers of South African literature.

Nostalgia is getting the better of me. I miss everything about South Africa. I’ve been in Algeria for about a week now and people here speak Arabic and French as the main languages. I miss one of those conversations I would have in my language with a total stranger I happen to stand in a bank queue with. Any conversation as long as it is not about death!

The entire South African delegation has been cursing death the whole day. We are devastated by the news of the passing away of Prof Zeke Mphahlele, the doyen of African letters. One way or another we were all inspired by him and we won’t be there to pay our last respects to him. I first met Mphahlele when I was an African Literature student at Wits University in 2002. He was soft-spoken and unassuming but it will be too embarrassing to tell how much I was overwhelmed to finally meet the man that I had read so much about. Ironically, young people in the small township of Lebowakgomo, where this national treasure lived for many years, did not seem to know much about him.

In 2005 I went to Lebowakgomo to pay Mphahlele a visit with two other literary activists from Joburg. There is one thing about Joburg people, they always get lost in small places like Grahamstown and Lebowakgomo. It was my first time in Limpopo province and my SePedi vocabulary was very limited at the time, so I had to follow my companions’ orders and let them ask for directions. The common response when we asked if anyone knew where Prof Mphahlele lived was “Where does he teach?” It was only in one of the shebeens in the area that one patron in a drunken state asked if we were referring to the old man with colourful shirts. It turned out that for more than an hour we were within 100m radius of Mphahlele’s home.

A few weeks ago I had an affirming moment when someone was similarly overwhelmed to know that I’m a published writer. It was on a Friday morning and I was in a One Time aircraft from Joburg to East London. I got to the seat first and realised that I was allocated the aisle, which I prefer most of the time. You see, when I get into the aircraft there is always the curiosity of trying to imagine what type of person would sit next to me. There are those who will not even look at you even though you’ll spend about two hours sitting next to each other. Some would be all grumpy when you try to pip through the window to steal a view of the sea before landing. There are also those who’ll start talking to you because you are sitting on the aisle and they want to go to the toilet.

On this day I was not looking forward to striking a conversation with a stranger as I was in the company of Holy Hill, a novel by Angelina N. Sithebe. I was also hoping that my neighbour would be kind enough to allow me to perform the sea viewing ritual before the plane landed in East London. While my nose was still buried into the book, I noticed white sneakers parked next to my seat. I lifted my head and my eyes landed on a beauty whose plump face was beaming with a genuine smile. I mumbled my apologies and got up to allow her to take the seat. She thanked me as she walked across to her seat.

She was very quick to introduce herself and I had to do the same and immediately took refuge in my book both to maintain the momentum and to show her that I was busy. “Do you work in the Eastern Cape?” that was a fair question but it was still destructive, I thought to myself. I told her that I work in Pretoria but I’m originally from the Eastern Cape. Big mistake, she told me that she was from East London and gave me the whole history of her coming to Joburg as a student and the various jobs she has held since then. Seeing that I was not too keen to talk about myself, she went on to tell me about her family, how many siblings she had, getting married, and many other things that my mind did not have enough capacity to keep. All along I had my book in front of me to show her that I was determined to continue with my reading.

Every time I tried to read she would tell me one more story about herself, her family or friends. And then it was all about her job at the airport and how she and her colleagues judge character by watching people’s deportment as they disembark from aircrafts. They could tell if one is getting divorced, or if some business man was away with a mistress, or if one is a single mother rushing to get home to take care of her little brats. Being a good listener earned me the privilege of being seated in business lounge in my next trip. “Just call me and I’ll arrange for you,” she generously offered. The offer obviously came with assumptions that we’ll exchange numbers and that I did not have access to business lounge. Needless to say, she got it all wrong. I just played with my face, frowning as if reading an emotional scene in the novel. It was my way of inviting her to ask something about what I was reading.

Instead of commenting about my reading, she asked if I liked any movies. Determined not to let the opportunity slip away, I stated categorically that I was not into movies and that I preferred reading. I thought I was sending a message that she should leave me alone so that I could read but clearly the message did not get through. She started telling me about movies that she liked and even though I had seen some of them I told her that I had no idea of what she was talking about. It was well over forty minutes when I realised that my attempts at reading a novel while my neighbour was still there would prove to be a futile exercise. I closed the book and gave her my full attention.

“You seemed so engrossed in that book. What is it all about?” it was only then that she showed interest in my reading. I told her that it was an interesting novel by a South African writer. Before I could say more, she confessed of not having read anything by a South African writer since high school. I told her that I could recommend her at least ten books by South Africans. She promised to visit the book store at the airport and get some of the books. After landing I reached for my hand luggage in the stowaway cabin and pulled out a copy of When a Man Cries. As I gave it to her my index finger directed her eyes to the author’s name. The response was, “Oh, my God! You are a writer,” my face beamed with a self affirming smile followed by a nod. As we walked out of the aircraft, she kept explaining how happy she was to have sat next to a writer.

I did not check-in any luggage so I had to bid her farewell as she was waiting for hers at the conveyor belt. As we parted ways she was smiling from ear to ear and said, “I’ve never met a writer before.” With that I got a pinch on the shoulder.