Absence, movement, dislocation and recollection are the overriding themes in Mphuthumi Ntabeni’s The Wanderers. Ruru is 17 years old when her mother, Nosipho died. She became an orphan because her father, Phakamile had died in exile in Tanzania, where he lived since leaving South Africa for political exile in his late teens. During his last days, Phakamile (Phaks) had been collecting his thoughts in a journal and upon his demise the journal was passed to Ruru when she came tracing the path for the father who despite being absent in her life, loomed large. Phak’s journal, an autobiography of sorts, that Ruru uses to piece together her sense of belonging and reconcile her heritage with her present.

The Wanderers is multilayered as it delves into a multitude of themes. Some of these themes are spiritual, some political, some familial and yet some social. At the heart of the social themes of The Wanderers is the family dysfunctionality that is a sad product of the apartheid past of South African society. Families grappling for alignment and reconnection because most males had skipped the border in a bid to avoid arrest, torture and possible death due to their freedom fighting. In the case of Ruru, she had been born and grown into a young teenager in the complete absence of a father. Phaks had been forced to flee town suddenly, abandoning a pregnant Nosipho with not as much as a goodbye wave. Ruru’s restlessness leads her down a path of discovery. This path leads her to her father’s journals. The journal entries were written in Phak’s last days as he was facing imminent death. Musings that spanned theology, classic literature, mythology, and philosophy with an underpinning of the Xhosa culture. These musings are a constant companion of Ruru from the time she is handed the journals during her trip to Tanzania in her twenties. On one hand, The Wanderers is a coming-of-age novel of Ruru, and on the other hand, it is a memoir that encapsulates the thoughts of a wandering soul who is looking back at where his sojourn has led him, what he has lost and gained in the process.

The narrative of The Wanderers alternates between Ruru’s tale in the second person and her father’s memoir in the first person. Ruru’s tale is further split into her sojourn to trace her father’s path and her regular letters to her dead mother who is felt as a guardian angel. The structure of The Wanderers is a major flaw in my view. Alternating from a memoir to a letter to a story from one chapter to the other makes for an uneven reading experience. This is worsened by the uneven timeline. In one chapter, we are reading about Ruru and her Asian roommate in Wits and in the next chapter we are with Ruru and her Tanzanian workmate in Dar es Salam and back to Ruru’s high school days in the 3rd chapter. A more aligned timeline would have improved the reading experience in view of the different genres combine in the book. While I particularly enjoyed Ruru’s coming-of-age story; seeing her go from a seemingly helpless and grief-stricken teenager to one who gets entangled with a sexual predator as a matriculant to a young doctor who learns to negotiate life and love on her own terms. Another arc of narration I found very interesting was Ruru’s visit to Sandi’s uncle. It was a frustrating but reflective narration. Frustrating because it highlighted the sorry state that freedom fighters have plunged their countries into in Southern and Eastern Africa. They have refused to walk the talk. The way the author found creative ways to pastiche classic literature and philosophy into the thoughts and musings of Ruru and Phak is refreshing within the sphere of modern African literature. However, I  found Phak’s journal entries tiring and mostly verbose. There was an excessiveness which seemed to overwhelm the arc of the whole narrative. In all, The Wanderers is a reflective read that examines eternal questions. A productive read indeed.

3.3/5

It is already settled that I am a huge fan of Nick Page’s work. I find his combination of apologetics, wit and church history research to be refreshing and unique. My introduction to his works was the very excellent and unique A Nearly Infallible History of Christianity. I read that a few years back and got hooked by Nick’s dry wit (I acknowledge that it will not be everyone’s cup of tea), and his incredibly fresh and irreverent but rigorously researched take on the Church’s history. The Wrong Messiah and The Longest Week are two other excellent works of his that I have read in recent years. This year, I had chosen to read A Nearly Infallible History of The Reformation and my expectations were not dashed.

A Nearly Infallible History of The Reformation was published in 2017 to commemorate the 500th year anniversary of the start of the Reformation of the Christian church. It is a rigorously researched but very accessible (and often witty) take on the history of the Reformation – an idea that not only revolutionised the Church but arguably impacted the world, as it had adjacent impacts on democracy and civil society. What A Nearly Infallible History of The Reformation sets out to do and achieves immensely is to highlight the impact of critical players in the Church Reformation, using verifiable sources and rational guesses to separate fact from myth (a major myth is that Luther nailed the 95 theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg on 31 October) and contextualizes the Reformation within the world where it was launched.

There is nothing like an unbiased historian but in A Nearly Infallible History of The Reformation, Nick Page has done a very good job of minimizing his Anglican background as he presents an even take where neither The Catholic church nor the Protestants are painted as ultimate heroes. In fact, if there is one thing that comes out of the book, it is that the Reformation heroes were very flawed and were often guilty of some of the charges that drove their reasons for a split and reformation. Another thing that leaps out of the page is how Cancel culture is not as new as we seem to think; during the Reformation period, any little disagreement did not just end with the contrarian person ostracized by being branded a heretic but they were literally burned at the stake or even beheaded. Any history of the Reformation is incomplete without the critical role that the printing press played in that. The printing press was a revolution in the 16th century. Without it, there would be no Reformation! I find it as pivotal as what the internet and social media particularly have done in the 21st century; it has democratised the polity to the extent that all you need to have a voice is a device (and these devices are now ubiquitous). Especially in places like Africa and parts of Asia where those who wield power wish to stifle voices, a device is all that is needed to be heard around the world. The printing press ensured that Luther’s view could be transmitted far and wide. Also, as soon as Bibles could be printed, every man could read it for himself/herself and decide for themselves, it was all over!

The minor quibble I had with A Nearly Infallible History of The Reformation was that the last few chapters seemed a drag and the humour at that point began to feel forced. However, this does not distract from the fact that it is a very good read, although not as thrilling as A Nearly Infallible History of Christianity. Highly recommended.

3.8/5

I pride myself on the books I buy (most of the time). Even when going outside my comfort zone, I am able to sieve through endless reviews and blurbs and feel a resonance for reads that I will find pleasurable. Things Can Only Get Better is not really a book I would ordinarily buy, and I cannot even remember where I got the prompting to buy it two years ago but it is a read that I am glad I bought and have thoroughly enjoyed. It is a poignant but simple plot that transverses a lot of topics. The prose is simple and decluttered, yet was thought-provoking.  Things Can Only Get Better is a story of hope, dreams, becoming, forgiveness and family. It is a story that circles around four young teenagers and a septuagenarian widower, Arthur Calderbank. Arthur is a war veteran whose wife died seven years ago. He is so attached to her that he lives in the church compound next to the cemetery where she is buried. He marinated in his grief to the extent that he visited the cemetery every day. The daily ritual was a reason why he was piqued and curious about the moonflowers that were dropped at his wife’s grave on her birthday every year.

Things Can Only Get Better is set in the England of the 90s. Thatcher’s industrialisation is wreaking havoc on the industrialised north of the country; unemployment is on the rise and hope is in short supply, not just for the unemployed adults but also for the young. The teenagers in Things Can Only Get Better see nothing but a bleak future ahead. No one believes in them; not their parents nor their teachers. It is a depressing state. One of them decides to dream. A dream about forming a band. It is the actualization of this band that causes their paths to be crossed with that of Arthur. The teenagers are seeking hope in a hopeless town while Arthur is seeking help with the mystery of the moonflowers that unfailingly appear at the grave of his wife every birthday. One need is primary and life-affirming and the other is seemingly mundane but as the bond between the kids and Arthur is established, both needs get addressed and in the process a lot o issues come to the fore; bigotry, family, forgiveness, friendship and hope.

The beautiful thing about Things Can Only Get Better is how David Barnett humanizes his characters. They are so relatable and ordinary, both in their failures and triumphs. In this regard, Things Can Only Get Better reminds me of The Man I Think I Know. My only small quibble is with the ending. It is too clean and provides all the closures that one would dream of. We all know that life is often not that neat. In all, Things Can Only Get Better is a lovely, simple gem.

3.8/5

In T.J. Benson’s The Madhouse, dysfunctionality is the norm. It is a domestic tale that revolves around a family of four; Sweet Mother, an artist, her husband Shariff, a writer and ex-soldier and their two sons – Andre and Max. In addition to their dysfunctionality, the house they call home used to be a sanatorium at the end of Freedom Street in Sabon Gari in Northern Nigeria. The family’s story is told with Nigeria’s military rule of the 90s in the background.

While the writing is good, the structure and plot are worrying and just do not work for me as a reader. The story tilted a lot towards magic realism (a genre that I just do not enjoy) but the bigger problem was how the plot alternated between the past, present and dreams. At some points, it was difficult to know if what you were reading was an occurrence in the real world or in the dream world. The timelines are haphazardly arranged and this made the character development almost non-existent. While there is a quest to make sense of the lives of this family, the dysfunctionality seems random. I appreciated the sibling love between Andre and Max as depicted by the lengths Max went to rescue his brother from the many experiences that tried to destroy him but that strand was not strong enough to hold The Madhouse from the disjointed and vague plot that led me to not finishing it. After struggling and getting past the 200-page mark, I gave up and sadly classed this as DNF.   

I am not sure how popular the Frederick Douglass quote at the beginning of A Good Provider Is One Who Leaves is but it is a profound quote that jolted me the moment I opened the book. Anyone who has paid a cursory glance at the entries in this blog will immediately realise that in a lot of the fiction I have read in recent years, migration is a recurring theme in a large portion of them. From Better Never than Late to The Year of Runaways to The Strangers of Braamfontein to Travellers to The Son of Good Fortune to Manchester United. The focus has been unintentional as my picks are often random. However, because nothing chronicles the human condition like fiction, fewer topics capture humanity like migration. The desire for fulfilment beyond what your present surroundings can offer and the deliberate effort to make a previously distant land home and in the process redefine what home is. All of this is before one even looks at it from the perspective of the natives whose land the migrants are moving into. In today’s world where economic opportunities are not commensurate with the desires and pursuits of a globalized citizenry, migration is a hot-button topic.

A Good Provider Is One Who Leaves is an exceptional work of narrative nonfiction. In it, Jason DeParle follows the Comodas family across the globe for over 30 years as he chronicles the impact of migration on 3 generations of that Filipino family. Jason DeParle zooms out on the economic and social consequences of global migration with particular emphasis on the Philipines as an exporting country and the USA as an importing country of migrants. He expertly switches his exploratory lenses and zooms into the journey of Rosalia Comodas and her family. The constant switch gives the book both a broad view and a personal perspective. No country does more to promote migration than the Philippines. Migration is to the Philippines what cars were to Detroit; a civil religion. About 2 million Filipinos go to work abroad every year and the $32 billion that they remit home is about 10% of the country’s GDP. The culture of calling another place home is one that Filipinos are adept at. The social, economic and physiological impact of migration is thoroughly explored through the lives of Rosalia, her parents Tita and Emet, and Rosalia’s children. Migration is no walk in the park and those who choose to call a foreign land home are embarking on a multi-faceted journey that has more than only economic ramifications. A Good Provider Is One Who Leaves but leaving is not an easy decision irrespective of whether the leaver enters through illegal entry points or has a legal status.

4/5 

Almost every time someone asks online for football literature, Football in Sun and Shadow is repeatedly mentioned. I finally read it an now I can see why it is universally loved. Unlike most recent football books that are heavy on tactics, Football in Sun and Shadow is a love reflection on the joys of the global game. It is unusually structured; the chapters are actually vignettes, some are a few pages long and others are barely a page long. Soon after a fun history on the origin of football and its evolution, each vignette, starting with the 1930 World Cup and contextualized within the current affairs of that year. The uniqueness of this plotting is that before Eduardo Geleamo reminisces about what happens in each World Cup, he reminds you of what was happening around the world in that year and his social and political commentary gives hints of his political persuasion. Soon after, he gets lost in the joys that the beautiful game bestowed on him and the world in that year. The chronological order of the World Cups is the only orderly aspect of this gorgeous book. The rest of it flows like an old lover reminiscing about the origin and life of the object of his affection. The Sun refers to the joys that football has brought the world and Shadow refers to dark side of the game, particularly how capitalism (through TV stations) has stolen the soul of the game. One can accuse Eduardo Geleamo of using broad strokes to describe complex matters but what matters most is that his strokes are colourful, resonate with any genuine lover of the game and that it is movingly poetic. Football in Sun and Shadow is an excellent and easy read that fills one with nostalgia for the past of the beautiful game and a longing for a future where the joys of the game takes centre stage again.

3.8/5 

The Color of Water is one of the 3 books written by James McBride that I rushed off to buy immediately after finishing the very excellent Deacon King Kong, two years ago. I found the author’s writing to be lyrical and poignant (without being flowery), with his storytelling skills being exceptional and compelling. My expectations were sky-high despite the fact that The Color of Water is a memoir and not a work of fiction. The Color of Water is a memoir of James McBride’s search for his roots through a search for his mother’s lineage. His mother, originally Rachel Shilsky was born a Jew to parents who migrated to America in the 20s. Her Jewish heritage is particularly important because it is the reason why her family disowned her when she married a black man.

Rachel had been unwilling to delve into her Jewish roots in conversations with her children. The refusal was not just borne out of a disdain for the past (a sexually abusive father who was also racist and emotionally abusive to his wife, not forgetting relatives who disowned her the moment she dated and married across racial lines) but also because she was unwilling to burden her children with the complexity of their heritage. As if, ignoring it will make it go away. After much pressure, she yields and what unfolds is a complex and moving narrative. A story of love, hatred loss, belonging and family. All of these are told lyrically and beautifully through two voices; James McBride and his mother. Each voice speaks in alternating chapters as Rachel, James McBride’s mother traces her past and James finds himself in her story. I doubt I will read a better memoir any time soon.  James McBride is an exceptional storyteller and The Color Of Water is a moving and poignant tale of family and racial identity.

4/5

Another year, another N.T. Wright book! Evil and the Justice of God is the latest installation of Tom Wright’s thoughtful works that I have randomly picked in my reading lists. Evil is an almost eternal topic that has occupied philosophical thoughts for all time. Its source, where it is headed and how it (evil) will end, if it is not endless. The oddity about Evil and the Justice of God is that the author has chosen not to address the source of evil (he argues that there is no satisfactory answer). Rather he focuses on the future of evil – where a world full of evil is headed and what pivotal role the cross plays in the destruction of evil.

Evil and the Justice of God does not satisfy the philosophical questions and arguments about evil. What it does and does well is espouse the problem of evil through an explanation of inaugurated eschatology. This book argues that God’s way of judging evil is hinted at on the cross and in Jesus’ resurrection and that it is made fully manifest when his kingdom is fully inaugurated in a new heaven and a new earth. N.T. Wright argues that God is not oblivious or unconcerned about the evil in our world and that while we may be bugged down by the pain that evil currently wrecks in our world, we should look at the big picture of God’s solution to the problem to the problem of evil and see how God is working out a future where evil is fully crushed.

3.5/5

An intersection of roads and relevant landmarks in Harare is the area popularly called Rotten Row. Petina Gappah’s collection of 20 short stories does not only share the same name as Rotten Row in Harare, but they also share its intersected nature. The stories intersect various aspects of the everyday life of Zimbabweans; those at home and in the diaspora – sexism, justice (its absence and presence), colonialism, poverty, sexual violence, democracy (and its absence), corruption and familial affairs. Rotten Row is an insightful social commentary in general. The subjects raised in Rotten Row are nothing unique, what is unique and impressive are Gapah’s storytelling and her deft writing skills.

As usual with almost every Short Stories collection, there are misses but with Rotten Row, there are lots of hits. Stories like The Dropper, Copacabana, Copacabana, Copacabana, In The Matter Between Goto and Goto, In Sad Cypress and A Small House in Borrowdale Brooke were particularly excellent Short Stories. While Copacabana, Copacabana, Copacabana was my favourite story in the collection (there is always something endearing about a well-told story that is set in the middle of a city centre with a lot of commuting in the mix), I was pleasantly impressed by the format of In The Matter Between Goto and Goto. It read like a factual judgement in a court case. It is full of twists, humour and thoughtfulness. Within a few pages, it dealt with a lot of social issues with deftness. Also, the tightness and minimalist narrative of The Dropper was breathtaking. It read like one was sitting across from a veteran who was recounting a past life that was largely not enviable but all the same eventful. In all, the Rotten Row collection is an impressive collection.

3.7/5

There is one genre of literature that Nigerians are hesitant participants in – Biography (Autobiography). As a people, we are reluctant to tell our personal stories. In other climes, it is common for football stars, artists and even political figures to look back and tell critically acclaimed stories of their careers. I have come to the conclusion that a paucity of such literary works in our society is often due to a lack of introspection, laziness to document and an unwillingness to be challenged. Imagine a society where a presidential candidate has a vague record of his childhood, a questionable record of his source of wealth and even no record of his age. If we had public figures writing decent autobiographies or even allowing access to writers to write their biographies, their stories will be in the public domain and the fact that they can be easily refuted, they will not churn out fantasies. In the face of the paucity of proper biographies, we are left with common tales of “God’s grace and hard work”. Our literary landscape will be richer if personal stories were commonplace. Where authorised biographies compete with unauthorised ones. Luke Chinua Achebe said, “If you don’t like somebody’s story, write your own”.

It is for this reason that I found Audacity To Refuse a very refreshing read. Sunday Oliseh’s courageous attempt to tell his story of football success is rare and applaudable. I can’t remember any other football star of his generation finding their success and journey worthy of a biography. Reading Audacity To Refuse refreshed my mind about the time when Nigerian football was glorious. Some of the details that Sunday Oliseh tells in his book are details that I had long forgotten. Some I (as a fan) did not recall as important back then but hearing them contextualized by a primary participant throws a different light on the issues. Sunday Oliseh had a glittering career by all standards. A 16 years career that saw him play in most top European leagues; Belgium, Italy, Germany and Italy. He won league titles in Holland and Germany, was instrumental to Nigeria’s qualification to 3 world cups, and several Nations cup competitions and was captain at several tournaments during his 9 years stint in the Super Eagles.

Audacity To Refuse is Sunday Oliseh’s account of his refusal to give in in the face of adversities – the maladministration that characterized the Nigerian national football teams and the subtle and obvious racism and cultural prejudices that he encountered at his European clubs. The book mostly covers his national team adventures and is less descriptive about his club career. So, it is directed at a Nigerian audience. A lot of research had obviously gone into it as detailed squad lists and lineups are provided to give more context. It is also obvious that this was not ghostwritten as the writing has no literary flavour. The book is not properly structured, the prose is replete with grammatical errors and the football language is extremely pedestrian and devoid of any technical insight. For Sunday Oliseh’s remarkable achievements and pedigree within the context of African football, a collaboration with a proven football writer and an experienced editor was the least that Audacity To Refuse deserved. In the absence of a better-packaged literary product, Audacity to Refuse is a decent testament to Sunday Oliseh’s substantial contribution to Nigerian football and I hope we get to read even better-written biographies from the likes of Mikel Obi, Jay Jay Okocha, Kanu Nwankwo, etc.

2.9/5