Sometimes, but not very often, we stumble upon a gem previously, and perhaps intentionally, overlooked. A gem murky and raw awaiting its founder to discover its core radiance; that magnificence, that alluring, loud, profound, and appealing luminescence; waiting to come through with care and patience, waiting, like all matters of growth, to be quickly discovered. This is what I found within the overly worked diamond mine of the novel forty acres by screen writer/novelist Dwayne Alexander Smith.
At the start, Forty Acres was a rough read, not complicated, just rough. Its elements, plot, sequence and mechanics screamed newly published writer of this genre (Smith is a screenwriter). The characters were remnants of many we've seen before, and the setting and storyline touched not so subtly on an African-American social/religious organization headed by a charismatic, small stature demigod, both not well received by a plethora of (non-African descendent) Americans. The similarities are immediate unless you're not aware. But therein lies the precious beauty and the gem in the rough.
Smith plays on the subtleties, like an mad scientist who has created a cerebral game of cat and mouse .The novel, a thriller, is about a young Queens attorney who wins a case against a seasoned legal veteran. The story drags along for the first 50-75 pages, setting the stage for what would eventually become a hell of a ride. Martin, the winning young attorney, is invited to attend a "rafting" expedition with a group of powerful and highly respected African-American men. This, as is the hopes of his "sponsor", will lead to membership into what can only be described as a secret society. And so the adventure begins. A private jet, several exaggerated yet colorfully derisive characters, diversion, relocation, river crossings, isolation, and conniving all blend into a cacophony of manipulative events that causes the reader to ask, "Wait... what just happened?" But, as if that is not enough to drive a fully loaded narrative, the author decides that the addition of a reversal of fortune would be ideal to toss into the chronicle. There is a build up to these events and one would not see them if opting not to translate the innuendos.
The author opens the conflict with the gathering at the massive home of Dr. Kasim on the "plantation, " a place in the middle of nowhere flanked by beauty and grandeur; a fantasy locale where every need is met and every call is answered. Smith, for whatever reason, opts not to identify the type of doctor Dr. Kasim is, but alludes to several possibilities. Even the characters are stumped in identifying the areas of the doctor's terminal degree. Smith raises the level of tension between the men, hammering a wedge of doubt between them and building a common cord of discord and distrust, particularly against Martin. Soon the protagonist, Martin, whose wife long had her suspicions about his evasive and overly eager new comrades even before his pensive flight, witnesses the deep and dreadful secret of this multi-acre plot of land and those well-heeled men who are "life-long" members. Slowly, Martin begins the latent connection of the proverbial puzzle, that the "help" are all white, overly accommodating, evasive, and profoundly paranoid. They are automaton. They are broken. They are product; merchandise no greater than fruit plucked from a tree. A few pages deeper into the story and the theme is clear-- vassalege steals, trumps and is the annihilation of privilege. Martin's curiosities expand and his attorney training revs into full gear. From here the story becomes a skating rink of tag. Much happens consequently. The writing takes a slight dive and the story becomes a jumpy array of make believe; sometimes too surreal for even modern television. The story becomes disjointed as if the author is looking for something to thicken the plot and many conflicts that could turn the direction of the story and put the reader on the edge of his seat are quickly and readily solved without the deep plunging drama that one hopes for (this point shows that Smith has a greater comfort for writing for the screen). Yet cleverly he leaves us on the last scene of the novel, asking questions, leaving us dangling, looking for the next chapter that we eagerly await but really secretly hope never materializes; that he lets the story rest in this wrenching uncertainty.
My feelings were mixed. I was entertained and sometimes, unfortunately, disappointed. The author has skills and I rooted for him to apply them expeditiously and with omnipotence, but like an athlete who is facing a seasoned opponent, he held back on well honed skills not wanting to give his all although he was right on the cusp of a knock out. I held a firm position on disliking the novel but found that magical gem within the common stone. I applaud Dwayne Alexander Smith. He left me in a cool mood, but still donning my miners lamp looking for more precious gems. 8/9/2015