As children, we used to play a game of hide-and-seek called ”black mampatile”. One of us was asked to look the other way while the others would quickly scatter in search of a place to hide. Another version of the game involved hiding an object; to know that s/he was looking in the right direction, the searcher would be guided by those who knew the location of the object.
If you moved in the right direction, they would shout O a cha! — you are getting warm. If you moved away from the target, the rest would shout O a tonya — you are getting cold. Hearing the phrase O a cha with increased excitement indicated that you were so close to the target that you could almost feel its heat. And, as in life, when on target, the trick is not to lose focus, determination or direction.
For South Africa, the sun has hardly warmed the seeds of affirmative action, but already there is a call for a sunset clause. Re a tonya (we are cold) all because a few black granules sprinkled on top of white cream has not significantly transformed the colour of our national coffee.
Not only have we not done much work in the economy, we have not even scratched the surface in sectors such as literature and publishing. Given that knowledge creation is power, the question is: who is in the publishing driver’s seat? Whose stories are told by whom? Who decides what is and what is not acceptable literary text?
Indeed, the increasing number of stories written by black people is cause for celebration. But, the corresponding question is: for whom does the African writer write? What happens to a writer whose style, genre and language is not affirmed in the publishing industry? How diminishing can that be psychologically?
The question of language is critical for African children and children’s literature. Ngugi wa Thiong’o argues that language has a dual function as a tool for communication and a carrier of culture. Unfortunately for Africans, the language of our colonisation has become the mirror through which we design our identity.
This situation is compounded by an education system in which the overall aim is to produce Western-educated Africans who, in most instances, uphold the principles of Western civilisation; a perfect recipe for a successful naturalisation of European culture into African society.
Equally important in the debate is misrepresentation of women in literary texts. A perusal of a few recently released novels by black men still appropriate a black woman’s body and her life in the same old myopic patriarchal stereotypes. This in a society that does not only disrespects women’s human rights but also disregards women’s contribution to history (other than baking scones and knitting jerseys to raise funds for the struggle).
The fact that we still do not have a public lecture series named after a black woman writer is inexcusable considering that women such as Miriam Tladi discovered the might of the pen at the time when black women were only expected to serve as nannies and tea girls.
Undoubtedly, the Cape Town Book Fair does open up avenues for debate. Yet its aim of contributing to a culture of reading happens in a city surrounded by an ocean of gross poverty, poor access to education, illiteracy and a resultant book famine. What ways, if any, can the diverse community of greater Cape Town benefit from the fair?
One point that stands in the review of the books at the fair is that they show a progression from the collective political to the personal. The underlying message seems to be; it is no longer necessary for writing to continue as a political act. In other words, the African writer is free from being a social critic — all this as Ousmane Sembene has departed to the land of the ancestors. If this is the assumption, freedom can prove to be quite dangerous.
Mmatshilo Motsei, a feminist with a keen interest in rural and youth leadership development, is the author of Hearing Visions, Seeing Voices and The kanga and the kangaroo court: reflections on the rape trial of Jacob Zuma