A fortnight ago, I submitted a literary critique to the hallowed pages of the Mail & Guardian which I kicked off with an explanation of how difficult it was for me to handle the subject matter involved.
Well, Gentle Reader, I present myself to you here today to let you know that this review was even more difficult.
Some background before I explain myself. I got married in 2011 and became a father for the first time in March 2013. I was blessed with a second child in June 2016. Becoming a father to two rambunctious sons is, without question, the single best thing that has happened in my life.
But parenthood is not without its challenges. In my more sardonic moments, I have to remind myself to refer to my boys as “my bundles of joy” instead of the more truthful and accurate “my endless sources of worry and expense”.
I love my sons very much and have often joked with my colleagues that, if terrorists took them hostage and demanded that I kill everyone at my place of work as a condition of their release, those mofos that I work with would be dead meat. (I would send a text warning them not to come into the office that day to the people I really like, though.)
But having kids means you’re always worrying if they’re okay or if you’re doing a good enough job as a parent, or if this, that, the next thing and a bag of chips. The worry never stops. I think most parents crave release from this worry. But there is no release — not if you take being a parent seriously.
My marriage failed as 2022 gave way to 2023, and my now ex-wife and I separated.
We began a joint custody arrangement in June 2023 and I have had my sons living with me on alternate weeks since then.
And so, I get to experience what it’s like to not be a full-time parent for two weeks a month, after having been an involved, hands-on dad for a decade.
Many people thought that I would live the so-called “Lamborghini Lifestyle” when my sons weren’t with me. But man, let me tell you, if you’re a bookish introvert in his 47th year of life, “Lamborghini Lifestyle” means you eat a slab of chocolate that your kids never found and fall asleep at 9:30pm in front of your seventh lifetime re-watch of the third season of The Sopranos.
But even then, your kids are on your mind. They never leave you, because they are your lifeblood. Biologically and spiritually, they are your reason for being and, without them, you often find your life listless and lacking.
And it is with this mindset I tackled the latest English translation of a Rudie van Rensburg novel, Medusa.
Medusa has been in print in Afrikaans since 2019, so I’m not talking out of school if I mention larger plot points without spoiling the details.
So, put bluntly, and this is something I don’t feel bad about mentioning since it is in the blurb, and is made apparent from the opening paragraphs — Medusa is about child trafficking.
This is, inadvertently, a topical read on my part, given the recent headlines devoted to the tragedy of Joshlin Smith’s disappearance and the subsequent trial. But it remains a difficult topic to tackle, nevertheless.
Since the birth of my oldest child, fiction has taken on a new slant for me. I simply cannot do stories that contain children in peril anymore.
I stopped watching Game of Thrones because of the horrendous shit that happens to children in that show. I gave up on an episode of Breaking Bad for the same reason. I have abandoned books, graphic novels and comic book series mid-read because I could not stand to bear witness to what was happening to children in the story.
It’s too easy for my hyperactive imagination to place my children in that imaginary situation, see, and then I just crumble like a Johannesburg municipal road.
I am unable to endure the emotional duress of a child in peril, in summary. And this book has positive boatloads of children in peril.
As a result, this was very, very rough going for me. I braved the text on your behalf, Dear Reader, and I can confirm that the destination was worth the journey, but wow … I honestly skipped large chunks of the text because I didn’t want to experience, even secondhand, what some of the child characters were going through — the literary equivalent of watching a tense movie by peeking through interlaced fingers.
I’m not certain the read was worth my personal emotional duress but I can confirm that the book is a very good read if you are able to disassociate in a way that I am not.
Rudie Van Rensburg is a stalwart of the South African crime fiction scene. I wouldn’t be able to tell you if the book loses something in translation from Afrikaans to English but I can tell you that Van Rensburg takes us on a harrowing emotional ride throughout its pages.
There are elements of the story that are standard police procedural tosh but, for the most part, it’s a gripping tale, relentlessly propulsive, and containing a few twists and turns that, while not completely unexpected, were executed well without excessive reliance on tropes and stereotypes.
In particular, what stood out for me was Van Rensburg’s ability to generate pathos for his antagonists. They are monsters, to be sure, but monsters aren’t born, they’re made, and his examination of how a normal person can descend into true abomination actually caused me to question my sanity as I felt sympathy for the devil.But, in summary — though it is harrowing, and downright emotionally distressful at times, Medusa is a gripping, well-told story that is worth the read.