Botsotso 16: poetry, short fiction, essays, photographs and drawings , livre ebook
194
pages
English
Ebooks
2012
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Découvre YouScribe et accède à tout notre catalogue !
Découvre YouScribe et accède à tout notre catalogue !
194
pages
English
Ebooks
2012
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
29 décembre 2012
EAN13
9781990922022
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
13 Mo
The Botsotso literary journal started in 1996 as a monthly 4 page insert in the New Nation, an independent anti-apartheid South African weekly and reached over 80,000 people at a time – largely politisized black workers and youth – with a selection of poems, short stories and short essays that reflected the deep changes taking place in the country at that time. Since the closure of the New Nation in 1999, the journal has evolved into a stand-alone compilation featuring the same mix of genres, and with the addition of photo essays and reviews. The Botsotso editorial policy remains committed to creating a mix of voices which highlight the diverse spectrum of South African identities and languages, particularly those that are dedicated to radical expression and examinations of South Africa's complex society.
Voir
Publié par
Date de parution
29 décembre 2012
EAN13
9781990922022
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
13 Mo
BOTSOTSO 16 Contemporary South African Culture
Published by
Botsotso Publishing Box 30952 Braamfontein 2017
botsotso@artslink.co.za www.botsotsoportal.co.za
© in the text: the writers themselves 2012 © in the visual material: the artists themselves 2012
ISBN 978-0-9814205-2-3
We thank the Multi Agency Grants Initiative for its funding support.
Cover, text design and layout: Advance Graphics
îî
EDITORIAL
Yes, Botsotso in ‘hard cover’ is back! For the past three years, due to a lack of funds, we have had to restrict publishing to the website (now at www.botsotsoportal.co.za). In this regard much thanks to DeonSimphiwe Skade for keeping the website active, both as coeditor and as webmaster, and to the Multi Agency Grants Initiative for providing sufficient funds to cover the publication of two hard cover journals. Having started with the ‘good news’ is there more to come? – considering that the past three years have seen a number of ‘problematics’ worsen. For is it not true to say that we are living through a dry season as far as culture is concerned? Is the vitality of our society not ebbing away in terms of general interest in the ‘serious’ arts (as opposed to entertainment and sporting diversions) – particularly with respect to literature and theatre that tackle the root issues defining our lives? Has the promise of radical change (which would include financial support for creative projects in all the arts) been stifled by incompetency and corruption? A key example is the misuse of the National Lottery Development Trust Fund (NLTDF). We also know that the Department of Arts and Culture (DAC) funding for literature has been reduced and that its annual calls for funding applications have been cut back (from two to one); literacy levels are floundering (as evidenced by recent literacy and numeracy tests of our schools pupils); sales of books by the chain stores and independents have fallen as the overall economic recession has caused purchasing power to drop and steep increases in printing prices have raised book prices by more than 30% over the past two years. South Africa’s Internet penetration is still below 15% of the population. As such, both ebook sales and esales of hard cover books are too low to make up for the drop in overthecounter sales. To sum up: there appears to be both a crisis with respect to interest in ‘serious’ art making and in its economic base with the result that the Printed Word, and everything associated with it – intellectual vigour, promotion of indepth debate and enquiry – seem to be on a down slide. So does this mean that literary life is dying in South Africa? The answer on the creative side is absolutely not. And just one proof is the vitality and quality of the poems, stories, essays and art work brought together in this edition. This quality is reflected in both the range of the themes and situations dealt with and in their depth and vital use of language. So we are not at all despondent about the actual work being produced by an increasing number of writers.The concern arises from the means available to keep publishing and then the means to distribute such work as widely as possible. For some time now Botsotso has tried to engage with the National Library system and with the National Arts Council (in collaboration with a number of NGO’s in the cultural field) to secure funding for the sort of inclusive, contemporary literature that we are trying to promote – literature that the mainstream publishers will generally not touch. The model put forward is quite simple:That the National Arts Council (NAC) provide seed money for several publications; that the national library system then buy a copy of each of these publications for the over 3,000 public libraries spread out over the country; that the Department of Education also buy one copy for every school library (despite the terrible statistic that only 15% of schools currently have libraries there are still several thousand such libraries). Given these numbers, a print run of 6,000 copies of each of these books will cover its production and leave a sizeable surplus which can be ploughed back into new publications. In this way the publisher will
îv
never again have to receive funding from another source and, as importantly, will (potentially) reach hundreds of thousands of both adults and children. Of course, the quality of the publications will have to be monitored but that is in any case the function of the NAC’s literature committee – we are talking here not of censorship but of maintaining an objectively high level of literary expression. Despite several meetings with representatives of the DAC, the national library system and the NAC, no progress has been made – in fact, despite vague indications that the idea was seen as worth pursuing no concrete response has been received from these key state departments. As such, projects like Botsotso will continue to stutter on and hope that other funding agencies that are more proactive and concerned about ‘non commercial’ writing will step into the breach. Having said this, there are indications that the tide may be turning. Indeed, we had very good news a few weeks ago.A determined coalition of nonprofit organizations has forced the Department of Trade and Industry (under whose jurisdiction the NLDTF falls) to adopt several very important recommendations that will bring the NLDTF under far greater public scrutiny and control and thus enhance its effectiveness.We can only hope that these very welcome and long overdue changes will bear fruit because the future of many important and worthwhile organizations and projects is dependent on the support they can and should get from the NLTDF. Witnessing (and to an extent, participating) in this campaign was very encouraging and goes to prove (yet again)that without effective organization such necessary changes will not come about. Indeed, the central problem still facing the development of a national literature that embraces all our society’s varied cultures, languages and experiences isthe lack of a writer’s organization with a nonprofit publishing house that distributes the work being produced outside of the commercial realm.The collapse of Cosaw and Cosaw Publishing and the passing of Staffrider in the 1990s were setbacks that we have still to recover from. Journals like Botsotso have attempted to fill this vacuum but the absence of a writers organizations with chapters around the country has meant that distribution of literary journals is haphazard and uneven and that the advancement of literature and literacy cannot take place in a systematic way and so reach the multitudes of people who live outside of the world of books. The rebuilding of a writers organization is thus a central task.is there any But sign that the DAC and the NAC are alive to this? Sadly, the answer is no. Inertia and indifference seem to rule. How can we wake them up? Bua, maqabane, bua! And write about it, ‘perform about it’ and then (like the coalition formed to challenge the NLTDF), let’s toyitoyi so that they get the message and start taking their mandate to serve South African culture seriously.
Allan Kolski Horwitz Mboneni Ike Muila Siphiwe ka Ngwenya
v
CONTENTS page Pages Remote –Mike Alfred 8 A Story of More Woe –Vanita Nyembezi Phiri 9 Madiba’s Pistol; amnesia, alzheimer’s & the old poet –Frank Meintjies 12 Slip; Otherwise –Brian Walter 16 Stofo –Hlengiwe Mnguni 18 My Demon Lover; Mother’s Little Man –John Carse 20 A sing along poem; Velevele –Mboneni Ike Muila 22 Kodwa we – Goli Brian Bhengu 24 Give –Heinrich Böhmke 25 Epiphanies; The Darkness; The Party– Lara Potgieter32 African Soldiers– JeanFrancois Kouadio34 The Visit; Charles de Gaulle Airport (2005) –Akiva Zasman 39 Miserly Exaltation; Crawling Insects; Homemade Remedy; Go Away – 40 Ahmed Patel Mowbray terminus; Eight Goals –Selwyn Ramsdale 41 The Acquisionist –David Kerr 44 Away from the Dead –Karen Jennings 49 Poems from Belhar School, Cape Town 53 a.Die vuur op vygieskraal– Tanya Booysen b.The shop– Shandre Cupido c.Die klein begin– Kevin Dyssel d.A View of Delft– Andre Marais Am my own man –Deon Simphiwe Skade 53 Extract from Emzana Shack Recollections –L. Sojini 58 The bongo man’s ring tone at dawn– Jethro Louw63 Are the dogs perhaps in charge? –Len Verwey 64 The Anthropologist; Perfection –Raeez Jacobs 66 The Martyrdom of Father Gonzalo da Silveria Msiki Tagamuchira Mziki70 He Is Not Dead– Joop Bersee77 Little Boy My Baby 1; AssMan– Jana van Niekerk78 Thabo of Mandelaville– Tebogo Fokone82 A Hard Place– Allan Kolski Horwitz83 Woman of All Times– Nolizo Chiya87 This poem would not have a title though it could; Lolita 88 – Mphutlane wa Bofelo in all (fairness)– Jennifer Rees 91 Reflections on My Rejected Novel –Darcy du Toit 92 Ingrid Jonker– Abigail George94 Fields of Summer– Yoshira97 My Little Locker; A Poem for Myself– Jana van Niekerk98 Inja– Mpiyane99 Selfconscious– Yoric Wattford100 Bayede maqhawekazi bayede!; Behind the smile– Nomkhubulwane104
vî
Ba tlang– Lehlohonolo Shale107 Tat’omkhulu, My Great Grandfather– Lwazi Mvusi108 The Sermon on Mount Mthekhala– Simthembile Matyobeni110 My Will– Diana Stone111 Respons op nietigverklaring van die siel; erns is groen– Marcelle du Toit112 The Joshua Tree; The Gun– Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah114 Marothi– Matete Malohle Motsoaledi116 The Late Chief M. JKS Makhoka118 Iphupha– Loyiso Lindani121 The New Lyric Hero: Vladimir Mayakovsky– Jon Berndt125 The Fate of Revolutionary Poets– Allan Kolski Horwitz134 After midnight, waking feverish, sinking; Driving home after a Sunday spent at the mall– Mandy Mitchell135 To Keep a Long Story Short– Mphutlane wa Bofelo136 Watsenjiswa Emadlelo Laluhlata– Mduduzi Shongwe138 In the Middle– Lendyll Naicker142 Five Haiku– Abigail George144 jamming– Zama Madinana145 Du Bois before Accra; rough; in the warm of the gallery space Ahimsa Timoteo Bodhrán146 Backyard Mechanic– Andre van Vuuren150 Psalm of a Parliamentarian– Piet Rampai151 The Interview– DeonSimphiwe Skade152 Soiled Sheeeeeeetsssssss ah!!– Pamella Dlungwana157 For Unto Us a Child Is Born– Dick Mafuba158 we lie in bed somewhere warm and safe you tell me; you’re cutting apart chicken hot; i brought you coffee one morning– Hayly Chewins160 Psychiatric emergency; Man contemplates wife– Rosamund Handler161
Reviews Mboneni Ike Muila Mphutlane wa BofeloShabbir Banoobhai Vonani Bila Frank Meintjies Subscription detailsList of Botsotso titles
–Emzana Shack Recollections– L. Sojini – Izinhlungu Zomphefumulo– Bongekile Mbanjwa –A mountain is an upside down valley– –All the Days– Robert Berold –The Hurricant– Rosamund Stanford –Malikanye– Mxolisi Nyezwa –Light and All– Kobus Moolman
Portraits– Lionel Murcott Photographs– Vu Michelle Horwitz
vîî
166 175
178 181 184 185185 187 190
Pages remote by Mike Alfred
Does anyone anticipate the journal’s next issue? Anyone apart from him/herself, that is? Is anyone disappointed by a poet’s absence? Does she/he have a favourite? Does his/her heart react on reading him/her? Does she/he sigh, shed a tear? Does the poet work on him/her? Is there anyone who values this poet as a source of inspiration, of enjoyment, of instruction? Does anyone study the style, the word play, the philosophy? Hey, steady on, don’t let’s get carried away! Would this poet ever know he/she’s appreciated or dismissed? Is the poet used in class? Is she/he recited on the radio? Poor bugger lives in a vast bowl of silence. How dare he/she expect some recognition? Would any reader be boldly tempted to converse with poets? Might poets be tempted to converse with other poets? Are we literary lepers? Are we of another galaxy? Are we not to be taken seriously, dismissed like pesky kids? Are we half a sip in the ocean of life? Poetry writing is surely the most remote, lonely art form. On reflection, does the poet choose the medium for its suffering? Is the poet shy and introverted, eccentric, half balmy perhaps, Not tough enough to take the knocks? Is poetry itself a literary wasteland, a fetid backwater? Is poetry in unliterary SA, a huge joke, a curiosity? Something ugly and deformed in a sideshow tent? Have we entered a world where we’re on a hiding to nothing?
Who’s that waiting for the next issue?
8
A Story Of More Woe by Vanita Nyembezi Phiri
The teacher’s muddy legs were shakingshaking because he grew impatient with Hope, and restless with the rapid speed at which Pain progressed. The shirt he wore was pricked with burrs of weeds and hardened in places by dry blood. The boy sitting next to him had offered a slumber jacket but the teacher refused. He kept apologising, thanking and panting because he feared that he had placed the boy’s life at risk. “It’s almost sunrise,” the boy said. The teacher and the boy sat on top of wizened maize in a granary that stood elevated from the ground. Their buttocks should have ached but their vagrant minds were too far away to feel anything. “I’m sure your wife is okay, sir,” assured the boy. He was about fifteen and he barely said anything in class – if he came at all. But on that night that everything, including stars, shined and winked to betray, there he was trying to utter words that meant so much. “Let us pray so.” The teacher’s voice was croaky. The teacher was aware that as much as he feared for the boy’s life, his own was in graver danger. The boy’s parents could blow the whistle on him by calling on the cruel and callous mob that was dancing around the streets with axes and guns. As if the boy had read the teacher’s mind, he said, “You are safe here. My father is a good man. Besides, aren’t you a Hutu, sir?” “I am. But my wife, as you know, is not. And so they will kill us both”. The teacher raised his head as if to observe the converging dry grass and reeds that made up the thatched roof. “Well, my father will not have you or your wife killed. He’s not involved in this conflict.” The teacher had met the boy’s father in his early days of the posting. He was content back then, full of fresh ideas for himself and his class. But his mind could not seek too much comfort in the placid past. The popping sound of AK47s brought him back to the hereandnow. He imagined the ensuing chaos at the nearby village. A few hours ago he had been there where he once called home; there where the peace of the night had been tainted with streaks, spatters, spills and gushes of bloody red. This made him think, rethink and unthink the horrid ways his wife could meet her end. “I can get you some guavas from the tree outside, sir,”said the boy. The teacher declined. The boys’ parents were unaware of the presence of a fugitive English teacher in their granary. The teacher had asked that the boy keep the matter to himself. “Until I can think of something,” he said. “Where do you plan to go, sir?” He wiped his tears and, in a flash, felt the nothingness that prevailed. “To fetch my wife and flee.” He paused and added, “If we can.” He had left his wife hiding at some unmentionable place where even fresh air was reluctant to flow. Her physicality, which had charmed many, had become her defect: her height and skin were as Tutsi as they came. “Why do you show little interest in my class?”When the teacher posed the question, he was less interested in the answer and more in talking for the sake of preserving his sanity. On normal days, teachers asked their students such questions. On normal days, students did anything to avoid such questions. But these were not normal days and the boy had never been so unsparing. “I find literature difficult, sir.”
9
