On the 30th of April this year, television talk-show person Noeleen Maholwana-Sangqu said something so startlingly unfortunate that it was worth writing down. Her guest that afternoon was Patrick Holford, international bowel-whisperer, and as the curtain lifted, it seemed that for once Noeleen had come prepared; for there on her lap was Holford’s latest paperback treatise on the private life of starch.
It was a shock, to be sure. Those who have seen Maholwana-Sangqu’s mercifully irregular book-clubbing pogroms, er, book club programmes, will know that her approach to reviewing is rather like Snuki Zikalala’s approach to political commentary. A stack of American mass-market thrillers is presented, the sort in which a sword is pawed, a whore is gored, her jaw half-gnawed, the law is floored, and Dear Reader, ignored, becomes bored. Then invited guests are asked to give their opinion, their invitation apparently based on whether they happened to be walking past in the corridor as the show started. I smaaked it lank, says someone from Accounts. It was really, you know, clever, says a focus puller. I had no idea the Vatican was trying to cover up the secret of Christ’s bloodline, exclaims the Deputy Head of News.
But even with this pedigree, what Noeleen said next was appalling. Holford had been asked to summarise a complicated point in a single sound bite, and, after a few game attempts, gestured at the book and suggested that those wanting a more detailed account of how best to take all joy out of eating should simply refer to Chapter Suchandsuch. Noeleen patted the front cover, as if appeasing a skittish polecat.
“I didn’t finish the book,” she blurted, “because it’s quite big and I only got it a few days ago.”
Never before or since has South Africa’s relationship with reading been more succinctly defined. It had everything: pre-adolescent awe of wordage; teenaged shame, with its implied outrage at being found lacking; the adult appeal to a busy schedule; Shakespeare’s Seven Ages of Man renegotiated to three for sub-literates who haven’t read the play and can’t remember what Wikipedia said the other four ages were.
But fortunately not all authors write big books, and this week, as Noeleen caressed another front cover, it was with considerably more confidence. And why wouldn’t one feel empowered sitting opposite Sonia Choquette, world famous psychic, card reader, sixth sense titillator and general spouter of otherworldly codswallop?
According to her website, Choquette is not, as her surname suggests, an expensive truffle, but rather a visionary who is “leading others out of the dark ages and into the 21st century”. Presumably they’re avoiding the Enlightenment en route. After all, if you’ve committed yourself to leading people from a time of rampant pseudo-spiritual superstition, unchecked robber-baron capitalism and religious fanaticism into a time of rampant pseudo-spiritual superstition, unchecked robber-baron capitalism and religious fanaticism, you can’t risk bumping into that buzz-killing science crap. A girl’s got to eat.
Which is where Noeleen came in; for although Choquette keeps the wolf from the door by running Six Sensory Certification Training Courses at $1 600 a pop (or half a unicorn testicle, at current black-market prices), it is no doubt her books that keep her in gossamer and spangles and whatever other fey accoutrements esoteric carpetbaggers need. And if it’s an utterly uncritical cheerleader you want to help market your twaddle, her mouth hanging open with breathless credulity, then Noeleen’s your gal.
Indeed, Maholwana-Sangqu didn’t bat an eyelid when Choquette revealed that her latest effort had been dictated to her by her invisible guides. One sensed injustice. Would said guides see any royalties? If so, how? Astral traveller’s cheques? Holy chips, redeemable from some seraphic cashier? Or would they simply demand a briefcase full of crisp, unmarked fairy wings, left under a bridge at midnight? But Noeleen had melted in the glow of Choquette’s comforting delusions, and such questions went unasked.
The guides were everywhere, picking outfits, warning against red meat, finding lost keys. Three times, Choquette said, her book had been wrongly sent to the neighbour of the woman who’d ordered it. Three times! And who was responsible for this magical, life-changing error? Was it the postmaster’s nephew, given sheltered employment so that he would stop filming the girls’ loos at his correctional facility? No? Oh. Well, then, was it the — the — wait, it’s coming — the guides? Right on! Hallelujah! Truly, blessed is the God of the New Age who works His miracles through incompetent postal workers.
At last, cards were produced, and Noeleen squirmed with anticipation. What would her future hold? She pulled a card and gaped. “Make better choices” it read. Shivers! A few more were extracted – “Be nice”, “Wake up after you sleep”, “Breathe a lot”, “If you’re a bear, poo in the woods” – but Noeleen never did get to the one about charlatans, a license to print money, and suckers being born every minute.