A Discovery

Remember how I mentioned a card that I received in the mail?

To have a look at it go here

really worth the trek :)

S

The Most Unreadable of Unreadables

I think they sneer. Yes, these meanies really do sneer. They sneer at you for wasting hard earned money on buying them. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they continue their Sneer Fest by deriding your every effort at reading them. And, no, they really don’t give a damn whether you have any other readable read at your side. So you’re left in a lurch.

Marooned on an island, surrounded by a sea of unreadable, unpalatable words. You're left with two choices. Languish or wade. I've gone for one or the other of these options each time one of these Unreadable Reads came to visit. Depending on my personal level of desperation. But more often than not, I chose to languish, awaiting the arrival of a Magnificent Steed of Stunning Words to spirit me away.

To save my fellow Word Warriors the the same fate I’ve finally stolen the time to compile the list of The Most Unreadable of Unreadables according to Afrocentric.

Topping the list, hands down would have to be Rajaa al Asnea’s Girls of Riyadh. I started this so-called novel only to ditch it after a few chapters feeling faintly bewildered by the realization that crap like that can actually be the cause of the loss of trees. Nothing short of sacrilege.

On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate it a minus five. Yes, it’s that bad.

At this point I feel it necessary to add Ken Follett’s World Without End to the list. It felt more like a Novel Without End. Painfully long, unnecessarily detailed. Plus it stank of treachery. A totally unrealistic portrayal of the time period. In his version of reality women spent all their time flashing their fannys at men. Talk of wishful writing.

I actually waded my way through this sea of unreadable tripe, astonishingly enough. But I was desperate. I had nothing else to read. On a scale of one to ten, it scores a stingy three.

I hope you have yet to hear of Kate Furnivalls’ The Russian Concubine. It’s a cliché a couple of hundred pages long. Tragic. What can I say? I’m a demanding reader. It scores a four.

Though I feel a traitor for writing this, but Imraan Coovadia’s Green Eyed Thieves is also on this list. I could not, even with the best intentions and truckloads of perseverance, wade my way through it. Out of touch with reality. That was the lasting impression it left with me. It scores a four.

Okay, don’t toilet paper my lawn for saying this, but Tolkien's Lord of the Rings is also on my list. B-O-R-I-N-G. That’s what it screamed. Even though the style of writing was easy on the eyes. It scores a generous six.

I hunted down a copy of Girl in the Tangerine Scarf by Mohja Kahf. Found it, began reading it, only to abandon it a few chapters in. Too American? I don’t know. But it just missed every chord and some of mine are pretty exposed. I’d rate it a six.

Until next time
go gently
S

Books

You know how it sometimes is that you read a blurb and everything sound so exciting. Then you take the book home, lovingly cradled in your arms only to have the pages morph before your very eyes into something ugly, and plain unreadable?






Thankfully, that doesn't happen too often. Most books that find their way into your hands, do so for a reasons. At least I'd like to believe that. And then there are those books. That elite little grouping that carry words so precious that they are seared into your mind. Words that border on actual physical nutrition. They are rare finds, these works of art. And they deserve some sort of homage. So here it is :


The Bestest, According to Afrocentric





1. The Book Thief by that legend, Marcus Zusak (so what if he's only written one book thus far?)
Now for the rest. Try as I might, I cannot place them in any particular order, since each of these titles have added something to my life
*The Wedding Officer, The Food of Love, The Various Flavours of Coffee - all by Anthony Capella
*The Constant Princess by Philippa Gregory
*Confessions of a Gambler by Rayda Jacobs
*The Kite Runner and A Thousand Slendid Suns by Khaled Husseini
* A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam
* The Voluptuous Delights of Peanut Butter and Jam by Lauren Liebenberg
*The Translator by Leila Aboulela
*Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
*Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Adichie

Two novels that have just recently been inbibed by yours truly are A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam and The Voluptuous Delights of Peanut Butter and Jam by Lauren Liebenberg.
Concerning the latter, the only criticism I have is that the title is a bit of a huge peanut- butter-stick- your- jaws- together kind of mouthful.

But the prose in both of these was an absolute delight. Truly stunning reads which fly in the face of my previous assertations concerning novels by male authors. I really could not have been more wrong.

Enough said. I have Adichie's latest offering at my bedside. It beckons. I am wont to respond.

Until we next meet... Hopefully with my list of The Most Unreadable Books according to Afrocentric.

S


p.s. Bloggers who may wander into my little space, I may not get to visit, or read what you have penned, but a similar lists by you on your blog would make for interesting reading. Turn it into a meme perhaps?? :P


non bloggers, mail me with your list on imraan dot bhamjee at fnbisp dot co dot za

A Gifted Week

I can hardly believe it that it's been nearly a month since my last post. Apologies to the two peole who read my blog. I know I'v been really remiss.

So what's happened since?

Not much. and pretty much everything

• I've discovered that in spite of my previous assertations re the wisdom that comes with ageing, I did not have the foggiest idea regarding what love entails. I've been smacked about by life and have finally understood that it really is a place to call home. And I feel really blessed - alhamdulillah - to have just that
• I was lucky enough to receive three gifts in one week. The first was a beautiful burkha. The second, a stunning handmade card, courtesy of my doppelganger and the third a delicious smelling body wash.
• I learnt that bigotry is alive and well in the Muslim community. I shan't elaborate. But expect a rant from my alter ego, Sardonic Scholar, soon enough. (If I can just steal the time)

That's all folks.

Oh and one more little thing. A gift from me to you :

Chapter Five

Human nature is like a relentless river. Finding one path blocked, it always seeks out another. And just continues flowing. Ever forward, never stagnant. The day Farouk walked into the house a huge box in his hands, it changed Samiha’s course forever, led her to new vistas. And suddenly where she had once been, it didn’t seem quite so verdant anymore. The colours faded. The cracks began to show. And she found a way of expressing these emotions in tales that she called fiction, though there was a lot more fact to the stories than even Samiha would care to admit.

The box contained that marvel of technology – a computer.

One freezing winter’s night Farouk took his eldest son Ali along for a Qiraat recital at the home of a good friend. The Sheikh was from Egypt, and he wasn’t called bul bul for nothing. His voice was legendary.

The evening that was meant to have lasted two hours stretched. Recital was followed by snacks, samoosas, she guessed and tea. And lots more besides. Farouk lost track of time. As it was Samiha wouldn’t miss him. She was always far too absorbed in that computer of hers anyway. But she did. And the pain of that night birthed a tale, one of her first short stories.

Things so Lost

I stumbled across an old file. Found some ancient scribblings. And this here text for a children's picture book. Methinks it will never get published. So I've gone and self published...right here. Anyone care to illustrate???

The Land of Socks

Yusuf wore a frown on his brow,
For the life of him, he couldn’t tell how
His favourite pairs of socks was a pair no more,
It was time for mum to return to the store
To replace the ones now oh-so lost
No telling how much that would cost

Yusuf sighed, a great big sigh
And pulled on a pair almost knee-high
Black with thick, ugly yellow stripes
That just increased his complaints and gripes

This sock- business was strange, for sure
He needed to try to discover a proper cure
For the socks that disappeared without a trace
Even though Mum had put them in their place

So he pulled out the drawers and placed them on his bed
Then went on all-fours and stuck in his head
The cupboard was a dark and gloomy place
So dark, that he couldn’t even feel his face
He peered into the darkness as hard as he could
Get to the bottom of this mystery, he certainly would

In the distance a bright light did he spy
Surely this wasn’t a trick of the eye
He crept into the gap, feeling his way,
This was turning out to be a very strange day

Then suddenly the ground was there no more
He was falling fast, and his body was sore
From knocking against walls, covered in cake
That smelt like Mum’s lousiest bake
Rock- hard it was and very stale too
He ate a bit and it tasted like glue

He landed on the ground with a mighty bump
And rubbed his head, it had grown a hump
The size of a camel’s, this hump felt
He rubbed it gently, trying to get it to melt

He looked around him, feeling rather peculiar
Nothing around him looked even slightly familiar
This land was huge as far as he could tell
With the number of socks there, it was just as well



It smelt heavenly though, remain in no doubt
With roads of foot powder spread all about
Flowers by the dozen bloomed along the roads
Thankfully, here there weren’t any toads
The flowers were pretty, lilac, yellow and blue
And colours of the rainbow, amazing their hue

A liquid dripped from their inside each flower
That seemed to possess a very strange power
For wherever it fell a new flower would grow
It’s colours amazing, it would begin to glow

But strangest of all was the sock choir
Their song so beautiful he had but to admire
They stood in rows straight and neat
And sang a song that none could beat
For their king, whom they called a Chowder
Standing respectfully on their road of foot powder

Before them the Grand old Chowder, he sat
He was their King and he wore a splendid hat
He was a huge grey sock with a bright red beet
Who could very easily fit on giant’s feet

Beside him sat the Grand Chowderess
Her purple hair all tangled, it was a mess
If truth be told, a woolly pom pom was her hair
And it looked so strange that Yusuf had to stare

White was her colour with yellow polka dots
Or was that Winnie the Pooh, his face covered in spot?
And she too was huge, this I must confess
A giantesses boot for her, no less

And talking of boots - these were their thrones
They were speaking to each other in low tones
Yusuf stood tall, and then looked around
Astonished was he, when amongst the choir he found
No less that four of his favourite socks
Even they grey one, with the navy blocks

He felt terrible to find that sock right there
For he’d just had a fight with his brother Umair
About this very sock, which now stood so proud
Singing for the Chowder and Chowderess so loud

So the next time your socks decide to take a walk
And feel that they’d much rather sing than talk
Know that they’ve found their way to The Land of Socks
They’re not simply hiding at the bottom of a smelly box

Their Sokkie Heaven is much more appealing
It’s not a case of your brother stealing
Your favourite socks just to have a hoot
So stay away from the boxing gloves and boots

A wonderful story

I was sent a story the other day. I wouldn't be lying if I said that it is, without doubt, the best short story I have read in a long time.

So I share it with you now...


AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN 5 SHORT CHAPTERS
BY PORTIA NELSON

I.

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost ... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out

II.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I am in the same place
but it isn't my fault
It will take a long time to get out

III.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it is there
I still fall in ... it is a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately

IV.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

V.

I walk down another street

-------------

SO if I seem to have gone AWOL, don't fret. I'm pondering the paths. Wondering whether I want to fall in a hole again. Walk around it. Or just try an altogether new path. Being in unfamiliar territory is terrifying isn't it?

Lazeeza Chronicles IV - The Is-It-Fresh Brigade

Amongst the patrons of Lazeeza’s is a group that I have taken the liberty of christening the Is-It-Fresh Brigade.

Picture the scene:
The cherry wood shelves groan under the weight of trays of still shiny koeksusters, glossy chocolate doughnuts, sprinkled liberally with multi coloured hundreds and thousands or roasted peanut nibs. A hint of cinnamon teases your nostrils triggered by the warmth of the sugar encrusted doughnut. The clang of bread pans being emptied reaches you over the laughter of bakers somewhere out back.

You turn to the salesperson and ask, “Are these fresh?” The violins that orchestrated your movements until now grind to a discordant halt. The smiling face of said salesperson morphs into something grotesque. Smoke issues from her nostrils.

“Yes,” she grunts.

The rapidly morphing salesperson is yours truly. The patron being enticed to the harmonious strains of a violin is a member of the Brigade.

So tell me, dear member of The Brigade, why, oh why do you ask me this question when it is obvious, in fact more than obvious, that what you are buying is fresh.? When, with the aid of a pair of tongs, you can do a rudimentary press to ascertain this for yourself?

Why, when naan is still breathing cloudy breaths into the air do you turn to me looking for all the world like a poor replica of Dennis the Menace and ask the dread question?

There are days when I clench my teeth, grin and bear it. But there are also days when I want to scream.

So if my answer to you, dear Brigade member, is less than polite, you’ll forgive me. Since the other members of your Brigade, the ones who got here before you, they’ve milked me of all the polite grins I have in my mental storeroom.

And when I see your face, my mind shrieks, Please God, not another one!!!

Lazeeza Chronicles III

Sometimes…beneath the crushing agony of grief, it’s easy to forget the words of the Quraan, even though you hold on to it each day and recite from it, allowing the music of its words to wash over your tortured soul.

What’s stranger still, is that you are one of the lucky few who recite with total comprehension. So much for all the years of study.

A woman walked into the bakery this morning. She has eyes that are bluer than the sky at noon. She took a doughnut. ”Not for me,” she said. “For my mother in law.”

“How is she?” I ask, recalling a previous conversation concerning her mother in law who lives in an old age home. On that occasion she and her husband had been summoned by the authorities at the home to resolve a situation where the older woman had turned violent against a fellow resident.

“She’s coming to stay with us.” Her eyes are shiny.
“She’s in an old age home. Ever since she’s been there…she’s deteriorated. Old age is not a sickness.”
At this point it dawns on me that this conversation is as much of an attempt to convince herself as it is to inform the listener.

“It’s hard living with her.” The internal strife rages in her eyes.

“May God make it easy for you.” My words. “May He give you the strength to deal with it all.”

“He will.” Her voice never wavers. Grows stronger.
“He never gives us more than we can bear.”

I feel my body flood.
Then drain.
Of all the fear. All the uncertainty.
What remains is the hard nub of human existence, the thing that brings the woman who has buried her child to her feet once more…
Hope. It’s all I have left.

“That’s a verse from the Quraan,” I say. My own eyes swimming.

How is it that she found me on this day, when the glass glued to my hand feels heavier than ever? And even though more than anything I’d like to put it down; lay my burden aside for a bit, the glue eats into my skin and the weight drags my arm downward.

She has never heard of la ilaha illallah. And yet...
Suddenly the leaden water evaporates from the glass. The glue ages. Weakens. I lay the near empty glass aside. I place all hope and trust in Him.

And I know that each breath, each heartbeat whispers of Hope. And that the second between each one. That’s distilled Faith.


P.S. This post was meant to have been an article for a local magazine. Had been accepted, in fact. Was to have been the first of a series entitled 'Behind the Counter'. But then the editor of the editor decided that he didn't 'get' it. I decided that fragile egos don't 'do' rejection too well. And that was that. Abortion pre term. A cliché , rather personal at that.
Who knows, maybe someday :)

S