Tag: Writing

Literary Postmortem: You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty by Akwaeke Emezi

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What a frustratingly delicious and maddening rollercoaster ride this novel was. Feyi when I catch you?! This was a page turner for sure, but because it was a library book, I couldn’t mark it up as I went along so instead, I am going to go through some of the questions in the book club reading guide, as a means to reflect on my experience of it.

Q: Feyi’s interior monologue (and actions) In response to Nasir’s pursuit rapidly oscillates between interest and disgust, as we see in chapter 2: “he was hunting her”; “she wanted him closer. She wanted him far, far away.” What does Feyi want on the roof? Do we know? Does she?

I think she carries enormous guilt about the fact that she not only survived the accident with Jonah, but is now at a place where she is physically and emotionally trying to explore new connections. Feyi is on the roof because she is really curious about Nasir, but also knows she can’t make eyes at him ‘during the people’ (South African turn of phrase, look it up, or don’t). So she knows they can have a private moment up there.

Q: In chapter 3, Joyce says, “Maybe Nasir is it—not the serious thing itself, but just the chance. Don’t run away from it,” in response to Feyi’s insecurities about accepting a date with Nasir. Later, Joy’s voice in Feyi’s head tells her to take a chance. What does this chance refer to and what could it mean will Feyi?

A chance at a real romantic relationship, what she has with Milan is purely physical but she can already sense that things would be a lot more serious with Nasir.

Q: When thinking about her developing emotional intimacy with Nasir, Feyi considers the fact that their physical intimacy is moving glacially. In chapter 4, Feyi asks Nasir whether he was sleeping with anyone, and his response allows for a shared moment of trust and humour between them. Nasir uses that space as an opportunity to inquire about Feyi’s studio. How does this reflect their respective outlets of intimacy and their inevitable relationships to it?

There’s a quiet acknowledgement that Feyi isn’t quite ready for physical intimacy because Nasir is ‘more’ than just a guy, knowing that he is being ‘serviced’ elsewhere brings her some relief that she can push that task even further out (emphasis on task). I remember taking issue with how this conversation moved on so casually, flippantly almost. But I recognise that is because I hold a candle for Nasir and I was upset that he was stepping out on us 🥲😅 The pivot to the studio conversation is his effort to get to know her more deeply, he is at this moment operating under the premise that she wants to be known fully before taking their relationship to the next level. Oh, if only he knew 😦 Shame I’m being unfair she also was giving their relationship a genuine chance at this point, but definitely holding back A LOT under the guise of taking things slow.

Q: “So much of her time was spent in uncertainty” Feyi reflects on her imposter syndrome; meanwhile “It was hard to imagine Alim ever doubting if he fit into whatever he was.” What were Feyi’s doubts around her work? How does this doubt pervade other aspects of her life and how does she view Alim’s sureness in comparison?

Because her art is so personal, it puts her life up for scrutiny and judgment from others and herself. It operates as a mechanism to memorialise and process, which requires enormous amounts of vulnerability from her, which she isn’t entirely comfortable with. Alim is able to practice his art more freely because he is more open and quick to vulnerability, it colours his world as opposed to dimming it in hers.

Q: “It was something she wanted to hear—what it was like to fall in love again after your heart had been shattered. She could feel Jonah’s presence on the mountain peak, gentle and curious,” writes Emezi in chapter 10. How does this differ from past moments of intimacy up until this point, when Feyi felt Jonah’s presence?

In other moments, she was overcome by guilt, and Jonah’s presence was her internal warning signal that what she was doing was not ‘right’. When she is on the mountain top with gramps (sorry, not sorry #justiceforNasir) because she feels strongly for and about Alim, she doesn’t feel that guilt and/or shame; instead she feels the warmth of a familiar safety and calm by being with someone who makes sense to her.

Q: “’ There are so many different types of love, so many ways someone can stay committed to you, stay in your life even if y’all aren’t together, you know? And none of those ways are more important than the other,” Feyi says in Chapter 11. Why is this perspective liberating for Feyi?

I think she realises that moving on isn’t about forgetting Jonah, that being devoted to his memory doesn’t have to mean staying stuck in her hurt or even in who she was when they were together.

Q: In Chapter 11, Nazir tells Feyi, “Lorraine and I don’t have a lot of memories of our mum. The house helps us remember.” What does this house represent to the Black family? And to Feyi? How do these meanings influence the space she occupies in it?

I think it is a living monument to the memory of what they lost and the effort to keep things together through physical reminders of what once was. It also signals an inability to move on in some ways, less nostalgia, more shrine if you know what I mean. Crazy to me that Feyi feels a pang of jealousy seeing family photos – like yes doll, where do you think you are?!

Q: Feyi fondly recalls Jonah’s words in chapter 15: “He said [being messy is] one of the best things about being human, how we could make such disasters and recover from them enough to make them into stories later.” How has this informed Feyi’s decisions in life since Jonah’s passing?

Well she’s made quite a big mess of things at the Black’s, so that’s one. This recollection allows her to remember that she can prioritise herself and her desires (not that anything had been stopping her to be fair).

Q: What is the difference between Alim calling Faye his friend and Faye calling Nasir her friend?

He meant it, she didn’t 💀

Q: “You know you can always just come home right?” Joy reassures Feyi in chapter 16. What or who is Feyi’s home here?

Joy is Feyi’s home now.

Q: In chapter 17 we witnessed the confrontation between Nasir, Feyi, and Alim. Discuss whether you expected it to go down this way or not. When Nasir’s anger and subsequent actions justified? Were Alims? How is this possibly triggering forfeit?

I actually did because I was BIG MAD myself, but I was also scared of him and what he might do in that moment, I understand why she was terrified too.

Q: Alim tells Feyi in chapter 18, “I can’t bring myself to not try to give you the best every year I have left,” to which she requests he make “no plans.” Why is Feyi resistant to making plans?

Because people can die tomorrow and none of those plans would matter, she has conditioned herself to live moment by moment because of the fear of loss that constantly walks beside her.

Q: “You can see [my painting] in any stage it’s in. I don’t care, I like showing myself to you,” Feyi tells Alim in chapter 21. How does this stark difference from her objection to showing Nasir her artwork parallel the differences in their respective relationships?

This really hurt me, because Nasir was so eager, on board, down-for-whatever, desperate for her to show herself to him. But she just couldn’t and I guess that’s only fair, we don’t have to match people’s attraction/energy/care, but I do think he was owed more honest communication about the improbability of her feelings for him growing beyond a homie level.

Q: “You’re worth it, Feyi. You can be yourself, as messy and contradictory as you like,” Joy affirms in chapter 5. “He’s lucky to even be near you.” Feyi’s feelings seemed to be at odds with each other throughout the novel. Speak to the inherent beauty in the contradiction and comfort and transients that come as a result of Feyi’s growth, both within our protagonist as well as from the perspective of the reader.

I struggled with her choices, not gonna lie, but I get them. She gave herself the chance to figure out what she truly wants and needs. She was ten toes about what she did and didn’t want for herself. I suppose the intensity of my disappointment helped me realise that people fiercely choosing exactly who and what they want for themselves might always look crazy or wrong or ill-timed to others, but that those things can’t and shouldn’t inform whether or not they make those decisions. That sometimes your body knows before you do what is meant for you and what isn’t. As much as I was batting for Nasir, choosing him would have been a betrayal of self that actually may have set Feyi back even further in her journey of healing. Alim, whether I like him or not, was the person she needed to help in coming back to herself fully and simultaneously shed the survival version that had been in the driver’s seat for the last few years (unfortunate pun, forgive me).

That said, #justiceforNasir, tell him he can find me @pheladi_s on all socials.

Literary Postmortem: Endings and beginnings

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The fragility of life and the devaluation of individual lives in South African society swung on a pendulum throughout the 288-page stage that this memoir played out on.

For transparency’s sake, I must declare that I am a certified Redi Thlabi stan, she’s an incredible journalist and thinker I have always looked up to, and that no doubt coloured my reading somewhat. I picked my copy up at a recent book sale by publisher, Jacana, for a steal (one of those pay-per-kilogram sales – best!) Knowing Thlabi’s public persona quite well, I went in with quite specific assumptions about what her memoir might be like, and boy was I wrong on every count. Nothing could have prepared me for the twisted tale of a great first love marred by violence, manipulation and neglect. Sjoe, I was never ready shem.

Without giving away much more of the plot, I will say that the story that unfolds won’t be difficult to summon into ones imagination, Thlabi writes with a careful balance of honesty, warmth and clarity that transports you to the same street corners, the end of longing stares and swirls of despair that she experienced. It’s a reminder of how complex human beings and human relationships can be. Thlabi illustrates just how thin the line is between our precious inner lives and the relived realities that threaten it day and night. Grief stalks the pages from start to finish, the intensity of it varied from part to part and chapter to chapter, but ever present nonetheless.

Without being glaringly obvious about it, a geographic and historical profile of Soweto is sketched and helps root readers in place. The passage of time can also be seen through the lens of the location itself, ensuring that the past and present are delineated well. The lives of ordinary South Africans (and Southern Africans) during Apartheid always fascinate me, because they help us fill in the gaps that pure political and historical accounts can not. One of my favourite parts of the memoir was an account of how a central character risked life and limb to do his bit to assist in the anti-Apartheid movement. I appreciate accounts like this because the collective memory of our history can be narrow and solely focused on the people with bridges and buildings named after them, which is a distortion of how many truly played their part to fight off an oppressive regime.

Would I read it again? Nah uh. While intensely personal and revealing, I think it’s the kind of work that doesn’t necessitate revisiting when you are done reading it. Much like Khwezi, Thabi’s second book, it winds you so much that the very idea of bracing for impact again just doesn’t seem possible. But like Khwezi, it is a masterclass in using deep listening and authentic connection to navigate through one’s curiosity and sense of justice.

Some of my best bits below:

Stuff is less exciting without Twitter

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“Turn the lights off!” Before May 21, 2025 that phrase had much sexier connotations in my head, now, unfortunately, it is a reminder of the very strange ‘meeting’ between President Cyril Ramaphosa and that guy in the Oval Office. While I have appreciated and gobbled up all the analysis that followed that strange encounter in the last few weeks, something was still amiss. Memes, gags and retweets about the encounter, to be specific. This event was the first time I sincerely missed the bird app since deleting it from my phone last year.

Have I known peace, absolutely. It has been freeing to be rid of the watered-down, oft-triggering and anti-intellectual ‘discourse’ that had come to dominate my Twitter feed. Since the Musk takeover, the algorithm on that app has become most unhelpful and uninformative, making an occasionally toxic and divisive environment, perpetually so by boosting the accounts and thoughts of the most harmful actors in the swamp (himself included).

Anyway, that wasn’t the point of this little scribble. The point was, on that chilly Wednesday evening, I sat listening, enthralled by the shenanigans with no public place to live tweet and banter about the increasingly bizarre events coming through my speakers all the way from Washington DC. I was glued to the radio live feed in my car and couldn’t risk running out of the car, into the house to catch the visual feed in fear of missing even one second of the special episode of WWE. Itching to say something, anything, I turned to my almost inactive Threads account to cash in on the adrenaline that was coursing through me. I made a handful of posts, forgetting in my glee-come-horror at what I was hearing, to actually thread my posts together. But minutes passed with not a like, a retweet, a reply or GIF-only response. That’s when it hit me, that damn, Twitter is really gone and the live back and forths I had become accoustomed to during particulaarly important socio-political events and moments, could not simply be replicated on a different app. Sure, my following and level of activity on Threads probably plays a role, but that used to be the beauty of Twitter, you didn’t have to be ‘somebody’ to hop in on a trending conversation and simply by being vocal be seen by others interested in that conversation.

As someone who had been on Twitter for 14 years, using it professionally as a journalist and socially as a loudmouth, the relative silence during a live news event left me a little sad. Selfishly, for entertainment’s sake. But there was also magic in the way we collectively processed the world around us. As South Africans, primarily through laughter and making light of what is often too heavy. Threads did eventually ‘catch up’ the next day, filling my timeline with more post-meeting reactions, but the moment was gone, and my thumbs were at ease.

Walking in the footsteps of JK Rowling

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Literally. I went to Edinburgh, Scotland over the winter/Christmas break and the one and the only thing I wanted to do when I got there, was see where the magic happened. The locations, monuments and scenery that were the backdrop that provided J.K Rowling with the inspiration to finish writing the Harry Potter series.

So the first order of business when I arrived was finding a walking tour that would show us all these places. I booked a two hour guided tour with GetYourGuide and let me tell you it was the best 12 pounds I have ever spent.

z+Uhjut4RWurP3KAFX%SewAs you can tell, I am a Potterhead – a big one. So much so that when the little walking group I joined was sorted into our wizarding classes I was classified as a Death Eater because I answered yes when asked if I believe only people who had read (and reread) the books and watched (and rewatched) the movies was a true fan – I mean duh. But shortly before that, we had been sorted into houses and the “sorting hat” placed me in Gryffindor– so a bit of a tricky one but we move. 

The tour started off in a place that needed very little explaining to the group – Greyfrair’s Kirkyard – the actual graveyard that inspired the (traumatic) scenes from the Little Hangleton Graveyard in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, where we last saw Cedrick Diggory alive (sniffle). Apparently, a mixture of those grey turned black headstones, the names on those headstones and a deep depression inspired Rowling to write some of the most iconic characters and scenes for the series.

She spent days looking into the graveyard from a window at a nearby cafe, the Elephant Cafe and walking in it to keep building on the story she had started writing on a train years earlier about the boy wizard we all came to love. Some of the engraved names I spotted on the day included one Thomas Riddell (Tom Marvolo Riddle/He Who Must Not Be Named/The Dark Lord to us), an unofficial Sirius Black one scrawled on the wall with spraypaint on an unmarked grave and even a little statue that looked exactly like Nearly Headless Nick. Just next to us was a very Hogwarts looking school, George Heriot’s School (circle on left), this building and the Edinburgh Castle (circle on right) a short walk away were reimagined to become the school of witchcraft and wizardry we all wanted to go to.

George Heriot’s School in Edinbrugh, Scotland.
Edinbrugh castle

 

What struck me most in that graveyard (and along the rest of the route really) is the sheer will to press on, in the face of loss and failure, she just kept writing, making space for the process in every free minute of every single day. Picking up the pieces of a broken and grieving heart, raising a baby, studying and trying to survive didn’t get in the way of writing a chapter or two when she could find a quiet enough spot to do so. And to do that and manage to write one of the best book series of all time feels surreal, but one thing it also left me with is the fact that it is possible if you show up for yourself and believe in the things you are actively pursuing. And I believe it is that quality that allowed her to see and harness everything around her so beautifully and craft it into the story of Harry Potter. There are pieces and places that seemed so familiar to me all around Edinburgh because of the way she managed to weave the places and names into her work. I know it will sound cliche, especially in this context, but it was a true and simple lesson of the magic of commitment and determination. I hope to one day harness and live out this lesson.

Dressed up as revolution

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Dabbling the dark arts of fiction, read the full but short story here.

“Their conversation is punctuated with the topping up of wine glasses and champagne flutes. The men and women dressed in black and white lingering on the side-lines catching bits of conversation, looking annoyed as more food is ordered by the increasingly loud bunch — their agitation making those seated at the table slightly aware of their privilege.”

Be gentle.

I’m going to be a writer

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Writers Dominique Botha and Carol-Ann Davids were two of the 'new' authors on the panel. Photo: Pheladi Sethusa
Writers Dominique Botha (left) and Carol-Ann Davids (right) were two of the ‘new’ authors on the panel. Photo: Pheladi Sethusa

“I know I’m going to be a writer one day. I don’t think it in my brain but I know it in my heart,” I have not been able to look back since I read this Chris Van Wyk quote three years ago. It provided me with the resolve to do exactly what I’m doing in my life right now.

This past weekend a colleague and I went to the 2013 Mail & Guardian Literary Festival, to bask in the presence of some of South Africa’s literary giants.

The Market Theatre was the historically apt venue picked to host the festival. Couches in the middle of a black stage in the main theatre providing the speakers with their literal platform.

We sat in one session after another, furiously typing out tweets, scribbling notes and snapping photos. Between all of this we had to process what was being discussed on the various panels.  All of which were interesting and engaging in their own ways.

One recurring statement made by writers like Nadine  Gordimer and Craig Higginson, was that writing is a calling of sorts. One doesn’t write because they want to but because they have to. Craig  went on to say that it simply isn’t worth the pain and effort otherwise.

I want to be like them

I was lucky to sit in on a panel discussion with a theme of ‘fact and fiction’ luckier still to listen to the first panel of women only, all of whom are first time published authors.

Carol-Ann davids and Claire Robertson sign copies of their books for fans. Photo: Pheladi Sethusa
Carol-Ann Davids (left) and Claire Robertson (right) sign copies of their books for fans. Photo: Pheladi Sethusa

I have ambitions of being in their shoes one day. I’m doing journalism in a mission to be on the right side of history and because I really do enjoy writing. I want to be a journalist because I imagined at some point when I am too old or too tired of being on the field, I would magically turn into a writer. Well not magically but all that training will come in handy.

Anyway long story short, becoming a writer is the end goal.

So this panel discussion provided enough information for me to be inspired to keep on keeping on where this dream is concerned.

Journalism and writing

Claire Robertson provided some insight on how she managed to use her experience as a journalist  to help her write her book, The Spiral House.

She said that she tried to avoid writing about her personal life, because in journalism reporting on oneself just isn’t done.  “I’m not brave enough to write too intimately about my life,” confessed Claire. Clearly I have no such inhibitions, one browse on my tumblr blog is evidence of this.

However, she did insert herself in the places were she deemed it necessary because it was unavoidable. Her background helped her to write much faster than some of the other women on the panel, in this moment she was thankful for the demanding deadlines.

Fact versus fiction

A little fact, mixed with some fiction or do you have to one or the other. Author, Dominique Botha said the truth is incredibly hard and can never really be 100% in that regard. This makes for a problematic relationship between memoir and fiction she added.

“To retrieve memory is the first act of fiction,” she said. Botha added that memory relies on the act of imagination, in an effort to illustrate that memory is compromised and can’t be considered as 100% accurate.

Carol-Ann Davids, author of The Blacks of Cape Town said that one needs a little bit of both (fact and fiction) to tell a story.

Storytelling

The women on the panel emphasised that what they were doing was telling stories. Claire went as far as to say being a good writer is not enough, one has to be a good storyteller to write something of substance.

Maren Bodenstein , said that by way of storytelling and using details you can get a little closer to the ‘truth’ Dominique said was illusory. She said that this was the magic of, “dealing with the theory of literature”.

When asked by chair, Craig how they all managed to write such mature and deep books on their first try, the women unanimously agreed that they got to that point through enduring a lot of rejection and humiliation. “After chipping away at yourself you have no option but to write from your gut,” added Dominique.

The discussion then opened up to the floor in which time questions about getting published and being mothers were asked. Basically it difficult, it’s difficult to get published – to get someone to believe in your story. On being a mother while writing her first book, Carol-Ann said it was challenging but not impossible.

I learnt a thing or two about the journey I am yet to travel and was encouraged to press on.

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