EXTRACT: Firepool

In this extract from his collection of personal essays, HEDLEY TWIDLE explores the haunting allure of the highway.

Hedley Twidle
Photography by Nick Mulgrew

The raised carriageways of the N1/N2 bisect and cauterize all the longitudinal avenues that once led down to the water’s edge. The Foreshore is a place where the most overbearing, least self-doubting elements of twentieth-century modernism were combined with racial capitalism; today the result is acres of wind-tormented car park. It is an example too of the necrotic or infectious quality of tarmac. Building more space for traffic simply begets more traffic: the ‘induced demand’ theory of road usage. And if you have raised carriageways for cars in the middle of a city, the only option for the space below them becomes more cars; it is too noisy to do much else, hence more car parks. At the same time, there is something intriguing about these uncertain, unincorporated zones. This is an area where city planners have not managed to solve the errors of city planners before them, where the utopian visions of modernist and ‘rational’ city planning are so entirely undercut, broken off mid-argument, like the other four bridge stubs concealed hereabouts.

Looking back at proud, colour-saturated postcards of newly built British highways from the 1950s, Moran writes about how sad and strange they now seem: ‘Ford Populars and Triumph Heralds with the shiny newness of die-cast models, dotted around those impossibly empty motorways.’ These weirdly haunting images, he goes on, are a reminder that highways ‘are beginning to acquire a cultural history, but of a rather unsettling kind that evades the secure meanings of the heritage industry or the easy consolations of nostalgia’. A highway operates too fast for contemplation and affection; you normally experience it only when moving, never from a still point. But it still carries an elusive kind of pastness.

It may no longer be celebrated, but as a physical artifact the modern highway remains powerfully photogenic: its geometrically curved masses of light and shade; the powerful splay of an overpass as it hits the top of the frame. I went around clipping bits out of this urban fabric with a phone camera while Sean looked for members of Sea Power, a community of Tanzanian migrants who watch the port, trying to stow away on container ships, and who have covered the crash barriers and concrete retaining walls with (as he put it) ‘wistful sea-drunk slogans’: SEA NEVER DRY, ESCAPE FROM CAPE, TODAY AFRICA TOMORROW YUROPE. He told me the advice given to him by one of the community’s most well-travelled stowaways: that you must take a piece of metal with you, so that when your water runs out, you can begin tapping on the side of the ship, and be discovered. If you forget the piece of metal, you will likely die in the hold.

Before meeting the stowaway community, Sean writes, he viewed the docks and ocean beyond as a kind of oil painting, a changeable canvas of light and water. But now, after years of speaking to Sea Power, he saw only ‘bent palisade struts, tunnels, portals, hatches – not flaws just in a postcard perfect view but rents in a great system of human controls. And I see the human nobodies crawling through them, or lying curled up in dark spaces.’

Firepool: Experiences in an abnormal world is published by Kwela Books. Read our review here.

BOOK CLUB: Firepool

Firepool, Hedley Twidle’s outstanding new collection of essays, is an exquisitely observed snapshot of contemporary South Africa and a deeply personal journey into the mind of its author. By GARETH LANGDON.

In an age of social media, blogs and easy self-publication, the idea of the personal essay (and indeed, essays in general) has become almost repulsive to me. As Jia Tolentino opined in The New Yorker earlier this year the genre, which came to be dominated by whiny 20-something white women with a MacBook and a Lena Dunham poster on their wall, has largely faded away leaving in its wake a scorched earth of forgotten blogs and silenced millennials.

However unpopular it may be, the essay provides a unique lens through which to view the world. A good, well-written essay situates the author in the world in a particular, subjective way – providing a personal spin on a set of ideas or an argument that novels sometimes can’t do. In Hedley Twidle’s new collection of essays, Firepool, he does exactly that.

When I took Twidle’s English classes as a first-year student at the University of Cape Town, I found his teaching always engaged students in a way that was more casual, more inviting, and more human than the more formal lectures I was accustomed to elsewhere in the department. Twidle has done a good job of achieving this same comfortableness in his essays, without losing any of the intellectual rigour or political punch so necessary in a country as fraught as South Africa.

The collection moves, somewhat chronologically, from the author’s days as a young pupil at boarding school in KwaZulu-Natal, through to his years as a student at Oxford, his years as a lecturer at UCT, his personal experiences travelling through the country and some views on the contemporary politics of South Africa. The collection is named after an essay about the tragicomic “firepool” saga in which President Jacob Zuma used an exorbitant amount of taxpayer money to pay for additions to his private homestead in Nkandla. He claimed the lavish pool area, complete with auditorium style seating, was a “safety precaution” – the water there to be used in case of a fire breaking out among the many thatched rondavels of the homestead. The joke was aided by the performance of firemen pumping water from the pool to demonstrate its usefulness in an emergency. Twidle deals eloquently with this issue, and what it really says about our country and its leaders, in the final essay of the collection.

But “Firepool” is not a political opinion piece. It is not a criticism of South Africa and its many faults, nor is it explicitly an examination of the country’s many good qualities. What made “Firepool” an enjoyable read for me was how it placed the author’s personal experiences of the country in a broader national context. Novels, as Twidle notes, are protected by the golden rule of literary criticism: “This is not a book about the author, don’t read into it”. But the essay removes that veil entirely and in fact embraces the personal as a central part of its conceit.

Twidle is at his most deft in an essay about his hike along the Otter Trail, a five-day hike along South Africa’s coast. One of Twidle’s party is unashamedly racist; the essay carefully exposes the flaws in this man’s arguments, and the many frustrations the author suffers when engaging with him. It concludes amicably, noting the humanity of each attendee on the hike, despite their flaws. For Twidle, alongside a necessary self-awareness, is the empathy required to engage effectively in post-apartheid South African discourse – to be human in the face of hurt across racial divides.

The majority of the essays in the collection run in this fashion, placing the author in a seemingly typical situation – on campus, on a hike, writing or discussing literature, or thinking about his own position as a writer and teacher in South Africa – but manage also to look inward, relating the external to the internal. This kind of subjectivity speaks volumes of Twidle’s self-awareness and his desire to speak up and speak back to the national condition, something which is sorely needed in a society that all too easily loses perspective. Sucked up in the news cycle, from disaster to disaster, we can so easily forget about human emotion and its relationship to political experience, and its important role in the creation of a better future.

Without delving into each essay in detail here, I would go so far as to say that as a snapshot of contemporary South Africa, and as a deeply personal journey into the mind of the author, Firepool stands out amongst its peers. Twidle shows that it’s time to wrench the essay medium from the hands of the millennials, and bring it back to the bestseller shelves. For the right reasons.

Firepool is published by Kwela Books. Read an extract from the book here

The talented mister mystery


People hide their scaredness, I don’t know why, but we all do. Maybe because we see people being brave in movies and stuff and we want to kind of be like them.

The decision to write anonymously is sometimes met with scorn. Critics snort and say “what are you hiding from? If you really believe what you’re saying, why not say it as yourself?” I had never read an anonymously authored novel before One Man, but I have more respect for the author now, and I fully understand the decision. There is power in anonymity.

One Man traces the events over a short period – probably about a week – in the lives of six protagonists. Characters get their own chapters. The overleaf tells us that Gwaza, an escaped convict on a revenge quest, is our lead. His chapters are written in a mix of poor English and Zulu, with some jail slang thrown in. The novel opens with Gwaza violently removing the tongue of an enemy in jail, and feeding it back to him. Not kid’s stuff, by any means. Gwaza is in hot pursuit of the lawyer who put him away, herself facing the realities of the South African legal system as she watches criminal after criminal escape conviction for violent crimes. Her young daughter Kiki also features, her chapters expertly rendered in a childlike prose that betray a much more nuanced understanding of the world around her. She is smart, but she is also spoilt. The youngster is being cared for by Mira, a twenty-something Afrikaans white woman who struggles with her career prospects after being denied a place in medical school due to affirmative action policies. Mira’s father, Mr Du Toit, features too, a chain smoking, heavy drinking oom who tries to sabotage his business before it is taken over by a young black entrepreneur with “the right connections”. The cast of six is completed by Joseph, the Du Toit’s gardener, who is actually a fully qualified doctor himself, forced to leave his home of Zimbabwe due to the lack of work.

By the character list alone, you can begin to see what this novel is doing. Between the disgruntled white tween, the angry Afrikaans man, the convict, the immigrant and the spoiled young future leader, the diverse tapestry of South African stereotype is more than well-catered for. But while a knee-jerk response may be to discount this novel as another feeble attempt at exposing stereotypes – stereotypes we all know are wrong and grow tired of – such a reaction would be misguided.

The novel is adeptly written. Without context, I cannot congratulate the author for an amazing debut in terms of literary nous. Nor can I congratulate him or her on an artful rendering of each individual voice, since it could be that this single anonymous author is a group of people familiar with these character tropes and properly equipped to write them. The anonymity has a peculiar effect then – it forced me to read the novel as novel only. As words on a page weaved together to tell a story. The “author” is well and truly silent here, and all that we are left with is the character’s voices, entities unto themselves.

The experience of reading One Man was peculiar, but revelatory. Existing outside of context and with authorial intent inscrutable, the novel excels as both exposé of South African society and as a call to readers to work harder to change what we see as wrong. One Man reflects the sometimes exhausting tragi-comedy that is the state of our nation through its nature as an artefact untethered from the political, racial or ideological assumptions we might make if we knew of the author’s identity. It tells it like it is, and also how it could be. One Man challenges the preconceptions of what a South African novel should be, and what South Africa as a nation and young democracy looks like and could be. I was deeply moved by the novel’s events but I was also frightened by the accuracy and power that it had.

I fear going into more detail may reveal the plot and the novel’s power would be shattered for you. But if you haven’t read any South African literature in a while, One Man is a great place to start.

One Man is published by Kwela Books.

Things fall apart


Nathan Lucius is 31 years old. He lives in a flat in Tamboerskloof, Cape Town, he collects antique photographs which he uses to create his make-believe family tree, and he always sleeps with the light on. Why he does so is answered in the rest of Wasted, the new novel by Mark Winkler.

This is Winkler’s second novel, following An Exceptionally Simple Theory (of Absolutely Everything. It’s worlds — and not just suburbs — apart from its predecessor. Labelled a pop culture version of Crime and Punishment, Wasted is a meticulously crafted thriller-cum-trauma novel that explores broader themes of morality, responsibility, society and the human psyche.

Inspired by PostSecret, an American social project where members of the public submitted their most intimate secrets anonymously by postcard, Winkler set about creating a character with a similairly unfiltered, and stilted voice. The result is Nathan, our socially odd and unwholly formed protagonsist with a murky history that slowly emerges in piecemeal fashion as the novel progresses.

Nathan orbits a desaturated and gritty Cape Town alone and untethered, save for his surprisingly normal friendship with Madge, a faux-antique dealer suffering with terminal cancer; and a reluctant sexual relationship with with his neighbour, Mrs Du Toit. When Madge asks Nathan to end her suffering, he wants to help, but in so doing, begins to lose the very tenative grip he has on his insular world.

Time and events bend and blur under Winkler’s adept hand, the plot driven by the immediacy the terse sentence structure (free from conjunctions) creates. When the key revelations unfold, they are genuinely shocking in a forehead slapping kind of way, as we realise our noses were too closely pressed against the action to see the allusive pointers cleverly fragmented throughout the novel.

While we are not short of thrillers written by local ad men, or women, Winkler’s novel is satisfying clever, his character and plot pithy, elusive, sharp and captivating.

Wasted is published by Kwela.