The Franschoek Book Festival, to paraphrase a prolific black writer of some repute, is the sort of shindig where you wash the salted crackers down with award-winning savignon-blanc, rub shoulders with respectable men of letters, all the while feeling out of place in this ‘spot-the-darkie festival.’ Apparently the darker hued scribes would rather bluetick (or ghost) those who would wish to have them RSVP for this mainstay get-together on Franschoek’s social calendar.
To Fred Khumalo, writer and columnist in some of SA’s most prestigious publications, this ‘bitter-sweet’ annual sojourn is a reminder of the lingering disparity between the haves and the have nots. A misery harking back to Thabo Mbeki’s speech on SA being a tale of two cities. The shacklands of the Western Cape’s haggard black slums standing in stark contrast against the manicured, pristine wine estates that signify infinite wealth to those who are on the privileged sweetspot of this story.
The town is something of a heimat for those of appropriate complexions, with very deep pockets, the kind only generational wealth can pay for. And if you have an issue (as Thando Mgqolozana, a friend of Khumalo’s once did) with how things work there, just remember, nobody’s forcing your participation ou maat. Not exactly the pandering damage control you’d expect from organisers but a dejected Mgqolozana did exactly as he was advised; going on to start the annual Abantu Book Festival in Soweto, which according to Khumalo, has even ‘eclipsed’ Franschoek by way of attendance in recent years.
The black writing community is apparently aghast at Khumalo’s insistence on returning to the festival every year. It’s a betrayal they simply can’t wrap their heads around, one they might even wish to lynch him for. Why would this otherwise level-headed, hilarious writer suffer the indignity of mingling around a town where people like himself are usually unseen behind the service hatch and their familiarity with books ends when they’ve feather-dusted the collection in the employer’s office – they are not usually in them?
Khumalo finds himself victim to an assault that is not only pervasive in the black publishing and political space but is probably responsible for many writers often checking themselves, settling for the generally palatable views than the ones that aim to call it as they see it. To call out the muck is often perceived as an affront on your own blackness. In such situations, the politically sensible thing to cure oneself from this so-called ‘clever black,’ colonised mentality that is a product of supremacist white males would be to cleanse yourself of the writers, voices and literature that cuts against the grain. That is, to get rid of anything that seeks to point out the inefficiencies of the current establishment and to simply reduce such failings to an invisible white capitalist hand that would wish to sabotage black efforts at self-improvement at every turn. Don’t hang around book festivals that are not reflective of the country’s demographic make-up especially if the majority of speakers don’t happen to look like you. Head for the exits if you don’t see a chizkop or a afro in there. Never write or speak foul of your fellowman because he is likely nothing but a pawn to the real puppet masters who are domiciled in Stellenbosch with a paid up Boerebond membership.
For the amateur writer, this poses immediate problems not to mention the double standards. For instance, you try to walk the line: JM Coetzee bad, Orwell good. Franschoek is racist, FNB Stadium is open to all. Sure, it all makes sense until you realise that a ‘decolonised’ aspiration will reduce your reading almost exclusively to black writers, themselves mostly alumni of these very institutions of colonialism. Some of the finest amongst them enjoyed excellent education opportunities within these colonising mother countries which the politically inclined in their ranks would ultimately use to topple these erstwhile oppressors.
My lay mind is confounded by the zealots of the cause especially because those of a certain generation amongst them were schooled on the likes of HR Haggard and were reciting poetry under the tutelage of white nuns. Solomon Plaatje’s Mhudi was published in 1930, and the first novel by a black woman, Miriam Tlali, only came out in 1975.
Unless one takes stock of the reality that because ours is a history steeped in disenfranchisement and empirical efforts to ensure that people of colour would forever be subjugated to a second class servitude, any efforts to address current issues must be less about the spectacle than an agency to focus on the root causes. Getting rid off Shakespeare or chucking Rian Malan into the furnace because he tends to lay in viciously on virtually everybody will do nothing to improve the education of the black child. What is necessary is a concerted effort to reverse the injustices of the past by building institutions of the future. For instance, what is government doing to develop black institutions so as to purposefully meet this digital age?
Where are the black literary festivals in the Northern Cape? There’s one in Richmond which, judging from the pictures, might be easily classified as a platteland equivalent to Franschoek. Which poses the question: will we, like Khumalo’s colleagues, throw fits and weep about how we don’t really feel welcome in these spaces or will we find like-minded individuals and start our own festivals in Noupoort or Norvalspont or in any of the many townships all across the province? Will we be able to start our own initiatives from scratch rather than hijack those of others?
Khumalo’s verdict to all the slings and daggers aimed his way is rather inspiring. Expected to boycott Franschoek, he’s instead figured the thing to do in a land riddled with social divisions is to honour what his duty as a writer most calls for. Amid the discord, laagers and kraals, his purpose, he finds, is to ‘transcend boundaries’ and to build ‘bridges between various sectors of society.’ Through his participation he hopes to appreciate the differences that tend to drive people apart and those things that bring them together.
Didn’t Nelson Mandela employ a similar strategy in prison; to learn the poetry and literature of his Afrikaner jailers so as to better understand the psyche of his enemies? So is it not counter-intuitive to restrict one’s reading to a particular people, of a similar ideological plummage that is likely to restrict one’s world view to a limited, one-dimensional premise that will inevitably stand as a handicap in these giddy times of the so-called ‘global village?’
Moreover what might your role be as a member of a community when daily you go to the library and the computers are occasionally booked but there’s no one in the book aisles? For several consecutive days, it seems nobody takes a book out. It seems not many youths have an appetite for reading. Then one wonders why SA boasts some of the most disappointing literacy findings on the planet. On this do we blame the people who live on the other side of the tracks or do we turn the finger on ourselves and accept that nobody is going to help us out of this one but ourselves? If you don’t do it yourself, no government in the world will get your child to read. So before complaining, rise to the occasion by being the person who realises that biting the bullet is often the first step towards pulling oneself out from the gutter. If Bra Fred can do it, what’s your excuse?
L