JACQUES Pauw’s novelised life story of apartheid killer Ferdie Barnard, although far from a liter- ary masterpiece, is a cracking good read. Pauw, the prize-winning inves- tigative journalist who broke the story of apartheid death squads in Vrye Weekblad in 1989, has found that hot spot in South African writ- ing, the place where truth is stranger, more thrilling and com- pelling, than fiction could ever be. Despite Mahmood Mamdani’s arguments against South African exceptionalism in his influential 1996 book Citizen and Subject, we remain a country that believes in its own extraordinariness. It’s almost urban legend: no one has more rapes per capita than we do; a faster-growing HIV infection- rate; a bigger wealth gap; a greater incidence of heart attacks; more hijackings; a quicker frequency of violent crime, etc, etc. Whether these claims are true is hardly the point – to South Africans outside of Camps Bay, Hout Bay and Kalk Bay, they feel true. A raft of recent South African fiction has gone for the throat of such extremity, but fictionalised it in various gradations of the “crime thriller”. Just last year we had novels such as Jassy Mackenzie’s Random Violence, Rozena Maart’s The Writing Circle, Tracey Farren’s Whiplash, Mike Nicol’s Payback, Megan Voysey-Braig’s Till We Can Keep an Animal, Edyth Bulbring’s The Club, Hamish Hoosen Pillay’s The Rainbow Has No Pink, and still more – novels in which that which is unpalatable in social realism is transmuted into readable “thrillers”. However, many of these novels were hard to swallow, and hard to read, simply because the awareness of violence is already so high up the average South African reader’s throat – so close to the gag button – it’s as though one doesn’t want fic- tional melanges of what one knows and fears. But as publishers’ sales figures show, South Africans have a great respect for no-BS truth. Quite possi- bly this stems from our long – and continuing – history of government mendacity, cover-ups, corruption and Wild West rapaciousness under various fig leaves of “democratic” accountability. What a laugh! And it’s that button, that “give me a break” incredulity, around which Pauw’s Little Ice Cream Boy resonates: the full-scale revelation of the real, ugly truth, the real thing behind mountains of lies. It’s this that often sells books, rather than daintily fictionalised “allegories” of crime, or lyrical treatments of the interiority of the victim – the kind of writing that often emanates from creative writing courses. A sizeable segment of readers, such as they are, prefer the lowdown on matters of truth because they’ve had “fiction” in heaps. The bare truth is a valuable commodity. Pauw, however, has given readers a blend: the ugly, true facts woven into a fic- tional frame. This way, he keeps the sucker punch of discovered or revealed truth, but he also offers a first-person storyline and a com- pelling fictional context. So, you get Gideon Goosen as the novelistic reconstruction of Ferdie Barnard, the Civil Cooperation Bureau undercover operative who shot Wits academic David Webster in cold blood outside his Troyeville home on May 1, 1989. In Little Ice Cream Boy, Goosen kills “fictional” Wits academic Prof Paul Williams outside his Yeoville home on May 1, 1989. But the surrounding context is the same, and the sense of revealed truth works to much the same effect as it does in Pauw’s other, non-fiction books about apartheid’s state-sanctioned killers. What is different, however, is that Pauw enters true-blue fictional ter- ritory by redrawing “Barnard’s” childhood, and also by imagining the inside-prison, before-and-after frame of the story, which has Goosen up against Taliep, a Mafia henchman inside prison, and which sees him fall in love with a “granny” who has taken up a mother-love relationship with him. In fact, the fictional pretext for the first-person narrative here, the occasion for writing this narrative, that is, is the conceit that Goosen is “explaining everything” to this mother-substitute. It is in this conceit, and its execu- tion, that Pauw could have done with the kind of feedback a writing group might have afforded him – the first-person voice of Goosen gets improbably entangled with Pauw’s authorial voice, so that one gets a poorly educated “hood” using phras- es such as “ebullient supporters” to describe the baying circle of kids at a schoolyard fight. There is a lot of this smudginess of authorial voice, and it is a pity, because the general fictional opera- tion is very well pulled off, despite a tendency towards sentimentality and stereotypical exaggeration in the drawing of “types” – criminals, reformed or otherwise, low-class Afrikaners, violent policemen, cor- rupt Boere on the make, and so on. Pauw’s writing often treads the line between keen satire and some- what blotchy realistic description. It’s as if the writing finds its mark in precisely this intersection, satirically overdrawn on the one hand, straining for realism on the other, and the tension is not always resolved. Perhaps this is a book, like so many, that could have done with another year’s worth of rewriting, and more refining of the fictional voice. However, on the affirmative side, once one forgives the straying of authorial voice into the perspectival limits of the first-person narrator, and goes along with the story, there is a bonus: a laconic, raconteur-like, aphoristic style that yields short, snappy paragraphs such as the fol- lowing: “I’d become obsessed with her. My whole f****** existence was dominated by her red hair and Arc- tic eyes and the perky c*** that had liberated me from sexual inadequa- cy and banished that Volkskas bank clerk to the rubbish heap.” Even though parts of this sen- tence don’t properly belong in Goosen’s second-class matric vocab- ulary, Pauw nevertheless catches the beat of his character’s being, even if imperfectly, and creates a Philip Marlowe-type paradox of the laconic voice narrating the details of human extremity as if it’s a kind of style-thing. Or try this for size: “They’d fried the h***kop’s balls to crackling but the c*** still refused to tell them where he was hiding a bag of jewellery he had stolen from a shop in Carlton Centre.” With this style of writing, we’re almost back in Herman Charles Bosman territory, or Dugmore Boetie, or Marlene van Niekerk in Triomf, and it’s a refreshing change from the “deep” and intensely liter- ary, or the academically pigmented narratives that are now coming out thick and fast. For the most part, Pauw’s pyrotechnics of voice work well enough to carry the story, which in itself is enthralling. It is a story that reopens parts of a common heritage – white trash, chronic lawlessness, police crimi- nality, culturally sanctioned patriar- chal violence, the drug underworld, Joburg vice, mafia hits and manoeu- vres – a dark heritage that needs sol- id fictional undercarriages. Perhaps the scholarly culture has spawned an overdose of genteel work. Pauw’s hard-hitting first novel, even if crude in places, proves that there’s a lot of dirt out there that we need to pick up. MAUREEN ISAACSON BLACK DIAMOND, Zakes Mda’s new novel, presents an acid portrait of a society in moral decay. In an interview in Joburg, Mda says he is happy that his vicious- ness is apparent; subject deter- mines style, so the novel is accessi- ble. In this it differs from The Heart of Redness (2002), The Madonna of Excelsior (2004) and The Whale Caller (2005). Ways of Dying (1997), written at a time when people had begun to run out of time to mourn their dead and were forced to hire a profes- sional mourner, necessitated Mda’s greatest creation, Toloki, who reap- pears in Cion, Mda’s penultimate novel, set in the US. Mda’s refusal to sing praise songs to the powerful has been a consistent theme, which he traces back to his 1978 play We Shall Sing for the Fatherland, which he says foresaw the current crisis of cor- ruption, depicted so clearly in The Heart of Redness. In response to Memela’s letter accusing Mda, among other South African writers, of being “black racists”, he says: “It is racial arro- gance to say that because I am black I can’t criticise black people. He (Memela) is being racist for crit- icising me because I am black. Only a fool would read that book (Black Diamond) and accuse me of being conservative. “Actually, to not be a praise singer is progressive because (it means that) you are a free thinker. A praise singer is the most conser- vative creature (because in his eyes) whatever the leader does is good. That is how Africa got into the mess it is in at this time. Let me tell you how it happened. Firstly leaders fought for liberation. Actu- ally we fought for liberation. “We had independence, as it was called. Then we began to deify those leaders. They became presi- dents for life. We cheered when they began to loot from the coffers of the state. We said these people have suf- fered on our behalf, they can deserve what they get. Then we (the people) gave them all the power. In South Africa fortunately things did not happen like that… People would elect the ANC government, then tomorrow they will be demon- strating in the street. “What I am doing is a continua- tion of what the ordinary people are doing when they see something wrong. That is what patriotism is about – it is not about who follows the leaders when they are corrupt and begin to accumulate power and to oppress the people and say we can’t criticise them because we are patriotic. That is stupidity. I am not stupid. “Patriotism is self-examination and self-criticism – the only way we can build a strong country (and) a strong people. If we are honest enough to look into ourselves and to point out our own flaws. That is why I am praising the policies I think are great and criticising those I think are wrong. That is part of dialogue. “There is no one whose word can be final on these issues and there is no one who can silence me or anybody. I am a free spirit. I have my views, but they are not sacro- sanct. Someone else will have their views. It is part of the debate we need to engage in… “I fought in this liberation strug- gle. I believe in the policies of the ANC, but I do not believe in some of the practices that have developed in the course of achieving what the ANC has mapped out. “I do not identify with politi- cians although they are a necessary evil. I am not an anarchist, we have to have governments and we have to run a country. Among the elders, Walter Sisulu is more of a hero than anyone, he has integrity.” I ask: “Do you think that politi- cians set the tone that creates the moral decay that we read about in Black Diamond?” “They are the architects of it all! “We won’t get out of this situa- tion… but a free press will not allow them to have a wholesale impunity.” I ask: “Don’t writers play a role?” “Well, writers, who reads writ- ers? It is the elite that is not capable of changing the situation because it benefits from it.” “Is the elite not capable or does it not want to change things?” “We are protecting our own interests, we are benefiting from this system whereas the media penetrate to other sectors of the society and become participants of the dialogue. “As a country I think we are going in the right direction. Politi- cally, I stand where I have always been. I believe in the ANC and I think their policies are very pro- gressive. It is only the practice rather than the policies that one may criticise. If there were elec- tions tomorrow I would vote for them.” “Did you vote for them this year?” “I was not here.” “You don’t live here anymore?” “Some of the time, I do. I am a migrant worker in America. The situation there is right for me to work in. I teach creative writing at Ohio University, but most of the time I write, I am paid to write my own stuff. I invest a lot in South Africa, in a beekeeping project, which I started with my wife, Gugu… I am not just talk, I dirty my hands. I work as dramaturge for the Market Theatre and as a direc- tor of the Southern African Multi- media Aids Trust.” Mda ignores the academic crit- ics. “The only reviews I read are reviews from popular press.” This year Mda was accused of plagiarism, when a study was released comparing Mda’s novel Heart of Redness with Jeff Peires’s historical work, The Dead Will Arise. “Of course, you would be upset if you are accused of plagia- rism but this was a non-issue in the US. Instead, scholars wrote to me in support. “It was never a secret that my source of the historical aspect of the novel came from Jeff Peires – I can refer you to other articles, written in a positive light, studying it as an example of how a writer can write new works of art. Jeff Peires was happy with my acknowl- edgement in Heart of Redness.” “Do we have something to learn from intertextuality?” “I use the modes of writing that are at my disposal. I cannot write a common denominator type of work for ignorant people, I am not a com- mon denominator writer. “Those who know about it will appreciate my work. It is for me to tell my fiction the best way I can and some of it will include the work of historians. Cion makes use of historical sources and acknowl- edges them. This is not the last time I will do this. I will do it again when the need arises.” 17 Books THE SUNDAY INDEPENDENT NOVEMBER 2 9 2009 Books Page EDITED BY MAUREEN ISAACSON I refuse to be silenced, says Zakes Mda Guns, thugs and real life in the raw Little Ice Cream Boy goes down smooth, despite all the razors. It is a book written by a no-nonsense South African to be read by the same MAUREEN ISAACSON SANDILE Memela, a senior mar- keting manager for the Department of Arts and Culture, has written another letter “in his personal capacity”. A former journalist, Memela reserves the right to speak the truth in the press, asking us to disregard his rank, which requires a certain suspension of belief. This week, he made the letters pages of newspapers with ominous warnings of “a dangerous increase in books written by black authors and so-called intellectuals that give a negative portrayal of life under freedom and democracy”. He said overrated writers and intellectuals typically ignored the fact that black corruption was linked to and fed off white injus- tice, corruption and greed. Of course, he was not denying that some black people had bought into the corrupt lifestyle that was previously the preserve of white privilege. But he said that reflected “the internalisation of racism, deep- seated anti-black sentiments and an inferiority complex which says there is absolutely nothing good in the black experience under democracy”. Memela singled out the books of writers and intellectuals he called overrated – Xolela Mangcu’s To the Brink, Moeletsi Mbeki’s Architects of Poverty, Zakes Mda’s Black Dia- mond, William Gumede and Leslie Dikeni’s The Poverty of Ideas and Jacob Dlamini’s Native Nostalgia, saying: “One had only to look at these… to understand how some black writers rubbish the achieve- ment of freedom and democracy. “Mangcu generated attention to himself by writing a book that says democracy is on the brink of col- lapse; Mbeki says the ANC is to blame for apartheid sins; Mda says black elite are corrupt sell-outs; Gumede and Dikeni say freedom of expression is under threat, while Dlamini says blacks had normal lives under apartheid.” Memela said this perspective was too reactionary, simple and predictable – especially from black people with PhDs – who should come out with a more complex analysis and interpretation of the transition. With the black conser- vative assault on the black identity, democratic gains were nothing but a silly attempt to please white audi- ences and live up to false liberal notions of so-called courage, inde- pendence and fearlessness, he said. “Actually, it marks a crisis of black thought and creative leader- ship,” said Memela. Only a fool would read that book (Black Diamond) and accuse me of being conservative In his personal capacity L i t t l e I c e C r e a m B o y by J a c q u e s P a u w review by L e o n d e K o c k ‘Memela needs a dose of honesty tablets’ MOELETSI Mbeki’s response to Memela’s crit- icism is to say “Sandile Memela must surely qual- ify as first black man to speak with forked tongue”. Please see the e-mail below that Sandile sent to me in July, askingme to write a foreword to a book he is hoping to have published. In his letter, he says:“I have decided to approach you because of the common thread with your recent book and the fact that your views on contemporary struggle history are a sobering revelation.” It amazes me that a few months after lauding my work he now says I am one of the writ- ers rubbishing the achievements of freedom and democracy and blaming the sins of the apartheid regime on the ANC. Clearly, Mr Memela has forgotten to take his dose of honesty tablets… but, of course, the man could be a genuine schizophrenic. Dear Moeletsi I pray all is well with you. I am fine, too, making the best of what life has to offer. Thanks a million times for the special treat last Tuesday. It was an honour and a privilege to reconnect to think aloud. As usual, I found your company inspiring, enlightening and very encouraging. There are a lot of things that can make one afraid, but there is nothing to fear but fear itself. We have to be agents of the change that we want to see. But life will always take its own course. As promised, find the manuscript. I would appreciate it if you can do some 700-word intro- duction or foreword to this historical fiction novel. I have decided to approach you because of the common thread with your recent book and the fact that your views on contemporary struggle history are a sobering revelation. I may be wrong, but for the foreword or introduction, I feel that you will do the best analysis of the fusion of literature, history and contemporary politics. Once again, thanks a million times for agreeing to participate in the project. I am looking forward to hear from you when done. With love and respect, Sandile Boer in Beton remembers and SA poet makes it onto Costa shortlist MAUREEN ISAACSON SO ENCHANTED was I with the lyrics of Koos Kombuis in the late 1980s that I waited outside his par- ents’ home while they watched their favourite TV show for a full half hour, waiting for an interview. Short Drive to Freedom: A Person- al Perspective on the Afrikaans Rock Rebellion (Human & Rousseau) is a disappointingly unfocused journey down Kombuis’s memory lane. But it recalls the genius of the musi- cians who resisted the legacy of their forebears. These included Johannes Kerkorrel, who died by his own hand and whose brilliant lyri- cal portrait of Hillbrow in the eponymous song is on the CD Voëlvry accompanying the book, along with Kombuis’s equally bril- liant Boer in Beton. Kombuis and his tales of his small town con-man father, who blew his mother’s pension on pyra- mid schemes and seaweed extract is as much a part of the South African story as is Joost: The Man in the Mir- ror, by David Gemmel (Zebra Press).The scrumhalf ’s antics cap- tured in a sex video are legion but those who want to know what turns rugby Joost Van der Westhuizen on can read about the chicken killing and other shenanigans at Kamp Staaldraad and his defence of the camp, widely condemned for its out- landsishly harsh training methods of aspirant World Cup rugby play- ers. He spoke of “total mind fitness”. Among extracts of nominations for the The Guardian’s Worst Sex prize is Paul Theroux’s A Dead Hand: A Crime in Calcutta. “ ‘Baby’. She took my head in both hands and guided it downward, between her fragrant thighs. ‘Yoni puja – pray, pray at my portal’. “She was holding my head, mur- muring ‘Pray’, and I did so, beseech- ing her with my mouth and tongue, my licking a primitive form of lan- guage in a simple prayer. It had always worked before, a language she had taught me herself, the warm muffled tongue.” ● Jenny Crwys-Williams’s Big Book Brunch will take place on Sat- urday, December 5. E-mail Carol Bosch at [email protected] or call 076 393 8083. The event will be held at Buitengeluk Restaurant, Broadacres Centre, Cedar Road, Fourways, 9am for 9.30am. ● South African Katharine Kilalea’s debut collection of poetry, One Eye’d Leigh (Carcanet), has been shortlisted for the prestigious Costa prize. Recycled small boys Jackson, you are too slow. The boy looks up and hurries on. His clothes smell of mildew. Until recently he’d have shot somebody for less or, as boys do, taken a town and thrown a tantrum and stamped his foot on it. Instead, he looks meekly down. The four boys sit quietly weaving hair and not questioning orders. The truth is that ladies spend a lot of money on looking good so they’ve recycled their AK-47s into curling tongs and set off beneath a fresco of falling tiles and trumpeting pigeons forging neat paths through the scalp, curling hair tightly into itself, these brave mercenaries in their abandoned church-cum-salon, untangling knots, snipping at split ends, plaiting rows. A slow hairdresser has no cus- tomers. People don’t like sitting still. S a n d i l e M e m e l a Z a k e s M d a