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Archive for the ‘Feature’ Category

Fiction Friday: read chapter one of Vernon Head’s A Tree for the Birds

In this long-awaited follow-up to his international success, The Search for the Rarest Bird in the World, Vernon Head once again reveals his mastery of the genre of nature writing. This time with a novel, A Tree for the Birds. In this remarkable book, Head captivates and enchants us as he tells of the adventures of Chrisnelt, Chaminda and Pastor Kadazi as they navigate deep into the mysterious world of the Congo River, the Great Dancing Road.

This story of a boy’s quest contains an urgent ecological message: a plea to break down the boundaries that humans impose on the world and to reconnect with the eternal, life-sustaining cycles of nature. Head offers a novel of profound beauty. Set in the heart of Africa, this powerful story at the edge of damnation bends a reflection of all of us through the eyes of a birdwatcher who sees wings fly like escaping leaves on streams of eternal water and air for all.

The book reveals Head’s deep love for nature and his penetrating and startling way of seeing birds. This story will fascinate birdwatchers, twitchers, bird lovers and birders-in-training alike.

Chapter One

The rain came to Chrisnelt as the softest stars, large drops landing in the street of dust. His imagination took each drop into his heart, bouncing and glittering in every colour. He counted the seconds between drops. He counted the drops becoming muddy dents and swelling brown circles in the sand. The patterns were slow and rhythmical, a breathing thing of delight. He began to run in leaping arcs below the heavens, his little arms outstretched, his thin fingers splayed like feathers and his pink nails twinkling. Around the tree he went in gentle wetness toward happiness, as only seven-year-old boys can go. And his long shadow rippled upon footprints and across the old walls of rust in a tail of joy. He laughed, following the spoor-line of his best friend, who was no longer on the ground, but now high in the middle of the brightest mango tree.

The tree was the only greenness in that world of corrugated iron and homemade bricks the colour of burnt earth: the rancid hue of soils passed through the bowels of an insect.

A tropical street in the late afternoon is often cooler than a house in those parts. The mists from the River at the edge of the City found their way between houses, up alleyways, over roofs and into the wide streets, whereas houses simply held heat. And so it was always good to have a veranda: a place that gave shade and a wooden stool or two. There were intermittent verandas along the street. Each was fringed with palm fronds held on the arms of ancient treetrunks bleached like bones, standing rhythmically and pattering swathes of shadow here and there in the dust. Wood had become scarce, no longer coming from the forest, a forest that seemed to get further and further away with the passing of every season. All the houses were very low, some sagging, some swelling at the sides as the dry walls crumbled, like rising ribs revealing lungs.

Chrisnelt’s street was a typical street, his house a typical house, although one of the few to have a wooden deck below the overhang of the veranda, and the only house to host bats in the eaves near the front door, swinging like little black flags of welcome. The Malotikas loved bats, as they loved all wild things; it was just their way. Mainly, it was Mr Malotika’s way, since his youth far up the River. Along the house-fronts on both sides of the street lay concrete culverts filled with sewage, flowing with flies. Dogs drank occasionally from these edges, as did the little birds after bathing in hot sand that seemed to bubble. Below the house, buried like a corpse under the linoleum, lay the hard mud of a previous house made by unknown owners, and below that, the crushed pieces of a forest that was now charcoal.

Yet within the dirt, and deep inside all the browns – as with anything fertile – lay hope and life, and the unknown. From a street of hardened sand near Chrisnelt’s house – a two-minute sprint for an energetic child with big feet and eyes filled with notions – a marvel of leaves had slowly pushed up to the sky, or so his father told him. The mango tree had arrived unobserved by almost everyone, a relic (all seeds are relics) from a meal once tossed as waste.

With unfathomable resilience, it had fought its way to the light, shaped by goodness, looking for a future away from the darkness cast by walls; avoiding rush hours of storming feet, dodging the sacks of charcoal dragged monthly by tired men to the sooty doorways, and bending deftly away from the wheels of wooden carts. Once it had been trampled by a stumbling drunk who vomited upon its first leaf, and twice pissed on by a dog. It always bounced back. It knew only to rise, and to continue rising, constant, instinctive, on the route that all trees take: the profound stretch toward the inevitable edge of the sky – or so Chrisnelt was told by his father. And as it went up, so it went down, great roots singing all the time as they drank, down into the vast depths that held the song of the River, which, in turn, held everything else. Eventually the tree grew beyond harm – higher than the tallest man, with a trunk fatter than any belly – and became part of the street: a wild thing from nature finding a place in the City of shading walls. Chrisnelt remembered this story very often.

Once, during a particularly hot summer, sitting under the tree with his best friend No, soft pollen fell on his feet. Then they heard whistles coming from above; undulating, battling within the grinding from old trucks, and under the honk of taxi-cars, and below the shrieks and moans of wandering people. The whistles came from inside the tree’s tiny flowers, and they made a poem, a private lullaby for this special boy and his friend. Chrisnelt and No seemed to be the only people to hear it: the buzzing wings of insects and the rattling legs of ants that shone like glass. The sprays of creamy flowers erupted in waterfalls right before their big gazes. Glistening creatures from the world of feelers, carapaces and pincers came to feed, playing on twirling leaves and dangling petals of scent, alive in all their senses. And everything swelled into bulbous green, blushing finally into red, becoming the gift of fruit.

Chrisnelt’s laughter became louder, intermittent giggles bursting out in between and here and there, every time he had a deep thought. He pranced and ran, being sure to plant each foot in the prints made by No. The summer raindrops – as it is in the tropics – continued to dance with him, bouncing and ululating. One by one they came down, some tickling his cheeks, some dribbling off his pointy chin, some hesitating, clinging to him like friends do. His thin shadow, and the thick shadow of the tree, held hands as he circled it again and again. He circled some more. Everything glistened. His wide eyes glowed. ‘I’m a bird and I’m looking for a tree!’ he said at the top of his voice.

No had loved birds since he could first crawl, watching them on the veranda in all their intricate colours. He would lie next to Chrisnelt there, spitting bits of masticated corn at the sparrows that looked like tiny toys, the birds hopping closer and closer, often sitting on his outstretched fingers, once even on his nose. No loved birds so much, he squeaked and chattered like them before he could talk. And when he could walk, he flapped like them too. Chrisnelt learned to love them as well. He loved everything No loved. The love was wild and true like wilderness.

‘If you close your fingers tightly and point your arms, you can make wings and fly like a fast pigeon ah, with all its colours. And if you wiggle the tips you can dive like a sparrow,’ said No to Chrisnelt on a quiet day, watching a distant flock of white birds against a white cloud.

‘You can’t fly like me yet Chrisnelt ah, I have already taken off into the sky up here,’ said No (pronounced Noh, with the ‘h’ floating off the tongue). No always wanted to be first. Chrisnelt would have the idea, No would then take the lead. He was very brave. Chrisnelt would often hide behind that bravery. They had been neighbours since birth. They’d shared the adventure of standing for the first time, holding each other up, with a single gurgling cry. It had been a grand day back then for both families; the parents had clapped and the two boys had fallen into each other’s arms, the strong arms of No, the weak arms of Chrisnelt: four legs and one fat body of folds wobbling on the green linoleum floor.

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#SaveOurStories: Storied’s crowdfunding campaign is live!

 
 
Jacana Media presents Storied. The project aims to create a long-term impact of keeping African stories thriving and reaching worldwide audiences. Through your investment, Storied will raise the money to help publish more African fiction and poetry which will cater for a diverse reading community and audience scaling up sales margins which will be shared with investors.

As Jacana Media publisher, Bridget Impey, explains:

We came up with this idea of Storied, and Storied is going to be the mechanism for changing fiction publishing in this country; not just for us, but for writers, for other publishers, for everybody.

This is what started it all…
 


 


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Declassified: Apartheid profits – Who funded the National Party?

The apartheid state was at war. For two decades before 1994, while internal resistance grew, mandatory sanctions prohibited the sale of strategic goods and arms to South Africa.
The last white regime was confronted with an existential threat.

A global covert network of nearly 50 countries was constructed to counter sanctions. In complete secrecy, allies in corporations, banks, governments and intelligence agencies helped move cash, illegally supply guns and create the apartheid arms money machine. Whistleblowers were assassinated and ordinary people suffered.

This is an exposé of that machinery created in defence of apartheid and the people who made this possible: heads of state, arms dealers, aristocrats, plutocrats, senators, bankers, spies, journalists and members of secret lobby groups.

They were all complicit in a crime against humanity. Motivated by ideology or kinship most sought to simply profit from the war.

Many have until now relied on lingering silence to erase the uncomfortable truth.

This meticulously researched book lifts the lid on some of the darkest secrets of apartheid’s economic crimes, weaving together material collected in over two-dozen archives in eight countries with an insight into tens of thousands of pages of newly declassified documents.

Networks of state capture persist in our democratic political system because the past and present are interconnected. In forging its future a new generation needs to grapple with the persistent silence regarding apartheid-era economic crime and ask difficult questions of those who benefited from it.

This book provides the evidence and the motivation to do so.

Hennie van Vuuren is an activist, writer and Director of Open Secrets, focusing on accountability for economic crimes and human rights violations. He works from within civil society, challenging corruption and the abuse of power.

Open Secrets recently ran the following piece via the Daily Maverick as means to inform the public about the crimes committed as means to fund apartheid:

While researching the recently published book Apartheid Guns and Money: A Tale of Profit, Open Secrets collected approximately 40,000 archival documents from 25 archives in seven countries. This treasure trove contains damning details of the individuals and corporations that propped up apartheid and profited in return. Many of these documents were kept secret until now. Most remain hidden despite South Africa’s transition to democracy. Open Secrets believes that it is vital to allow the public to scrutinise the primary evidence. Here we invite you behind the scenes to look at the documents that informed the book.

The Archive for Contemporary Affairs, a four-storey brown facebrick building at the University of the Free State in Bloemfontein, is an unassuming place. Yet its 3.5km long shelves of files contain some of the shadiest secrets from South Africa’s past. Many of the National Party’s (NP) most prominent politicians sent their collections, including official NP documents, to this archive. There is no longer a National Party, and it is unclear whether anyone really wants to “own” this memory of oppression that delivered so much paperwork. It is nonetheless a national treasure worthy of far more attention by researchers from across the country.

Despite reading through hundreds of folders from PW Botha’s and FW de Klerk’s archives, the Open Secrets team never expected to be delivered a series of folders marked “National Party donations”. Out of the folders came the signed cheques, fawning letters of thanks and promises of anonymity that secretive party funding demands. Around 70 individual donors were identified in these pages.

The names in the folders? Some of South Africa’s most prominent businessmen, past and present, a few of whom we highlight. While the story of party finance is often revealed only through whispers, in this unassuming archive we had found indisputable documentary evidence. The letters featured here provide a glimpse into the complicity between big business and the oppressive apartheid regime that was, until now, kept secret.

Some donors were unsurprising, given their long-term complicity with the regime. In a letter written in 1988, FW de Klerk informed PW Botha of a R50,000 donation from Barlow Rand (now trading as the large conglomerate, Barloworld). De Klerk notes, “They prefer to keep their contribution confidential…” before stating that one of the companies directors, D.E. Cooper, would handle the donations. Barlow Rand was one of the chief suppliers of technology to the government. Between the 1960s and 1980s the corporation’s leadership sat on PW Botha’s Defence Advisory Board, all the while presenting itself as an enlightened opponent of apartheid. The two-faced nature of many of these corporations and their executives is a theme that runs throughout this collection.

Continue reading here.

Apartheid Guns and Money

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Hennie van Vuuren and Michael Marchant discuss seven key concepts in Apartheid Guns and Money

Apartheid Guns and MoneyThe apartheid state was at war. For two decades before 1994, while internal resistance grew, mandatory sanctions prohibited the sale of strategic goods and arms to South Africa.

The last white regime was confronted with an existential threat.

A global covert network of nearly 50 countries was constructed to counter sanctions. In complete secrecy, allies in corporations, banks, governments and intelligence agencies helped move cash, illegally supply guns and create the apartheid arms money machine. Whistleblowers were assassinated and ordinary people suffered.

This is an exposé of that machinery created in defence of apartheid and the people who made this possible: heads of state, arms dealers, aristocrats, plutocrats, senators, bankers, spies, journalists and members of secret lobby groups.

They were all complicit in a crime against humanity. Motivated by ideology or kinship most sought to simply profit from the war.

Many have until now relied on lingering silence to erase the uncomfortable truth.
 
This meticulously researched book lifts the lid on some of the darkest secrets of apartheid’s economic crimes, weaving together material collected in over two-dozen archives in eight countries with an insight into tens of thousands of pages of newly declassified documents.

Networks of state capture persist in our democratic political system because the past and present are interconnected. In forging its future a new generation needs to grapple with the persistent silence regarding apartheid-era economic crime and ask difficult questions of those who benefited from it.

This book provides the evidence and the motivation to do so.

Hennie van Vuuren is an activist, writer and Director of Open Secrets, focusing on accountability for economic crimes and human rights violations. He works from within civil society, challenging corruption and the abuse of power.

Here, Van Vuuren and Michael Marchant, a researcher at Open Secrets, expand on seven key concepts found in this remarkable book:

Secrecy breeds corruption

PW Botha’s apartheid government relied on legislated secrecy to shield his government’s economic crimes from scrutiny. In this context even government oversight bodies were prohibited from seeing into the arms procurement world, corruption thrived. Journalists were shut down and persecuted, and the public interest suffered. This is why current indications from the South African government of a move back toward securitization and secrecy should so concern us. It is also why South Africans must guard against the intimidation and pressure on investigative journalists who continue to tell the vital stories of state capture and corruption today.

Who funded the National Party?

Large South African corporations and their leaders went to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and argued that they had never supported apartheid and that it was ‘bad for business’. The archival records of the National Party and its leaders PW Botha and FW de Klerk tell a different story. There we found the annual cheques from business giants from all sectors, made out to the National Party, and often accompanied by fawning letters of praise to the party’s leadership. From billionaires like Christo Wiese to media giant Naspers, South African corporations were willing to grease the apartheid political machine.

Their influence was always suspected, but secrecy around the funding of political parties prevented the public from truly knowing how these relationships operated, and what they may have received in return. This problem persists today, with secrecy allowing big money to corrupt political parties and South African politics more broadly. Reform is desperately needed and must be demanded.

Kredietbank and the Arms Money Machine

While Swiss banks and their executives enjoyed cosy relationships with the apartheid state and private sector, profiting vastly off selling South African gold, it was a Belgian bank and its Luxembourg subsidiary that was at the centre of apartheid’s money laundering machine that was essential in keeping apartheid armed in times of the UN embargoes. Kredietbank Luxembourg, in exchange for vast profits, helped Armscor establish a global money laundering network of secret bank accounts and shell companies in order to bust the UN arms embargo against apartheid.

Based on the evidence we gathered Apartheid Guns & Money identified over 800 such bank accounts and over 100 secret companies between Panama and Liberia.

Continue reading here.

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Poetry Offers Us a Language When Our Other Languages Fail – 2015 Sol Plaatje EU Poetry Award Winner Athol Williams

Athol Williams wins the 2015 Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award for "Streetclass Diseases"
The Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology 2011The Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology Vol IIThe Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology Vol IIIThe Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology Vol IVThe Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology

 
Athol Williams was recently announced as the winner of the fifth Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award for his poem “Streetclass Diseases”. He was not able to attend the ceremony in Johannesburg, as he is currently based in the UK, but he has shared some thoughts about the award and poetry in general.

Williams is a poet and social philosopher from Cape Town who has published two volumes of poetry and a children’s book, Oaky and the Sun. His poems have been published in anthologies and literary journals in the UK, USA and South Africa. He holds five degrees from Harvard, MIT, LSE, LBS and Wits, and is currently registered at Oxford.

“Portrait of a Mother and Indiscretion”, by Sindiswa Busku-Mathese, was awarded second place, with “Baleka, what do you know”, by Jim Pascual Agustin, in third.

The winners were presented with their awards by head judge and chairperson of the Jacana Literary Foundation Mongane Wally Serote and at an award ceremony hosted by Poetry Africa in October.

Watch Williams’ acceptance speech:

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* * * * *

Read the transcript:

A message from Athol Williams:

Hello from Oxford University, where I will be spending the next few years.

My apologies for not being there with you this evening to celebrate at this award ceremony.

It is such an honour for me to be among the award winners of such a prestigious poetry award as the Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award for 2015.

Poets don’t write poems to win awards, but recognition such as this certainly encourages us to keep writing, and to keep improving our craft.

This is the third time that I am entering, so the adage “third time’s a charm” certainly holds true.

Such an award serves not only to encourage poets, but also to raise the profile of poetry in society, and maintain its place amongst the arts.

I believe that poetry is special among the arts, because it uniquely is able to test and transcend the boundaries between the physical and the spiritual; to tie yesterday to tomorrow, in hope, and to link memory with imagination in important ways that the other arts don’t.

Poetry contains lines and words packed with concentrated human experience, and offers us a language when our other languages fail to express our greatest hopes and joys, and indeed, our darkest horrors.

So there is a beauty, a special beauty of the human spirit, that poetry alone seems able to express. Surely our lives are richer for having poetry in it, both as individuals, and as society.

And so I am grateful for a poetry prize such as the Sol Plaatje EU Award, and I commend the sponsors – the European Union, the Jacana Literary Foundation – for having the vision for this prize, and for putting resources behind it.

I would like to thank the judges for their dedicated and time-consuming effort to select the winning poems, and for seeing the beauty of the human spirit and the challenges of our social context in my poem, ‘Streetclass Diseases’.

I would also like to extend a special thank you to Dr Mongane Wally Serote, as the head judge, who I regret not being able to meet tonight.

This award means the world to me. It is the highlight of my 20-year poetry career, and will certainly keep me going for the next 20 years.

Thank you!

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Read the Three Poems in the Running for the 2015 Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award

2015 Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award Winners Announced
The Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology 2011The Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology Vol IIThe Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology Vol IIIThe Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology Vol IVThe Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Anthology

 
Jacana Media has shared the three winners’ poems from this year’s Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award.

The 2015 Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award winners this year, as chosen by head judge Mongane Wally Serote, are Jim Pascual Agustin, for “Baleka, What do You Know of Tenders and Thieves? Or Cockroaches for that Matter?”; Sindiswa Busuku-Mathese, for “A Portrait of a Mother and Indiscretion”; and Athol Williams, for “Streetclass Diseases”.

How these poems have been placed, and the overall winner, will be announced at an event hosted by Poetry Africa at 6 PM on 17 October, 2015, at Rivertown Beerhall in Durban. The anthology will be launched at 3 PM on the same day, at 8 Morrison Street, Durban.

Read the poems:
 

* * * * *

 

Baleka, What do You Know of Tenders and Thieves?
Or Cockroaches for that Matter?

Jim Pascual Agustin
 
 

“If food is scarce, adolescent cockroaches can live on a very reliable resource – their parents’
faeces.”

There are lessons that a parent
can teach a child. The first few steps,
how to listen, read, and write. Seldom
how to be tender as you plunder
and rape, how to deal with the spoils,
the leftovers, something sharp
scraping the bottom.

“The New Zealand Y2K Readiness Commission gave out a recipe for cockroaches
in case the world ended on New Year’s Eve, 1999. ‘Simmer cockroaches in vinegar.
Then boil with butter, farina flour, pepper and salt to make a paste.
Spread on buttered bread.’”


 
 
You are suspicious of concoctions
from the West, for there are countless
ways of nourishing a nation. You
have secret recipes you’re unwilling
to share. We’re eager to know what lies
squirming in your mind. What’s that
bulging under your sleeve?

“Scientists claim some female cockroaches prefer weaker partners because they like gentle sex.
A University of Manchester team has concluded stronger male cockroaches are too aggressive and often injure their partners.”


 
 
There are consequences, you say,
for not heeding the pliant rod
of your word. In a chamber
echoing an empty order, no king
will want to speak. So you had to
stamp your feet without even grinding
your teeth this time around.
A flick of your hand and the beating
instantly began.
 
 

“A cockroach could live a long time, perhaps a month, without its head.”


 
 
Thugs go through the academy of thuggery. The ABC’s
of how to swing a stick, a panga. How to aim a gun
that need not be fired, except on a whim. One head
may roll, and another. Yet bodies keep kicking,
running even, as if they weren’t missing anything.
Because cockroaches breathe through the holes
in their skin, living on nothing for weeks
on end. But they do, eventually, wilt.
 
 

“Cockroaches have been present on the earth for more than 400 million years.”

How did you get so far up
that ladder, appearing to know
so little? Perhaps your mind
cannot even go back as far
as Rwanda, when cockroaches
were grafted onto human flesh.
 
 
-o-

Quoted cockroach facts from Thaibugs.

Poem refers to Baleka Mbete calling Julius Malema a cockroach.

* * * * *

 
 

Portrait of a Mother and
Indiscretion

Sindiswa Busuku-Mathese
 
 
My mother smells of indiscretion
– in fact she smells of strange
things. Not camphor or Zam-Buk;
not of anything familiar.

My mother walks slowly,
crossing the bedroom in high-
heeled shoes. In my grey window
I see the sky. In the sky the moon
is round. She hides her smile
behind the curtain lace and
whispers, “My child sees
everything.”

I’m waiting for her to hang her
winter coat. I am eager to
glimpse her body. Her buttons
fall away. She is kneeling at my
bedside, upright. Her hand on
mine. It’s raining. She is
lipsticked and caressing my face.
The moon is dead. Her hands
don’t feel the same anymore. The
stars have gone out. I turn and
bite her sad hand; she flies
backwards. I am loud and yellow
laughter. I whisper back, “My
mother wears a disguise for my
eyes only.”

My mother is an old woman. She
is no longer young. Yet I smell
her indiscretion. I have smelt it
on her for days. She has been
laughing and smiling without
restraint.

 
 

* * * * *

 
 
Streetclass Diseases

Athol Williams
 
 
Abeeda’s toothless mouth sprays saliva as
she paints a picture of her thirteen years
on Cape Town’s streets. He feels her spit in
his face, on his nose, on his lip, arousing
his middleclass concern over streetclass
diseases. At sixty two, she’s never been
to a doctor or hospital; he goes twenty times
a year. Distracted by her dark purple
gums, he misses part of her sermon chastising
him for his pagan life of walking past sick
children drowning in ponds and admiring
his large shadow on cave walls and buying
signed first editions of dead poets while
old women starve on Cape Town’s streets. She
tells of her walk with her god, her simple
life beneath bridges, clearly boasting
about her immunity to his diseases. He offers
her cash. She scoffs and carries on digging
through the garbage bin where he found her.
 
 

* * * * *

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Video: Paul O’Sullivan and Marianne Thamm Discuss To Catch A Cop

To Catch A CopMarianne Thamm recently published her book on forensic consultant Paul O’Sullivan, To Catch A Cop: The Paul O’Sullivan Story, which tells of how he managed to help apprehend Jackie Selebi. Thamm and O’Sullivan were interviewed about the book on Morning Live earlier this month, with Thamm explaining how part of her research involved going through the “classic Paul O’Sullivan dossier”.

Thamm says that the dossier is his “collection of affidavits and email and various other documents that he had gathered over a period of eight years in his pursuit of, first of all, justice to clear his own name and it was in the course of that that he discovered that there were these concentric circles of interest that were intersecting, criminal circles of interest”.

Watch the interview:

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Marianne Thamm on Paul O’Sullivan, Radovan Krejcir and the Foiled Assassination Plot

To Catch A CopLast month four people were arrested for an assassination plot against forensic consultant Paul O’Sullivan and others involved in “toppling the extensive criminal empire of one of the most dangerous criminals in the country, Czech-born fugitive Radovan Krejcir.”

In an article for the Daily Maverick, Marianne Thamm writes about how Paul O’Sullivan first came across Krejcir while investigating top cop, Jackie Selebi, who he was instrumental in bringing down. Thamm recently published To Catch A Cop: The Paul O’Sullivan Story, which details this case.

Thamm describes how O’Sullivan’s name was on Krejcir’s hit-list during the time she spent with him researching the book. “The thing about the Selebi and the Krejcir narrative and the intersection between organised crime, police and even politics is that is it so deep, wide and complicated that it is almost impossible for someone outside of it to fathom just how much kak we are in,” she writes.

On 10 September 2010 at around 6.30pm, Paul O’Sullivan was in Dublin when he received a call on his cellphone. He answered in his usual manner: “O’Sullivan, good day.” The caller at the other end paused momentarily before speaking.

The man, recalls O’Sullivan, had an Eastern European accent and said “Hello, clown. You want to fuck with me? I will show you who is Radovan. When you will come back to South Africa, I will make you suck my cock, then I will kill you, to show you you fucked with the wrong guy.”

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Rosamund Kendal, Author of The Murder of Norman Ware, Treats Writing as Therapy

The Murder of Norman WareKelly Ansara of It’s A Book Thing interviewed Rosamund Kendal, author of The Murder of Norman Ware, about her previous Grey’s Anatomyesque novels and what makes her latest novel her best one yet. Kendal also admits that, had she not kept writing, she would “probably have been admitted to a psychiatric unit long ago”. She treats writing as therapy, something she enjoyed from the first time she wrote a story as a nine year old.

1) When/What was the crowning moment when you decided you wanted to be a writer?

We had to write a short story when I was in Standard 3. I remember sitting down to write and completely losing track of anything and everything around me. It was the most incredible experience. The final product was ten pages long, a decent effort for a 9yr old. I handed my finished product in and declared that I wanted to be a writer. My teacher read the short story and made some very gentle and valid criticisms about the ending (She woke up and it had all been a dream!) and, in a fit of despondency, I crumpled up the manuscript and threw it away, swearing never to write again. But I think the seed had been planted.

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Nozuko Poni Interviews Thando Mgqolozana, Author of Hear Me Alone

Hear Me AloneNozuko Poni of Unbranded Truth spoke to Thando Mgqolozana, author of Hear Me Alone, about the controversies his writing often raises:

Nozuko Poni: Who is Thando Mgqolozana?

Thandi Mgqolozana: I’d like to think of myself as an ordinary, big hearted underachieving rural bumpkin who enjoys reading books and pretends to be writing stuff that other people may read, which they don’t.

NP: What is your earliest memory of literature?

TM: My maternal uncle was a teacher, and I say ‘was’ because I don’t know what he is now; possibly nothing, like my dad. So this guy was a teacher and read a lot. His big books, his name appended on the inside cover of all, were all over the place in our village home. You might imagine that I’m about to say he inspired me, he didn’t; I didn’t like him. But that’s my earliest memory of literature. At school I remember the title of a certain poem and its author. I think the musical way we began reciting the poem is what moved me; we said, ‘Children’s Rain Song, by Musaemura Bonas Zimunya…’ then I’d go blank. But then came the year, much later in school, when I read Troubled Waters by Joseph Diescho. This was in the final year of school. I read this book several times, for pleasure, and I have never stopped reading since then.

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