Connect with us


A letter to aspiring novelists



I am often invited to talk to young writers particularly about novel writing. In our part of the world, young writers want to write the novel because they think it is the real thing. We have an overdose of the novel in nearly all African universities.
I often tell my guests that I am not a novelist. I advise them to go elsewhere.

I only write short stories. I have published three collections of short stories in addition to my short stories in group anthologies. I also write and publish lots of poems. My profile has no novel!
But they cannot leave me alone. The last group of writers asked me to come and talk about the novel from the point of view of a reader of novels! Defeated, I ended up obliging. Due to Covid-19, I wrote a whole letter to this group. Here it is:

Dear aspiring novelists,
I do not write novels because I am not energetic enough.
I want to say a few words about the good and the bad novels that I have come across. Southern Africa has many fine novelists; Mofolo, Sinyangwe, Laguma, Brink, Pepetela, Chela, Ntaba, Vera, Hove, Head and many others. The region also has an army of aspiring authors. All these should get to hear the voices and concerns of us readers.

My first novel was a little neat booklet about someone’s school days – Tom Brown or Tom Grey? You put the watering can aside and follow the trials and tribulations (forgive the cliché). You became Tom in school–boy tunic. Tom, jumping out through the window. Tom, spanking someone’s behind with a ruler. Tom here, Tom there.
Or it could be Stevenson’s Treasure Island! You became that boy who goes out to sea to search for treasure in that book. Even if you had never seen the sea, you smelt it – salty, warm, gusty and all! It is about the telling-feeling–sweetness of the narration in ‘Treasure Island’, maybe.

And then there were the ‘Mississippi books’ – Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. It was nice sailing down that river of rivers. Sitting behind the fowl run or behind the store to which my father was a store-keeper, out in then Rhodesia’s rural Banket, I felt naughty, an imp, a trouble – making little fellow who has something of a half baked elder inside him.
Tell me, how are such bewitching, compelling, mischievous… books conceived? Such books can be written only by novelists who can stop and listen attentively to the boys or girls inside all of us.

Then I reluctantly got older than the ‘boy novel.’ In school we were bombarded with books. Some of those tough books went through you like water running through a sieve and when you get to the bottom of the page you don’t know what the first sentences of the page was about.
Then there were hard books that could dwell, rather religiously, on buildings, rye fields and the weather until you began to ask, “For God’s sake, where are the people?” Books with grey dog–eared covers containing characters who talk about things you haven’t seen and might never see.

Dear novelist, some novels bring death and lingering and the counting of the tick–tock of the clock on the school library wall. Damn scentless, soup–less, devil–authored novels! Let them pile on shelves and rot!
But there were moments when a friend gave you a novel from a brother who got it from a friend who got it from an aunt – who was no longer in the country. When you got to your bed in the dormitory you said, let me see what I have here before lights out and – gone! The seemingly ordinary book swept you off your feet like a magical river.

At lights-out you bought a candle from a bed mate or sneaked into the toilet to read, away from the sinister eye of the marauding boarding – master. “Where was this book all these years?” you whispered.
Look: a young man, a worker, falls in love with his foreman’s daughter in the workers’ quarters and their love becomes the hottest thing each one of them has known. Now the girl doesn’t want her father to know and says to the young man, “Joe, if papa knows then that can as well be the end.” The boy is chilled – grilled, see? At work, the foreman says to the young man, “Boy, if you want time-off, go. I know you boys need that to see your girls.”

God, he doesn’t know that he is talking to a potential son-in-law! The boy can’t believe it. “Oh, me, does he know that I go out with his daughter?” The youngster can only smile uncomfortably. His world-wise workmates, who cannot miss the irony, can only titter. A good novel indeed!
Dear novelist, a novel called a novel brings a reader twice, thrice to the edge of the precipice. I want to grit my teeth when I read a novel. I want to groan and moan until my neighbours knock on my door to ask, “Is everything alright?”

Or, there was this novel about love, passion, pain, passion… until you collapsed your legs and turned and hissed. A novel that unearthed the roasting sweet potato of the late teens in you! Novels made you feel delicious inside, letting you know that there isn’t your mother, father, brother, sisters, aunts… only in the world. Dear novelist, give the teens and those a little older such a novel and see if the money doesn’t come.
At some stage, you actually say: I’m tired of this love road and the “living happily ever after” thing. For a change – you want a novel about war, hunger, revolution, crime, consciousness… and if some characters fall in love at some stage, well, let it be an additional surprise not just love for love’s sake.

Dear novelist, I hope I am not prescribing. Who am I to do that? I’m only telling you how you could have tamed me (and people like me) if you intended to write the novel I could have bought and read at each stage in my short life.
There should be novelty to a novel. In fact the literal meaning of “novel” is “unusual.” Even in the village, where I come from, the loose but useful theory is: tell a story if you have something unusual, new, to say.

How can you come in my room and tell me about how a cow moos at her calf and expect I, son of a chief, to listen? Please, novelists, enchant me, perplex me, woo me with an inside-out story and win my attention.
Hey, tell me about a man who laughs at his mother’s funeral, a hare that chased a dog, or the singer who forgets his song whilst on stage… Come on, haunt me, tease me, mind blast me and blast a mine in the ears of my mind, novelist!

I want my novelist to taunt me with the tightness of plot as in Hemingway’s novella, The Old Man and the Sea. Here events do not change cataclysmically like winter weather. Only the old man and the fishing boat are being towed away by a big fish which they’ve caught.
In that wonderful novel, the fish’s fate is the old man’s and the boat’s. There is also this somnambulant side to the flow of events and you begin to think-feel that the old man is praying to the fish to agree to be caught and when you come to the end – the boat anchored on the shore and the fish (half flesh, half skeleton) you say, these two have exhausted each other. There is no real winner between fish and old man. I’m saying – events in a novel or a novella should be arranged and handled in such a way that numbs the reader like a lullaby.

My novelist should waylay me with, if he wishes, sustained tension as in Dambudzo Marechera’s novella The House of Hunger. From the moment the narrator says, “I packed my things and left,” he can’t let you go. The high pitched events that exude loss, injury, sorrow, excitement, dirt, grit, madness, shamelessness… are Marechera’s. The book sustains its ‘kingdom’ and paraphernalia and compels you to think that it must have been written in one breath, in one sitting and in one minute by a mind seized by something more tumultuous than an August whirl-wind.

There is also Albert Camus of The Outsider. Here what is sustained unbelievably is the central character’s ennui and detachment from matters we deem emotional.
The point is, don’t write novels that make me say, see, this chapter is tense – it must have been written on a mid-month Friday when the author was broke and angry. And, look – this is a Sunday chapter; the author must have been at peace with the world. No! Don’t do that to me, novelist. Cook it up. Be organic, please.

Then there is characterisation. Sometimes you read a novel and say, besides killing each other in the end, I don’t think these persons in this novel are people at all. You go out into the corridor of your flat and you know that such people can’t be here either. That is bad enough!
You see, you want characters in a novel to be both deeply felt and varied. You want to say, see there is such a guy like this one, back in my village. A guy like Beaukes or Elias from In The Fog of The Season’s end float about like people next door. They are both familiar and unique.

Charles Mungoshi’s Garabha of Waiting for the Rain is such a wonder. He can be the peripheral man, but, if you wish, and can look at him closely, he is immensely talented and can make serious and important social comments. Yes, he makes you want to cry out and say, “God, why do you make the most talented amongst us sometimes the most vulnerable and helpless? God, stop this!”
Dear novelist, please make each of your characters an embodiment of a type or types that we can identify with.

Sadly, sometimes you read a novel and say, to hell with this author and all authors like him. Why do they look at life this way? Can’t they see this and that and this, here? I am talking about novels with provincial perspectives. Novels that appeal only to a specific epoch in history. Damn bubble gum novels! A good novel should be ‘universal.’ It should be able to show the human potential and transcend the sole ideology of its author.
It should also be able to live beyond the interest of a few readers.

For instance, Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is set somewhere in Nigeria’s Igboland where we haven’t been to, but, the life of the people of Umuofia and the struggles they have with European intruders are like stories of the same historic period from Kenya, Lesotho, Zululand etc. The story’s prowess is in its refusal to be only an Igbo story. Everyone knows an Okwonkwo somewhere in the past and present.

Yvonne Vera’s Without A Name is one such novel with a universal appeal. The central character is a woman of suspect sanity but her ability to raise issues like greed, love, hatred, pretence etc. reminds you of the personal moments you have gone through these emotions. The story sets you off into a train of introspective questions: Really, haven’t I surprised people with some of my wayward ways?

I have met teachers of literature, who when closing a novel, at the end of a fiery session, pause, adjust their goggles and say, “Good novel, but, in our situation, what does this novel) amount to?” A simple question, isn’t it, dear novelist? I agree that a novel cannot do many things, especially give answers to our problems. However, I will persuade you to begin to think that a good novel should, at least, show a certain way of doing or not doing things. You get this philosophy through what the author’s preferred characters are doing well or badly. There should be, conscious or unconsciously, characters and events in a good novel, which carry the author’s vision and high messages about life.

Reading Achebe’s Arrow of God, I thought I felt that the message was that in the process of life, power silently and saliently moves centre and those who have it must negotiate so that they remain at least central bargaining stake holders in their communities.
On that note, I’m always perplexed with the collective ultimate meaning of Zora Hurston’s Their Eyes were Watching God. This is a tremendous novel which I enjoy but, I always ask: Does the novel celebrate joy seekers at the expense of dream makers like Joe Stark?


Memory Chirere



An open letter to President Hichilema



Your Excellency,

I am certain that you are wondering where and/or how I have the temerity to write to you directly, but a recent post you put on WhatsApp piqued my interest; your meeting with His Excellency the Prime Minister of Lesotho, and his delegation. The delegation came to introduce to you and your good office the candidate of the Government of Lesotho, for the post of Secretary General of the Commonwealth, Joshua Setipa.

Let me set off by stating that I have a friendship with Setipa, for over 50 years, so I may not be the best person to give an objective appraisal or opinion of him; this I will leave to the government.

Further to that, as a citizen of Lesotho, I may embellish the information that I would provide on Lesotho, thus I will as far as possible keep to information that is contained in books. This is not a research report, but more a simplified literature review of what I have read. I shall not quote them, or reference them, thus allowing others the space to research this matter further.

First, let me state my surprise at the alignment of time that I see; Commonwealth Day in 2024 is on the 11th March, the day we celebrate a life well lived, that of Morena Moshoeshoe.

Further to that, this year also starts the 200th anniversary of the move by Morena Moshoeshoe and his followers from Menkhoaneng to Thaba Bosiu. They arrived at Thaba Bosiu in winter, circa 1824.

Next year, 2025 will also be the 100th anniversary of the ‘plenary’ that saw the birth of this Commonwealth of Nations. A handover from the bi-centenary, to the centenary celebrations.

We are all aware that the Commonwealth was started at the Imperial Conference of 1926, but it had what I call a plenary in 1925; this happened in Maseru, Basutoland. It was held at the ‘secretariat’ building on Kingsway. The building was used as the Prime Ministers’ office after independence, more recently, and to date as the Ministry of Defence.

When King George came to visit Lesotho in 1948, to thank the country and her citizens for their participation in the Second World War, High street as it was then known, had its name changed to Kingsway.

At this plenary Britain called the ANZaC states, Australia, New Zeeland and Canada, together with South Africa. It had been only 13 years (1912) since the Basotho monarch had been asked to attend the formation of the South African National Native Conference (SANNC), whose aim was to preserve African land. The SANNC was the forerunner to the African National Congress (ANC).

With the formation of the Union of South Africa, the union wanted to engulf Bechuanaland (Botswana) Swaziland (eSwatini) and Basutoland (Lesotho). This had been unsuccessful.

Next they came up with the Native Land Act of 1913, to remove African land rights. So, the conference that brought about the birth of the SANNC was a pre-emptive response to this act; an attempt to keep African land rights and traditions intact.

I would like to point out that the founding document of the Imperial Conference that brought about the Commonwealth states that all member states are autonomous and not subordinate to another.

At the time of the plenary, Basutoland was subordinate to Britain. But in a masterstoke became what I believe to be one of the founders of the Commonwealth.

Despite her subordination, Basutoland had placed so strong an objection to the presence of a representative South Africa in Basutoland, that South Africa’s invitation had to be withdrawn, and South Africa did not attend. This was the first ‘anti-apartheid’ shot, made in the world; what is more important is that it was made by an African country.

No matter how one looks at it, she may not have been a ‘founding member state’, but Basutoland was part of the founding fabric of the Commonwealth.

One just has to imagine the anger of the South Africans and their government: Dr. D. F. Malan, the first Nationalist Prime Minister of South Africa, was a minister responsible for housing at that time.

Had Basutoland’s lead been followed, spatial apartheid might never have happened. The Commonwealth would take till the 1960’s, and the formal legalisation/legislation of apartheid to remove South Africa from within her fold. A matter that Basutoland saw as far back as the 1920’s.

As shown, at the conceptualisation of the Commonwealth Lesotho was not just there, but an active and formidable participant; though one has to look further to see her relationship with Great Britain/the United Kingdom.

Basutoland/Lesotho’s history is strange, to say the least. The first Europeans to arrive here in 1833, were French Missionaries. At this time Europe was embroiled in wars, which inevitably included the French and English.

But it is these same priests, most notably Casalis, who helped steer the country to Britain, and British protection. Casalis acted almost as a foreign secretary/minister of foreign affairs at that time.

The first treaty between Basutoland and England was the Napier Treaty of 1843, though it took till 1866 to solidify this treaty into a protected land.

The history of the cavalry in Lesotho, the only African cavalry south of the Sahara, is quite long. It starts in about 1825, when F. D. Ellenberger in his book ‘History of the Basutho’, states that Morena Moletsane had come across gun powder quite by mistake.

They had been raiding a missionary’s home and came across a strange powder, which they found useless, so they threw it into a fire, which ‘exploded’. Thus, to his people called European style housing, ‘Ntlo-ea-thunya’, a house that shoots. But after having his people ravaged/savaged by Mzilikazi, he sent his best warriors to work on Boer farms, and with their remuneration purchase arms and horses.

We are often told of a ‘battle of/at Berea’. My answer is that it was not a battle but a cattle raid. Its importance is not just in the battle, but in democracy. The British called Morena Moshoeshoe ‘paramount chief’, a first amongst the others. The time before Berea shows something slightly different.

As Casalis writes in ‘My life in Basutoland’, the British had demanded 10,000 head of cattle, for stock theft. A great ‘pitso’ was called and all eligible men, those who owned land, were called.

At the end of the pitso, after many votes, the citizens refused to give their cattle to pay the demand of the British. The significance herein is that there was a plebiscite, a vote. Morena Moshoeshoe lost the backing of the people and thus the vote; the British then attacked to ‘collect’ the cattle themselves.

Both Morena Moshoeshoe and Morena Moletsane were heavily involved in the ‘battle’ which was won by the strength of the Basutho cavalry. Looking forward to the gun wars, it was most fortuitous that Morena Moshoeshoe’s ally, Morena Moletsane would outlive him, till the end of the gun wars.

After annexation in 1866, in the mid 1870’s the British, citing distance and as such expense, ceded Basutoland to the Cape, which was what the Basotho had been fighting against for a long time; they wanted direct British rule. They wanted to be ruled by Mofumahali Queen Victoria.

The first, and most critical mistake that the Cape made was, not so much in attacking Morena Moorosi, accusing his son of cattle theft, but in beheading him.

So, when some years later they wanted to disarm the Basutho, and they found those of the south of Basutoland who knew of the beheading, reluctant to go with the plan. The Cape decided to go ahead with disarmament forcefully and met equal if not greater force.

The Basutho were better armed, more knowledgeable on the terrain and better supplied. Helped by his father’s long-standing ally, Morena Moletsane, Morena Lerotholi was able to field a well-armed strong cavalry, which inflict great pain to the Cape.

This led to the Cape defeat. Together with the number of other wars that the Cape was fighting, there was fight fatigue among her people.

So bad was it, that they did not come and collect their fallen troops; in Mafeteng there is a cemetery called ‘mabitla-a-makhooa’, or graves of the white men. The SA Military History Society has a ‘roll of honour’ for some of the dead, as not all were buried in Basutoland.

There are two significant outcomes of the war. In his book ‘The Mabille’s of Basutoland’, Edwin W. Smith states that there was a fact-finding mission to Basutoland by members of the Cape parliament, including Rhodes. Their conclusion was that the Basutho should be handed back to Britain for direct rule; which was the original wish of the Basutho.

As Whitehall was reluctant to take this role back, Basutoland spent a period of close to two years of self-rule. Thus it became the first African country (only?) to unshackle itself of colonial rule. And became the first African country to get the colonial rule it wanted; and re-shackled itself to Britain.

The second is how Britain agreed to go back and rule Basutoland. In his book, Rhodes Goes North, J. E. S. Green shows how the Prime Minister of the Cape went to Britain to sue for peace, and eventually agreed to give Britain 20 000 pounds per annum, of her import tax revenues to govern Basutoland.

Whilst not a founding member of the Commonwealth, Basutoland has carried her fair weight in the battle to save both the Commonwealth, and together the rest of the Commonwealth, the world at large.

Whilst SA will hype the losses during the maritime accident of the SS Mendi in the English Channel, Lesotho is less inclined to speak of the losses on the SS Erinpura. The Erinpura was sunk by German war planes in the Mediterranean Sea. Though I should say that, the prayer of the men on the Mendi would resound so well with those who lost their lives on the Erinpura.

When British Prime Minister, Sir Winston Churchill said; never was so much owed by so many to so few, I am certain he was speaking not just of the people of the British Isles, but the broader community within the Commonwealth, that stood together at this time of international need.

But having heard Sir Winston, there is a special bond of Basutoland within, and with the Commonwealth, that I would like to highlight. Apart from the ANZaC countries and South Africa, there were no air squadrons from other Commonwealth countries that I am aware of; except for Basutoland that is.

They paid for 12 or so Spitfire aircraft that would form the 72nd Basutoland, which flew in the Battle of Britain. No moSotho actually flew (in?) them, but they had been financed by the Basotho.

For all the prowess of a moSotho man with arms, in his book ‘Basotho Soldiers in Hitler’s War’, Brian Gary not only writes about the gift of aircraft that fought in the Battle of Britain, he also shows that Basotho soldiers, who were hauling various ordinances through the Italian Alps, were allowed to carry arms.

Aircraft and carrying arms for an African in World War II; Lesotho is not just a pioneer member of the Commonwealth, but a beacon.

As Lesotho many of these pioneering attributes continued. Whist South Africa was banned from sports and entertainment, Lesotho filled the gap for her. Exiles like Hugh Masekela and Mirriam Makeba were hosted for sell out concerts in Lesotho. South African interracial sports, with matches between the likes of Orlando Pirate, Wits University, Kaiser Chiefs, to name those I remember, started in Maseru.

I have touched on politics and war, sport and entertainment; let me go to superstition. It would go against what is expected of me not to go without anything superstitious.

Britain has given the world three major sporting codes. Rugby, which is dominated by the big three of New Zeeland and South Africa. Cricket, which expands from the rugby three to include India, Pakistan, most of the Caribbean states and a few African counties.

These sports are obviously ‘Commonwealth Sports’, as they are dominated, or played predominantly by Commonwealth countries. They have also given us football. This is a truly global sport, the largest sport played across the world, on all types of surfaces, with all types of round looking objects. We can’t call all of these footballs.

The last time a Commonwealth country won the World Cup it was England in 1966; the year Lesotho gained her independence.

The next World Cup is in 2026, the millennium celebrations of the Commonwealth; who will head the Commonwealth then? Will a Commonwealth team have the necessary ‘juju’ to make it?

Your Excellency, this is but a brief note on Lesotho, and it is my way of using the words attributed to Morena Moshoeshoe, when asking for protection from Queen Victoria that say; take me, and all the lice (those that are symbiotic to me) in my blanket. I do hope that these words will be of use to you as seek consensus on Lesotho and her candidate for the post of Secretary General of the Commonwealth.

Yours truly

Khasane Ramolefe

Continue Reading


Culture quibbles



A few weeks ago these pages carried a substantial piece by Mokhosi Mohapi titled “A reversal of our traditions and culture”, written in the form of an open letter to the government of Lesotho. The first sentence of Mohapi’s article took me by surprise, as he stated: MPs and Senators’ primary role is to protect and preserve the traditions and culture of the Basotho people. I would have thought the primary role of MPs and Senators would be to ensure that Basotho are secure (being protected, for example, from criminals), that they have adequate access to social services such as education and healthcare, that the economy is sufficiently stable to offer citizens some chance of employment, and so on. Fat chance, you might scoff.

But then I realised that Mohapi had a more specific contention in mind, as he stated: The Laws of Lerotholi were set to protect social order, traditions and culture of Basotho. Mohapi’s immediate concern is with the 2024 Estates and Inheritance Bill, which proposes radical changes to the existing order of things. (See the article in last week’s thepost, “MPs bulldoze through Inheritance Bill”, which gives a good idea of the background).

I’m aware that this Bill has provoked considerable controversy, and that is not my topic in this article. Nor do I wish to contest what Mohapi was saying in his piece — this is by no means a case of Dunton v Mohapi. But I did take note of the way the phrase “traditions and culture” kept resounding in Mohapi’s article, rather like a cracked bell, and what I want to do is open up those terms for examination.

Please bear with me as I slip aside for a moment with a little academic stuff. Back in 2006 I published an article titled “Problematizing Keywords: Culture, tradition and modernity.” For those of my readers with a scholarly bent and who might want to hunt it down, this was published in a journal called Boleswa Occasional Papers in Theology and Religion 2:3 (2006), pages 5-11. There I made a number of points I want to bring up in what follows.

The first fallacy I tackled in that article was the tradition/modernity binary — the notion that in Africa there was tradition and then, wham!, the white man arrived and there was modernity. Are we seriously to believe there were no great cities in Africa before the white man landed, that the peoples of a whole continent lived entirely in villages? Nigeria tells a different story.

Are we to believe there were no great libraries? Mali and Ethiopia tell a different tale. No writing systems? No medicine? I’m not saying that if I’m in pain I don’t prefer a dose of oramorph to an infusion made from some leaves picked off the slopes of Thaba Bosiu, but the point remains: the tradition/modernity binary is crude and crass and it’s demeaning about Africa.

We cannot get very far with simplistic ideas about where we are coming from and where we are at. And yet of course we do come from a past. I’ll quote — or, rather, paraphrase from memory, as I don’t have the work to hand — an observation made by T.S Eliot in his essay “Tradition and the Individual Talent”: We know so much more than those who came before us. But they are a large part of what we know.

But of those who came before who is it, exactly, that we know? When Mohapi repeatedly uses the phrase “the traditions and culture of the Basotho people” I take it he is thinking of the Basotho as constituted under Moshoeshoe I and the descendants of those generations.

For how much do we know about the “traditions and culture” of the various Sotho-speaking groups let’s say two hundred years before Moshoeshoe gathered them together to form the modern Lesotho state? Isn’t it likely there were significant differences between the “traditions and culture” of these groups, differences that were later rationalised or homogenised?

Two points here. First, we mustn’t forget what an extraordinary innovator Moshoeshoe was —and I guess that might be said also of Lerotholi, whose laws are the chief focus of Mohapi’s article. Second, culture is not static, it is not immutable. It evolves all the time.

For example, for how long has it been the case that adherence to the Christian faith could be said to be part of the culture of Basotho? (Or, for how long has football been part of the culture of the English? We are credited with the invention of football, but that doesn’t mean it’s been part of who we are since time immemorial).

That brings me to my next point, or a string of points, moving from England back to Lesotho. When I was a schoolboy I bought myself a copy of the book Components of the National Culture (1968) by the great British Marxist Perry Anderson. One of my schoolmasters — one of the few who didn’t like me — caught me with it and said “just the sort of book I’d expect a troublemaker like you to be reading. Just don’t show it to anyone else!”

The significant term in Anderson’s title is “components.” Culture is put together — it is an assemblage — and its components may have different sources.
That leads me on to the invention of tradition, and an example for Basotho.

I guess all my readers know Qiloane, the sandstone pillar at Thaba Bosiu the distinctive peak of which is said to be the inspiration for the shape of the traditional Basotho straw hat. Well, that notion is dubious to say the least; there were hats of the same shape from elsewhere in the region long before the Basotho got hold of the design.

Does this really matter? Well, no, because even if a tradition is invented, it still has the persuasiveness of a tradition. It’s just that knowing this might dissuade us from making big claims about the unchangeable nature and sanctity of tradition.

And the same goes for culture. I leave you with a quotation from the Ghanaian philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah (it’s from his terrific book Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers): We do not need, have never needed, a homogenous system of values, in order to have a home. Cultural purity is an oxymoron.

Chris Dunton is a former Professor of English and Dean of Humanities at the National University of Lesotho.

Continue Reading


The Joker Returns: Conclusion



Last week I was talking about how jokes, or humour generally, can help get one through the most desperate situations (although it’s like taking a paracetamol for a headache; a much, much stronger resort is faith). I used the example of how Polish Jews, trapped and dying in the Warsaw ghetto, used humour to get them through day by day.

A similar, though less nightmarish, situation obtains in today’s Nigeria. Conditions there are less hellish than those of the Warsaw ghetto, but still pretty awful. There are massive redundancies, so millions of people are jobless. Inflation is at about 30% and the cost of living is sky-rocketing, with the most basic foodstuffs often unavailable. There is the breakdown of basic social services.

And endemic violence, with widespread armed robbery (to travel by road from one city to another you take your life in your hands) and the frequent kidnapping for ransom of schoolchildren and teachers. In a recent issue of the Punch newspaper (Lagos) Taiwo Obindo, Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Jos, writes of the effects of economic hardship and insecurity on his people’s mental health.

He concludes: “We should see the funny side of things. We can use humour to handle some things. Don’t take things to heart; laugh it off.”

Professor Obindo doesn’t, regrettably, give examples of the humour he prescribes, but I remember two from a period when things were less grim. Power-cuts happened all the time — a big problem if you’re trying to work at night and can’t afford a generator.

And so the National Electric Power Authority (NEPA) was universally referred to as Never Expect Power Always. And second, for inter-city travel there was a company called Luxurious Buses. Believe me, the average Lesotho kombi is a great deal more luxurious (I can’t remember ever having to sit on the floor of one of those).

And because of the dreadful state of Nigerian roads and the frequent fatal crashes, Luxurious Buses were referred to as Luxurious Hearses.

Lesotho’s newspaper thepost, for which I slave away tirelessly, doesn’t use humour very much. But there is Muckraker. I’ve always wondered whether Muckraker is the pen-name of a single person or a group who alternate writing the column.

Whatever, I’d love to have a drink with him / her/ them and chew things over. I like the ironic pen-name of the author(s). Traditionally speaking, a muckraker is a gossip, someone who scrabbles around for titbits (usually sexual) on the personal life of a celebrity — not exactly a noble thing to do.

But thepost’s Muckraker exposes big problems, deep demerits, conducted by those who should know and do better — problems that the powerful would like to be swept under the carpet, and the intention of Muckraker’s exposure is corrective.

And I always join in the closing exasperated “Ichuuuu!” (as I do this rather loudly, my housemates probably think I’m going bonkers).

Finally I want to mention television satire. The Brits are renowned for this, an achievement dating back to the early 1960s and the weekly satirical programme “TW3” (That Was The Week That Was). More recently we have had “Mock the Week”, though, despite its popularity, the BBC has cancelled this.

The cancellation wasn’t for political reasons. For decades the UK has been encumbered with a foul Conservative government, though this year’s election may be won by Labour (not such very good news, as the Labour leadership is only pseudo-socialist). “Mock the Week” was pretty even-handed in deriding politicians; the BBC’s problem was, I imagine, with the programme’s frequent obscenity.

As an example of their political jokes, I quote a discussion on the less than inspiring leader of the Labour Party, Sir Keir Starmer. One member of the panel said: “Labour may well have a huge lead in the polls at present, but the day before election day Starmer will destroy it by doing something like accidentally infecting David Attenborough with chicken-pox.”

And a favourite, basically non-political interchange on “Mock the Week” had to do with our former monarch, Queen Elizabeth II. Whatever one thinks about the British monarchy as an institution, the Queen was much loved, but the following interchange between two panellists (A and B) was fun:

A: Is the Queen’s nickname really Lilibet?
B: Yes, it is.
A: I thought her nickname was Her Majesty.
B: That’s her gang name.

OK, dear readers, that’s enough humour from me for a while. Next week I’m turning dead serious — and more than a little controversial — responding to a recent Insight piece by Mokhosi Mohapi titled “A reversal of our traditions and culture.” To be forewarned is to be prepared.

Chris Dunton

Continue Reading