James Ngculu’s memoirs cover the full uMkhonto weSizwe experience, from leaving South Africa for exile and training in Africa, the Soviet Union and socialist Europe, to playing a frustrating waiting game in Angola – and witnessing the 1984 mutinies and the horrors of camp Quatro:
But a great deal is dedicated to Angola in the book. Ngculu explains how that war-ravaged country dispelled any romanticism about armed struggle.
Although being an MK soldier and understanding the discipline that goes with that is an honour, Ngculu does not shy away from the frustrations and utter despair that many recruits felt in the camps. These had many causes, but two come across quite strongly: idleness and abuse of power. Ngculu writes: “The most traumatic thing in the camps was waiting. This waiting became the source of all our frustrations and feelings of despondency.”
Twee nuwe boeke oor Zimbabwe is die laaste ruk uitgereik – die jongstes op ’n lang lys werke wat die situasie in hierdie land uit verskillende hoeke aanpak.
Hulle is op uiteenlopende markte gerig: die ligter, meer toeganklike verhaal van ’n af getrede egpaar se stryd om oor lewing en ’n meer akademiese werk gerig op ingeligtes en met ’n duidelike politieke agenda.
ANY rugby fan will cherish this book [Mauled] on the Castle South Africa 2009 Lions series which took place throughout last year.
As a photographer I’m going to be biased right from the start and say it’s the images that made me grab this book faster than Victor Matfield or Bakkies Botha ever could – and hold onto it.
Verdict: a late-sprouting carrot for Brink’s memoir
In 1963, a journal in Holland published a survey of Afrikaans literature in which the author, an unknown anthropologist called Professor Abel Coetzee, presented himself as the greatest novelist in that language – and a second unknown, Soul Erasmus Smit (who turned out to be a pseudonym of Coetzee), “the undisputed monarch of Afrikaans poetry”. Professor Coetzee’s ranks have swelled since then. Today, there are many (myself included) who regard another Coetzee in the same extravagant light: the Afrikaner novelist, JM Coetzee. The author of Disgrace is but one of several South African writers who have transformed their country’s literature into a world literature, among them André Brink, who has now, aged 73, published his life story.
Dit is die verhaal van ’n briljante jong vrou wat die wêreld aan haar voete gehad het, wat deur harde werk die boonste sport bereik het. Dit is ook die verhaal van die gesin Jowell, wat ’n yslike ryk opgebou het.
Haar verhaal is ook ineengestrengel met die tydskrif Fair Lady, een van die vlagskepe van Nasionale Pers, die tydskrif wat beskou is as die beste Engelse tydskrif in die land. En dit is ook die verhaal van die uitsonderlike vrou wat deur Alzheimer-siekte ’n lewende spook geword het.
Kate Bowman is gedurende die Tweede Wêreldoorlog in Engeland gebore. Haar pa, George, het in 1947 na Rhodesië geëmigreer omdat hy geglo het daar wag ’n beter toekoms op hom en sy gesin in dié land. Later het hulle na Suid-Afrika gekom.
n Strikvraag: Vir wie het die mense in die Oos-Randse township van Katlehong geskree die aand in September 1983 toe Gerrie Coetzee die Amerikaner Michael Dokes uitgedaag het vir die swaargewig-wêreldbokstitel? Maklik, veral gesien dat Coetzee ’n wit Afrikaner en Dokes swart was, en die sportboikot teen die ongenaakbare apartheidsregering toe reeds begin spoed optel het?
Nee, nie so eenvoudig nie. Jacob Dlamini vertel in sy uitstekende debuut, Native Nostalgia, dat hy (toe 11) en sy gesin ekstaties was toe Coetzee die Yank in die tiende rondte planke toe gestuur het. En so ook die ander families in hul straat in Katlehong.
Kate Jowell had it all before she descended into the fog of Alzheimer’s: an eventful life of great personal achievement, the love and appreciation of some extraordinary people… It counted for little when this little-understood affliction hit her and those close to her.
One of South Africa’s most lauded non-fiction writers has high praise for new entrant on the scene Jacob Dlamini:
At the beginning of his new book, Native Nostalgia, Jacob Dlamini tells us that he is going to do something audacious, perhaps even dangerous: he is going to get nostalgic about his childhood. Why is that audacious, you may ask. Well, because Dlamini grew up in Katlehong, an apartheid township, and those who wax nostalgic about such places risk being condemned as “reactionaries or even apologists for apartheid”.
Native Nostalgia proceeds nonetheless, and the world it brings forth is delightful. Dlamini is a humdinger of a talent. He takes from his childhood a great jumble of objects – the radio that sits in his mother’s kitchen, the rats that infest the streets, the indigenous first names of the fancy, middle-class kids – and, almost at will, it seems, he makes them play. Into his life his mother’s radio brings a bloated ensemble of sounds, stories and ideas – the death of Marvin Gaye, the stubborn persistence of Gerrie Coetzee, the white, Afrikaans-speaking heavy weight world champion supported to the hilt by blacks. It is from Radio Zulu that the seeds of Dlamini’s political awaking come; there is an announcer who prefaces each piece of news with the words Bathi ngithi – “They say I must say this”.
Trevor Manuel’s decision to buy himself a fancy car may have caused him some flack in recent weeks, but there is no denying that SA’s longest serving Finance Minister deserves a hefty pat on the back for steering SA’s economy through a tricky transition period.
From 1996, over the next 12 years he became the face of the Finance Ministry. His Budget speeches were measured, inspired and delivered with the confidence of a natural orator.
Verdict: carrot
Joost is not necessarily everyone’s favourite celebrity, but the book still makes for an interesting read. Gemmell paints a picture of a man who becomes so haunted by his lies and deceit – especially to wife Amor, his family and the public, that he decides the best way out of the mess is to tell it like it is. The ex-Bok scrumhalf finally reveals it all; his liaison – “that did not include intercourse” – and drug-taking incident with a girl “who had lured him”.
Verdict: stick
I won’t lie – this is a tricky review to write. While there’s nothing seriously wrong with Laugh if Off Annual 4: South African Youth Culture, having long been a fan of Laugh it Off’s brand of humour, I found this volume to have slightly missed the mark.
Perhaps I’m not cool enough, hip enough or cynical enough, but the illustrations, comics and short stories from over 50 contributors were so far left-field, I failed to catch a lot of what was trying to be said.
Dit is Koos Kombuis se intieme, persoonlike herinneringe van die Voëlvrytoer wat sy tweede outobiografie, Die tyd van die Kombi’s, die lees werd maak.
Só meen Desmond Painter in ‘n resensie van die boek op LitNet. Tog dink Painter dat Kombuis onwillig was om Voëlvry in te veel besonderhede te onthou. Dít kan frustrerend wees vir lesers wat alles oor dié rock-legendes wil weet. Painter sou ook meer navorsing en dokumentêre inligting wou hê.
Ten spyte van die tekortkominge, is Die tyd van die Kombi’s volgens Painter: “’n onthutsende, by tye ontroerende, dikwels baie snaakse reeks herinneringe aan ’n legendariese musiektoer”.
Voëlvry was, in sekere opsigte, meer as net ’n rock-toer; dit was ’n maatskaplike beweging. Maar ’n mens sou ook te ver kon gaan. Jy sou in so ’n mate kon fokus op Voëlvry as ’n maatskaplike en politieke fenomeen dat jy uit die oog kan verloor dat dit, op die ou end, tog ook net ’n rock ’n roll-toer was. Dat dit, soos alle legendariese rock-toere, eerstens om die persoonlikhede, die vergrype, en bowenal die musiek, van ’n groep kreatiewe mense gegaan het.
Vir diegene wat in die geskiedenis van die Afrikaners belangstel, en in die politieke opwellinge en omwentelinge van die tagtigerjare, mag dit dalk beteken dat Voëlvry’n minder beduidende episode was as wat soms aangevoer word, en dat Kombuis se boek oor die onderwerp weinig analitiese waarde het. En hulle is reg. Voëlvry was nie die sleutel wat Suid-Afrika, of selfs maar net die Afrikaners, bevry het nie. Koos Kombuis se herinneringe aan daardie tyd kan ook nie gelees word as ’n poging tot ’n antropologiese of sosiologiese analise van die rol wat Afrikaanse protesmusiek gespeel of nié gespeel het nie.
Verdict: carrot
Verdict: stick