Katherine Graham's Blog, page 5

Lessons from Hans Christian Andersen

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.” – Rita Dove

I love reading fairy tales, especially those by Hans Christian Andersen. I think it’s because you know that his stories, however lyrical, are actually pointing at deeper truths, as with The Ugly Duckling and The Emperor’s New Clothes. As an aside, did you know that the Disney film Frozen is based on one of his stories, The Snow Queen (with shades of CS Lewis’s White Witch?) Anyhow, while I was at my local library recently, I came across a wonderful anthology of Andersen’s lesser-known stories, called The Nightingale and Other Tales, illustrated by Mary Tozer.

The first story in the collection, The Goblin at the Grocer’s, left me pondering. In it, a little goblin who lives with a grocer is entraced by a student’s book of poetry from which he reads in his attic every night. “How bright it was in the room!” Andersen writes. “…there was a sound of wonderfully beautiful singing.”

So enraptured is the goblin by the student’s poetry book that he considers leaving the grocer for good. But then he considers the matter of the porridge – every year at Christmas the grocer gives him a bowl of porridge with a lump of butter in it – and even when a fire breaks out in the house opposite and the goblin rescues the book of poetry, realising how much he treasures it more than anything else, he can’t give up the grocer. Why? Because of the porridge, of course.

Photo: Antti T Nissinen, Flickr.com

In my own life, I am like the goblin, too – and so perhaps are you. I am torn between two conflicting demands – to fulfill my yearning to be creative and the need to earn a living. Writing articles for magazines is great and it earns me an income, but writing books is what makes my soul sing. Porridge or poetry? The grocer or the student? In the end, the goblin had to make a choice and I think he made the right one – to divide his time between the two, peeping into the student’s keyhole at night to listen to the glorious poetry and going downstairs to receive his bowl of porridge from the grocer. The sensible choice, right? One day, though, one day, I hope to earn a living from poetry, not just from bowls of porridge.

Leap of faith

Doing something new is always a bit scary. Especially if you’re naturally a bit of a chicken like me. When I left full-time employment to become a freelance writer in 2009, it was a transition, sure, but not such a big one. I’d been writing for magazines and newspapers for years, so it wasn’t really a big deal. I had the contacts, I had the skills, so it was merely a question of setting up a new email address and hey presto! I was ready for business.

But when I started to change career two years ago from journalism to creative writing, that felt big. Really big. Especially when I started putting myself out there, publishing my first e-book on Amazon. I felt naked, exposed. What if people laughed at me, like in The Emperor’s New Clothes? When you’re a journalist, you’re always writing about something that actually exists, be it bed linen, cupcakes, party planning, retirement savings, etc. (Incidently, I’ve written on all of these topics, some of them – like not overspending at Christmas – multiple times.) But when you’re writing fiction, your heart is in it, people can see what you’re thinking and feeling, even if it is only through your characters.

And what if you fail? What if you fail? That seems to be the question that plays itself over and over again in your head. When I published The Dummy Fairy on Amazon in November 2014, I was devastated after the first few weeks of sales. Why was no one buying my book? I had poured myself into it and it wasn’t getting the glowing reception that I had hoped for, not by a long shot. Thankfully, like Elijah on Mount Sinai, I heard a gentle voice reassuring me: “Keep going. Follow your own bright star.”

And so I did. I keep writing books and stories, investing as much as I can into my craft. It’s a hard, lonely journey. There is plenty of rejection along the way, but encouragement, too. I’m so grateful for the support I’ve received from others – those in Cathy Eden’s writing group (our monthly Wednesday morning meetings with muffins and tea in her Victorian house were sublime!) and also the helpful criticism of Elaine Ridge and Cicely van Straten. Being a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) has helped me realise that I am not alone in this journey of writing. There are many others who faithfully pound away at their keyboards every day, hoping to one day fill a child’s life with the joy of reading a new story.

And seeing as Thanksgiving has just passed (even though we don’t celebrate it in South Africa), I think I have permission to get a bit emotional. I am thankful for my husband for his unstinting support, for encouraging me to go beyond what I ever thought I was capable of. After a year of publishing my own books, he said to me one evening: “You should run a self-publishing course to help other writers achieve what you have.” I was taken aback. Could I really do that? I’d never given a PowerPoint presentation in my life before! “Of course you can do it,” he replied casually. And because he believed in me, I somehow found the courage to run my first Self-Publishing DIY Course in November 2015. I’m now planning my fourth in February 2016 and although I still get butterflies every time beforehand, I must say it gets easier and easier every time.

So, whether it’s a small step you’re contemplating or a giant leap into the unknown, know this one thing: it is possible. No matter how pee-in-your-pants scary it may seem, it can be done. The Dummy Fairy, the same book I wrote off two years ago, is now one of my bestsellers on Amazon, with a redesign planned soon. Whatever the change you face, take heart and be encouraged. All it takes, as Peter Pan so aptly put it, is a bit of faith, trust and pixie dust.

Turn left, turn right

Early in the morning, my seven-year-old son came snuggling into my bed. “Mom,” he said earnestly, “why don’t cars run on electricity?”

“Well, some of them do,” I replied, trying to think of something more intelligent to say. We discussed the possibilities of solar panel-powered cars and just as I began to think I had handled his question quite well, he fired another one at me.

“Do self-drive cars still have steering wheels?” By now I was really wishing that I kept more up to date with technology news. Hadn’t there been an article on self-drive cars in TIME magazine a few months ago? Thankfully, my drama improvisation skills kicked in, but I was nevertheless relieved when my other son, aged five, woke up and took his older brother’s place in the bed. At least his questions I could probably answer.

“Mom, what colour do you get when you mix blue with green?” he wanted to know, followed closely by, “What colour do you get when you mix brown with black?” It’s staggering, really, isn’t it, how differently we are wired. One boy wants to know the latest motoring trends (come to think of it, his first word was “car”); the other wants to know about blending colours. Technical, analytical, left-brained versus dreamy, artistic right-brained.

This early-morning encounter with my two boys highlighted for me the different way we approach life based on which side of the brain we feel more comfortable inhabiting. Of course, most of us are not strictly left-brained or right-brained: we use both hemispheres of our brains depending on the task at hand, like identifying faces and shapes (right brain) or doing a Maths sum (left brain). But a growing number of theorists believe that many people lean on one side of their brain more than the other, which gives them a particular set of characteristics. Enter Son 1 and Son 2 as living proof of this.

At a writing workshop with the inimitable SA author Helen Brain in early October, we were asked to do an exercise involving the right brain. Helen instructed us to switch off the inner-critic left brain, chiding us when we use the same word twice in a paragraph or correcting our faulty grammar. Instead, she asked us to write free-flow from the right side of our brains – basically, whatever popped into our heads after she’d read the topic. Some participants were baffled at first, but by the time we’d started our second right-brain exercise, we had all got the hang of it and were enjoying the liberating sensation of writing with no limits. What came as a rude shock for me was the third exercise, which called on us to write with both the left and right sides of our brains. Suddenly the words which earlier had gushed out, slowed down to a trickle. Writing felt awkward, painful even. By the end of the 20 minutes, I realised I’d written far less than I had for the other two exercises.

Should writing (or any other artistic pursuit, for that matter) flow from only one side of your brain? I’m not sure. I do think writing from the right-hand side of your brain is easier, but then again, if what you’re writing doesn’t make logical sense, is it any good? I believe there is some left-brain activity involved in plotting your book, making sure the highs and lows happen in the right places. (Helen illustrated this beautifully by acting out an epic tennis duel between Tangy, the orange teddy-bear, and Serena Williams. Make the odds heavily stacked against your protoganist, she urged, and raise the stakes by giving her something worth fighting for, with enough disappointments along the way to make her eventual triumph so satisfying.) Once you’ve got the right structure in place (left brain), you can then let your creativity take over (right brain), filling in all the twirly details that add drama and emotion to your story.

Both the conversations with my boys and Helen’s writing workshop made me appreciate the wonderful way in which our brain has been created – that each side offers a unique perspective in viewing the world and that we need both halves working together, as in a marriage, to make up the whole. If you’d like to do a fun online test to see which side of the brain you use most, go here. I was quite astounded to find out I’m exactly halfway down the middle!

Book launch blast off

Gazing out at a sea of faces at the Book Lounge on Saturday 30July, I couldn’t help but feel a tingle of excitement. This was the moment that I had been keenly anticipating – for almost two years! – finally having The Lemon Tree published. It was incredibly special to have the warm reassurance of so many friends, both new and old, as well as my family there. To everyone who came, a thousand thank you’s! I hope you enjoyed the reading, Wendy’s drawing lesson and the cake afterwards. And for those of you who showed your support through your messages and encouraging words, I am likewise forever grateful.

Here’s what the reviewers are saying:

This is the story of a typical South African home on a rainy day… and Gogo (granny) calls the children, who are dancing outdoors in the refreshing rain, to come inside and make pancakes. Turns out it takes a village to make a plate of pancakes. First they discover that they have no flour, so they take some fresh lemons to the neighbour as a gift. Of course the neighbour asks terribly politely, if there is anything they would like in exchange for the gift, and so the children return home with some flour… and then they need eggs, and milk as well… and (spoiler alert) by the time they have shared their lemons with the neighbours and received the necessary flour, eggs and milk, they realise that they don’t have any lemons left to have with their sugar and cinnamon pancakes. The story is delightful, and the illustrations have a very magical feel to them, bright and busy… there is lots to look at, to keep children of all ages lingering a little longer on each page. It is so good to discover a story that includes so much of our local culture. In order to develop a cultural literacy, children surely need to be immersed in books from their own culture. I love that the book doesn’t have, what is often a not so secretly hidden “educational” agenda… it is a good story and a fun story and one that will enhance the joy of reading for many, many children. – www.se7en.org.za

‘How often do we read about bluebells and foxes and beavers to our children instead of things that are familiar to them?’ says author Katherine Graham. Her latest book, The Lemon Tree, is a really sweet story about making pancakes with Gogo with beautiful illustrations by Wendy Paterson. Our family loved being at the launch of The Lemon Tree at The Book Lounge

last month and I listed it as one of my ‘Best Buys for my Black Kids – Heart Mamas’ Guide for Adoptive Families.’ I was freshly reminded that representations matters when Kira looked at the cover pic and said, ‘Mom, that’s me!’. We also have a little lemon tree in our garden that has started bearing fruit and so I think it’s time for pancakes… – www.heartmamablog.co.za

 

 

At last! The Lemon Tree is here

Publishing a book is a bit like having a baby. There’s the moment of conception, when the idea of the story first takes root. Then there’s the brooding over your idea as it develops and starts to grow limbs, all in the safe darkness of the womb. At last it appears on paper, but even then it will be months (or sometimes years) before it actually sees the light of day.

There’s so much that goes into a picture book that most readers take for granted. Illustrations take forever – in fact, this is probably the hardest part of the process. (Thank goodness I’m a writer, so I don’t have to struggle with hours of drawing, redrawing and painting!) You have to exercise incredible patience as your words get edited, arranged on the page and married with the images.

And then – wonder of wonders! – the front cover is revealed and you feel like an expectant mom who’s had a sneak peak at her baby with the help of an ultrasound. You want to do back flips in the garden, but of course it’s still not time for your baby to be delivered.

Then finally, finally – when you’d almost forgotten something significant was on its way – you get an e-mail from your publisher headed with the magical words “marketing plan”. Then you see the date and you know – yes, there can be no doubt now – that this book is about to pop out into the world.

And so, after months of waiting, I’m bursting with excitement to see the fruit of my and others’ labours come into being. The Lemon Tree, published by Penguin Random Struik and illustrated by well-known South African artist Wendy Paterson, will hit the shelves sometime in the first week of July 2016. Woohoo! It’s simply thrilling.

The Lemon Tree tells the story of Lungi and Sipho who are sent by their gogo into the rain one day to find the missing ingredients they need to make pancakes. The fruit of their lemon tree comes in handy to barter with their neighbours in this tale of African ubuntu and sharing, with a delicious twist at the end.

An idea which came to me so gently, like a perfectly formed bubble, on a wet winter’s afternoon, will now be a bound book with colour pictures which children can clutch in their little hands and pore over while their mommy or daddy or favourite aunt or granny reads to them. It is a little mini-miracle and one for which I am especially grateful.

For those of you who live in Cape Town, you are welcome to attend the launch at the Book Lounge on 30 July at 11am where I’ll be acting out some scenes from the book and Wendy will be coordinating the craft exercise. There’ll also be lemon cake for those of you needing to indulge your sweet tooth. Just be sure to email booklounge@gmail.com to RSVP.

And, as a special treat, I’ll be giving away The Lemon Tree to five lucky readers (thank you, Penguin Random Struik!). All you have to do is “like” my Facebook page and sign up for my free newsletter at the bottom of this page to stand a chance to win. Good luck!

At last! The Lemon Tree is (almost) here

Publishing a book is a bit like having a baby. There’s the moment of conception, when the idea of the story first takes root. Then there’s the brooding over your idea as it develops and starts to grow limbs, all in the safe darkness of the womb. At last it appears on paper, but even then it will be months (or sometimes years) before it actually sees the light of day.

There’s so much that goes into a picture book that most readers take for granted. Illustrations take forever – in fact, this is probably the hardest part of the process. (Thank goodness I’m a writer, so I don’t have to struggle with hours of drawing, redrawing and painting!) You have to exercise incredible patience as your words get edited, arranged on the page and married with the images.

And then – wonder of wonders! – the front cover is revealed and you feel like an expectant mom who’s had a sneak peak at her baby with the help of an ultrasound. You want to do back flips in the garden, but of course it’s still not time for your baby to be delivered.

Then finally, finally – when you’d almost forgotten something significant was on its way – you get an e-mail from your publisher headed with the magical words “marketing plan”. Then you see the date and you know – yes, there can be no doubt now – that this book is about to pop out into the world.

And so, after months of waiting, I’m bursting with excitement to see the fruit of my and others’ labours come into being. The Lemon Tree, published by Penguin Random Struik and illustrated by well-known South African artist Wendy Paterson, will hit the shelves sometime in the first week of July 2016. Woohoo! It’s simply thrilling.

The Lemon Tree tells the story of Lungi and Sipho who are sent by their gogo into the rain one day to find the missing ingredients they need to make pancakes. The fruit of their lemon tree comes in handy to barter with their neighbours in this tale of African ubuntu and sharing, with a delicious twist at the end.

An idea which came to me so gently, like a perfectly formed bubble, on a wet winter’s afternoon, will now be a bound book with colour pictures which children can clutch in their little hands and pore over while their mommy or daddy or favourite aunt or granny reads to them. It is a little mini-miracle and one for which I am especially grateful.

For those of you who live in Cape Town, you are welcome to attend the launch at the Book Lounge on 30 July at 11am where I’ll be acting out some scenes from the book and Wendy will be coordinating the craft exercise. There’ll also be lemon cake for those of you needing to indulge your sweet tooth. Just be sure to email booklounge@gmail.com to RSVP.

And, as a special treat, I’ll be giving away The Lemon Tree to five lucky readers (thank you, Penguin Random Struik!). All you have to do is “like” my Facebook page and sign up for my free newsletter at the bottom of this page to stand a chance to win. Good luck!

Digging deeper – seeking and finding

“Curiosity killed the cat.” I heard that a lot as I was growing up. It was an expression that didn’t quite make sense to me, although I could tell by implication that curiosity was not such a great quality. Not if it killed a cat, that is.

Marco Sarli, flickr.com

Why is it that something that is really part of being human – having a natural sense of “What’s this?” when we encounter something different or unusual – is frowned on at the very time in our lives when we are most open to new experiences? I remember how irked I was when a relative remarked that my eldest son must stop being so inquisitive. I wanted to jump up and give the person a good shaking. What is so wrong with being inquisitive, I wanted to know. In the end, I let it go with a half-hearted protest.

But really, now that I come to think of it, entire professions are based on curiosity. Science, for instance. Or astronomy. Discovering new phenomena in nature or cures for diseases. Those are good things, right? And take me. I’m a journalist. Well, a recovering one, actually. I would never have learnt half the things I did in my career without a healthy dose of curiosity.

I remember a press conference with the former (and arguably best) South African finance minister, Trevor Manuel. He was talking about “building capacity” at municipalities. I had no idea what that meant, so I asked him. He explained it meant helping municipalities who were struggling to get their affairs in order. Much clearer than “building capacity”, not so?

If we don’t allow our curiosity to ask the right questions, we’ll never find out the real answers. I’m reminded of Moses and the burning bush. God spoke to him from the bush, but only after Moses went closer to examine it. He was curious. A bush that’s burning, yet not being consumed – huh? How does that work? And then God asks him to take off his sandals – to humble himself and come forward, and he does.

Take off your shoes. That makes me think of how much information we take in through our senses – through touch, in particular. Ever tried doing Pilates with your shoes on? It’s not much fun. When you take your shoes off, you’ll find the exercises come more easily, your body becomes more supple and lithe. My favourite is walking on dew-laden grass barefoot. Or beach sand sinking through your toes.

I, for one, will not be discouraging my children to be inquisitive. The British educator Charlotte Mason, who has an enormous following among homeschoolers around the world, said that teachers should nurture a child’s inherent curiosity because it makes learning much easier and more pleasurable.

Marisa Watts, flickr.com

My dad was a great example. Whenever we came to him with a question as kids, he’d say, “Look it up.” It may have been an unfamiliar word or an incident in history. Then we’d sigh loudly (although that didn’t move him) and flick through the pages of the dictionary or encyclopedia to find what we were after. He didn’t just leave it at that, he’d ask us afterwards if we understood and we’d then debate the various meanings of the word or interpretations of the historical event. He taught us to go deeper, stretch ourselves, keep learning, keep growing. “Seek and ye shall find” was his maxim.

It’s for that very reason that you won’t hear the expression, “Curiosity killed the cat” in our house. Curiosity probably saved the cat, or at least helped it to find its dinner. And anyway, a cat has nine lives, after all, doesn’t it?

Pantoum pleasure

Our monthly writers’ groups are held over steaming mugs of coffee and tea, plenty of chitchat and oatmeal muffins. Through them, I’ve been exposed to types of writing I’m not familiar with. Carri, one of our group members, is a gifted poet which shows through in her prose – wonderfully delicate and precise. She has introduced me to the pantoum, a kind of poem that feels like a merry-go-round because certain lines repeat themselves and then you end up with the same line you started with.

She’s clearly started a trend because the last time we met both Kundai and I both had pantoums of our own to share. Let me start off by introducing you to the form by one done by the expert hand of Cathy Eden, our writing coach.

NIGHT SKIES

By Cathy Eden

Look up at the night sky, my father said.

Know where you come from and where you belong.

See Orion and Sirius wheel overhead;

The brilliant expanse plays a faint cosmic song.

Know where you come from and where you belong

If you are to make sense of this life on the earth.

The brilliant expanse plays a faint cosmic song.

Star tunes hum your history and reason for birth.

If you are to make sense of this life on the earth,

Be happy, be kind, find purpose and love.

Star tunes hum your history and reason for birth.

Be conscious and know: as below, so above.

Be happy, be kind, find purpose and love.

Some days will be storm-tossed, burdened with strife;

Be conscious and know: as below, so above.

Hold your course, even more, to the wonder of life.

Some days will be storm-tossed, burdened with strife,

See Orion and Sirius wheel overhead;

Hold your course, even more, to the wonder of life.

Look up at the night sky, my father said.

By reading this, you’ve probably noticed that line two and four of each stanza are repeated in the following one. It’s quite a tidy structure because by the time you get to the last stanza, you also repeat lines three and one of your first stanza, so everything gets tied up with a neat bow. Let’s take a look at this delightfully quirky pantoum by Carri.

Eccentricity

By Carri Kuhn

That old lady next door

What is it about her?

It’s the hats, yes that’s what it is,

and all those cats.

What is it about her

hats? They’re full of feathers,

and all those cats

in the front windows.

Hats, they’re full of feathers

and fake yellow flowers

in the front. Windows,

a garden full of weeds

and fake yellow flowers.

It’s the hats, yes that’s what. She is

a garden full of weeds.

That old lady next door.

Kundai came up with her own beautiful offering, quite lyrical and mysterious. She hasn’t titled it, but I think if we were to call it “Pink” or “To My Daughter”, it might help you to understand the meaning a bit better. Here it is.

Untitled

By Kundai Williams

She carries half the sky.

Her joy and laughter is a gift like rain on parched earth.

Their salvation lies in her choices

But do they know, have they learnt.

Her joy and laughter is a gift like rain on parched earth

Cleansing the wound before it festers.

But do they know, have they learnt

Instead of rushing her to the edge their destruction.

Cleansing the wound before it festers?

What is required, how much and how long.

Instead of rushing her to the edge their destruction

At what point will we ask why.

What is required how much and how long

Their, salvation lies in her. Choices,

At what point. Will they ask why

She carries half the sky.

As I’m sharing these pantoums, I’ve just noticed that Carri’s and Kundai’s only have four stanzas, whereas mine and Cathy’s have five. I suppose you can choose how long you want the pantoum to be. Whether you want it to rhyme (in an “ABAB” rhyme scheme) is also up to you. What I love about this form is that ideas get reinforced through repetition, but each time the line comes up it shifts meaning slightly because of its different placing and the other new thoughts that contextualise it. Here’s my offering. I hope these pantoums inspire you to try your hand at this unique form of poetry.

Trading Places

By Katherine Graham

I’ve looked at that picture all day and it’s skew.

I must fix it, put it straight, make it right.

What I really need is something to look at that’s new.

Wish I could see the beach or a field in dappled light.

I must fix it, put it straight, make it right.

You must keep up the standards, my mom always said.

Wish I could see the beach or a field in dappled light.

Trying to keep everything tidy is hurting my head.

You must keep up the standards, my mom always said.

I wish the mess didn’t bother me so much, but it does.

Trying to keep everything tidy is hurting my head.

What did I say I must I do again? My mind’s a fuzz.

I wish the mess didn’t bother me so much, but it does.

Some days I could lie in bed the whole time.

What did I say I must do again? My mind’s a fuzz.

The hours crawl by without reason or rhyme.

Some days I could lie in bed the whole time.

What I really need is something to look at that’s new.

The hours crawl by without reason or rhyme.

I’ve looked at that picture all day and it’s skew.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may

I don’t often write poetry, unless the mood takes me, although I’m realizing more and more the benefit it has on your prose. In 2014, I signed up for a free online course given by the University of Iowa International Writing Program called How Writers Write Fiction.

The first week’s exercise involved writing a haiku. Author Robert Siegel gave this advice: “The important thing to remember [about a haiku] is that it is short and I like to think of it as a single breath … Write something that you could read out loud in a single breath.”

Siegel encouraged us to use poetry like the haiku as a springboard for writing fiction. The great thing about the haiku is that it forces you to use language sparingly to create an arresting image, like this one from the great poet Basho: “Felling a tree and seeing the cut end – tonight’s moon.”

Inspired by this approach, I came up with my own haiku: “An egg sizzling in butter. Sunrise and toast. The start of a new day.” It’s funny – just those few words conjured up an image for me of a bachelor living in a high-rise apartment, greeting the new day with his fried egg and toast. Immediately I felt like continuing the story. Who was this man? What boring job was he going off to do? And what catalytic event would catapult him into an adventure?

A fellow writer often turns to poetry to refuel her creative juices. She says from a neuro-scientific perspective, creative thinking happens when your neural pathways are open, searching for connections, unlike intelligence which is more like a super highway in the brain. She says her best poems come to her when she just allows her mind to receive them, so to speak.

As a writer, I’d like to think divine inspiration has some role to play. Take my latest poem, which I wrote in response to a prompt from the Society for Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators’ (SCBWI) monthly newsletter. Writers were asked to write “a true scene from your own life that inspires you” in 100 words or less.

I can’t say exactly where it came from, but this is the poem that resulted:

Sprinkle

Droplets scatter, misting the air.

Two bare bottoms,

Their pale flesh flashing against the lawn’s lush backdrop.

“More, Mommy, more!”

Imp-like, their bodies twist over the spray of water.

Zig-zagging, they scamper –

Carefree, untroubled, untouched.

Time stretches on boundlessly.

Sealed in this moment,

They are frozen in my mind.

Today the garden is just the same.

Bougainvillea shouts purple in the corner.

But the smooth glistening skin is gone,

Replaced by stubbly chins and hairy chests

And wives and families of their own far away.

Only the memory lingers,

Struggling for life like a butterfly beating against the wind.

After writing this, I was in tears. What had started out as describing the innocence of two small boys frolicking in the garden sprinkler had turned into the loneliness of empty-nest syndrome. That’s what happens when you start painting a word picture – it often goes off in a direction that you hadn’t planned. It takes on a life of its own. And I suppose that’s the beauty of using poetry as a catalyst to pull you into a scene, leaving you flabbergasted at the result.

If you’re a writer, does poetry help you climb into a fictional world? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Rewriting South Africa’s past

Anyone who grew up under apartheid had the misfortune of having a very slanted view of history foisted upon them. As Walter Benjamin famously put it, “History is written by the victors.” Growing up in the Eighties in South Africa, the victors of course were the National Party, so we had our fair share of Die Groot Trek, the perilous journey made by the Boers in the Cape in the early 1800s to the country’s “uninhabited” interior.

Curiously, we never studied the Anglo-Boer War, though – probably because the Nats didn’t want to draw our attention to any simmering tensions between the two white groups in SA. And we didn’t get enough of the history of the indigenous people who occupied the land long before Europeans showed up – the San (Bushmen) and KhoiKhoi, which is a pity.

The Battle of Isandlwana by Charles Edwin Fripp

However, we did cover Shaka Zulu and the Anglo-Zulu War, which was by far my favorite part of the history curriculum. In particular, I was impressed by the battle of Isandlwana, which the Zulus won against all odds, their assegais and cow-hide shields defeating soldiers armed with rifles and defying the might of the British Empire.

I suspect that the brand of history being fed to young minds in government schools today is also biased. Now that the tables have turned, the ruling ANC will want to highlight the heroism of their banned leaders who struggled against the injustice of apartheid. Kids in high school are probably sick of “the Struggle”, just like we were of Die Groot Trek.

Pierneef’s interpretation of Die Groot Trek

Not that I’m saying that either of these topics shouldn’t be covered in the national curriculum, but what’s important here is how history is framed. Are we seeing things from more than one perspective? Are we trying to look at the narrative of history without imposing a particular worldview on it?

I like the way veteran journalist Max du Preez sees history as storytelling. His book, Of Warriors, Lovers and Prophets makes fascinating reading. In fact, it doesn’t read like non-fiction at all. It reads like a novel. In it, you’ll find out about the first South African to travel overseas (Coree, a Khoikhoi chief from the Cape who visited London in 1613, even attending one of Shakespeare’s plays – imagine that!), how the San formed a “pact” with lions to avoid being eaten and how many of the predictions by the Boer Nostradamus, Siener van Rensburg, came true.

Mohlomi by Mike Mignolia

But the story I liked the most was about the African Socrates, Mohlomi, meaning “the founder” or “builder” in seSotho. This was one of the areas of history that was completely neglected in my schooling – we never learnt anything about the Sothos or their great chief, Moshoeshoe. I had to do my own research of their history when writing my book about a magical Basotho pony, Moonshine.

But coming back to Mohlomi or the African Socrates, as Du Preez calls him. He was born in 1720 and was known as a great philosopher, prophet and healer. “Towards the end of his life he instructed and anointed a young man who would later change the face of South Africa through his wisdom, diplomacy and extraordinary nation-building,” writes Du Preez. That man, of course, was Moshoeshoe, the founder of the Basotho nation.

As a young man, Mohlomi had a vision in which he was instructed to “rule by love and wisdom and look on his people as men and brothers”. He went on to become a respected chief who spent much of his time travelling, healing and counselling people. In many ways, Mohlomi was a kind of Gandhi, exercising great self-control and enjoying philosophical pursuits. He believed that conscience was man’s only guide: “Conscience is the faithful monitor of man; she invariably shows him what is his duty,” he reportedly said.

But perhaps Mohlomi’s greatest achievement was the positive influence he had on Moshoeshoe, who regarded him as his mentor. When Moshoeshoe was first brought to Mohlomi, he was a troubled teenager, angry and aggressive. He had a burning desire to be a powerful chief and thought the best way to rule people was by fear. Mohlomi gently corrected him, saying, “A chief becomes and remains a chief only by the people’s will, recognition and support.”

King Moshoeshoe by Eugene Casalis

Over the next three days, Mohlomi counselled the young Moshoeshoe, sharing his personal philosophy with him. Finally, as he bid the teenager farewell, Mohlomi prophesied over him, declaring that Moshoeshoe would indeed become a great ruler and urging him to rule justly and be a friend and helper of those in need. “The land you shall rule should be a home to travellers and fugitives,” he said to his protegee.

Little did Mohlomi know how his prediction would come true. From 1820 onwards, the Lifiqane (in seSotho) or Mfecane (in Nguni languages) began, the great upheavel that resulted from clans fleeing the onslaught of the Zulus led by Shaka. “If [Moshoeshoe] had not stabilised central South Africa at that time of war and misery, the country’s history would probably have been a lot different – and more violent,” writes Du Preez in his book. “He could quite rightly be called the Nelson Mandela of the 19th century.”

This story left me inspired to unearth more gems in our country’s past. As a fellow writer recently remarked, there are so many stories in South Africa begging to be told, we can’t just sit back and wait for foreigners to pick them up. We need to tell them ourselves. Realizing that these stories are more fascinating than any TV mini-series will go a long way to helping us look at history in a new light.

For more about Mohlomi, read Max du Preez’s paper, A Model of Pre-Colonial African Leadership.