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Issue 38 ~ October 17, 2020

Contents

  • Reader Newsletter
  • BookBedonnerd Programme
  • Richmond Filums
  • Short Story Ian Sutherland
  • Madibaland Programme

Dear Karoosters, All …

Things are as busy as a rat up a pipe and it is really quite exhilarating to see a BookBedonnerd Covid Style taking shape and the very positive response we have had from everyone. Speaking of Covid, I am sure we all know of people who have had the illness or even just tested positive and perhaps even know first-hand someone who has succumbed to the illness or as partial cause for a death. I think that the science is fairly clear that the likelihood of a healthy person dying from Corona virus alone, with no underlying pathologies, like hypertension, diabetes, chemo drugs, immune compromised conditions, liver / kidney / heart failure, is hugely rare. However, it is better to very cautious in large public gatherings or in our dealings with people who may not be as careful as we are ourselves.

We are asking all participants of continue to do what they have been doing assuming that we all as a group have been healthy and disease free. Please bring cloth masks and wear them when appropriate. Also bring your personal sanitisers; we shall provide at our venues.
 
On Thursday we had the boring spectacle of El Presidente announcing more plans to unlock the plan that will activate the mother of all plans. I don’t know if you read the book Papillon in which a  plan was a metal capsule which prisoners shoved up their arses to hide money and gems away. Ramaphosa’s plan is just that; a plan to be shoved up our arses. And worse of all it is completely empty; no cash and no gems.

He talks about billions, hundreds of them and in fact even thousands of them, trillions to get South African Inc. back on the road to recovery.
 

If they can’t find the money to fix this pothole ( at the bottom of this hole lie 4 taxis and 2 Putco busses as well as the odd delivery scooter and cyclist…) which has been outside my entrance for 18 bloody months, then where are the hundreds of billions coming from? He promises in his plan almost a million jobs!  It would be best to distribute a million wheelbarrows and shovels and brooms and just employ street cleaners. At least our country would be cleaner. And where are the billions they do have,  going? More into the hands of the ANC chommies than anywhere else I imagine.
No, this government cannot be oxidized, regenerated, resuscitated , or in any way changed. It is a dead parrot and I want my money back!

Time for a change in government and we must start pushing for this before its too late. It is not a forgone conclusion that the ANC will rule for ever. Coalitions must start forming now and not a month before the election.

Don’t Frack with Our Karoo™

 

Booktown Richmond’s 14th Anniversary

 

BookBedonnerd XIII  
October 29-31, 2020

A Richmond Community Development Foundation Project

 


There will be a book binding course in the Japanese style to be held at MAP from 09:00am on
Friday. A team of local craftsmen and women will be hosting the programme. See here << LINK |

MAP have also been as busy as the same rat only up a different pipe. Please  have a glance at their offerings and during a break have a look at the action down the road.

You can access it online through thee following links: click here << LINK | or as pdf download, click here << LINK |

For more information please contact Abrie WhatsApp +27827754272

Richmond Filums present:

  • How to Steal a Country
  • The King’s Speech
  • Dominee Tienie

Our wine Sponsors are:

  • Hawksmoor
  • Strandveld
  • Springfield
IN A TIME OF UNIVERSAL DECEIT – TELLING THE TRUTH IS A REVOLUTIONARY ACT

George Orwell
A very sad reminder of the realities we all must face in South Africa:

But on the brighter side try this Karoo Karnival on for a spin……


Click here  << LINK |
.Please enjoy this courtesy of Ian Sutherland…
 

The Burden


By Ian Sutherland

The footpath from the ramshackle township to the central business district of the Karoo hamlet is only half a mile long. It bisects a field of dust before ending abruptly at the tar of Piet Retief Street, close by the OK Minimart. An old man on crutches approaches the final stretch, struggling to make headway against an autumn wind. He’s dressed in his Sunday best, except it’s a Saturday.

He stops to rest his armpits on the cushion tops of his crutches. After sixty years he finds it increasingly difficult to complete his weekly limp to town. Its part physical, part the inevitability of disappointment. A tumble weed brushes up against the shin of his good foot. He kicks it to the care of the wind and looks up. By the height of the sun above the Dutch Reformed Church’s steeple he guesses it to be eleven o’clock. An hour before the shops and the village close. Could it be that today, at last, the prophecy will be fulfilled?

The old man squints into the reflected sunlight off a Range Rover as it pulls up outside the Minimart. His eyes are hooded, his face a prune. He watches as a man in Levis and a pig skin jacket steps out, stands beside the car and adjusts his sunglasses. The stranger looks right and left and right again. He spits at a mongrel trotting along the centre line of the road.

A pick-up truck appears at the periphery of the old man’s vision with a cloud of dust. He recognises the driver: Farmer Gert van Zyl of Paradyskloof: worked for him once. He raises a hand to wave. Van Zyl ignores him. He waits just long enough for the mutt to pass, then rattles across the tar and disappears down another dirt road.

The old man leans forward on his crutches. He swallows the pain of his finger bones pressing against the wooden handles and focusses on the path ahead. Only when he is sure of being close enough to the stranger to be heard, does he look up.

Their eyes only meet for seconds but it’s enough. The old man stops, stands tall on his crutches. Then he reaches for the top button of his suit jacket, as if to fasten it. “Sir-”

“Sorry,” the man pre-empts. He pads his trouser pockets.

“Sir… Please.”

“I don’t give money.” The stranger’s Afrikaans is fluent but by not his mother tongue.

“Sir, I’m not asking for money.”

“What do you want then?” The stranger’s face is hard boiled, like a rugby player past his prime.

“Let me explain…”

“Ok, but get a move on,” He glances at his watch, then up at a glint of sunlight off a distant hill. The telescope. He knows it’s the only reason people drive 100km on a dead end desert road. That, and to see the snow in winter.
“Are you going on the tour of the SALT, sir?”

“You could say so.”

“Did you know it’s the biggest optical telescope in the Southern Hemisphere? And the-”

“Yes, yes, I know all that.” The stranger presses his remote control. The four by four barks twice and its brake lights flash. It’s an act of dismissal, but secretly he’s impressed. It’s not every day that he meets a beggar with brains. He starts toward the Minimart. “I’m the new chief maintenance engineer,” he says. “Sorry, really got to go.”

They meet again at the cashier. The old man is leaning against the front doorframe next to a bubble-gum vending machine. The stranger is standing in front of the till. He empties his basket – milk, bread, cheese and bottled water – on the counter. The cashier picks up the milk, reads its label and punches at her register with a stubby finger. She’s a young girl, slumped back on her stool. She has the cleavage of Dolly Parton and a face of hard times.

“Sir,” the old man calls.

The stranger ignores him. Instead he turns to the cashier, “Do you have the Weekend Argus?”

“Sorry, sir,” the girl says.

“Die Burger?”

She breaks into a gap-toothed smile. “Sorry, sir,” she thrusts her boobs in the direction of the news rack. “Only Friday. Saturday’s paper comes on Monday.”

The stranger sighs. Just then there’s a rushing sound from the street. He looks past the old man. Outside, a dust devil spirals past. It’s quiet again.
 
“Sir.” It’s the old man.

“Excuse me, can’t you see I’m busy.” The stranger pulls an American Express card from his wallet and gives it to the cashier. She fidgets with her bra strap. It’s a cheap and white and impossible to hide. She says, “Only kess.”

“What?”

“Kess.”

“Sorry, I don’t get it.”

“Kess, sir.” Without turning she points at a sign on the wall behind her.

“Oh,” the stranger laughs. “You mean cash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” His smile has vanished. “At an OK Minimart?”

The cashier shrugs.

“Dump,” the stranger mutters. “Where’s the nearest ATM?”

“Let me show you, sir,” the old man interrupts. He is up on his crutches. He lifts one to point at the groceries on the counter. “Don’t worry. Sarah will be happy to wait.”

“I suppose you expect a tip now.”

The old man says nothing. He seems to shrink under the weight of the stranger’s stare.

“Sorry,” the stranger shrugs. His cheeks crack into a chevron. “I’m out of kess.”

“I don’t want money,” the old man says. He’s looking at his shoes.

“What then?”

“Sir-"

“Stop calling me that, will you. I’m half your age.”

“When I was a little boy, sir – during the war, the big one, the one before Apartheid even-”

“Stop. That’s enough. If you’re going to give me the whole sob story of Apartheid to guilt me into giving you something we may as well…”

“It’s not that, sir. It’s about my grandfather. He brought me up after the flu took my parents. He was…you know…they’d call him a medicine man today, a prophet even, he could…” The old man lifts his head and peers into the sun-washed sky. “He could see things.”

“Excuse me. Sir. I’ll be calling you that from now on. What has all this got to do with me?”

“He foretold this day. My meeting you.”

 “I’m flattered. But now…” The stranger takes three steps toward the Range Rover, stops, turns back. “Shit. I forgot to get charcoal and firelighters.” He glanced at the Minimart’s front door. “I suppose this place will close any minute. After all: it’s – what - ten to twelve on a Saturday.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” the old man says. “Sarah will look after you.” His face contorts in a smile. “She’s a beauty, don’t you think? And she’s got brains. We’re so proud of her. Did I tell you she’s my brother’s granddaughter?”

“Yes. I’ll bet everyone’s related in this swamp.”

The old man winced. “You say bad things. Try to look bad. Dress bad. But I know that beneath it all you’re a good man. I can see things. Like my grandfather.”

“Ah, a clairvoyant.” The stranger stuffed his keys in his jacket pocket. “So, what happens next? You read my palm?”

“Sir,” the old man says. “He entrusted me with a secret. Something with the potential to tear this town apart.”

“Right. Like kryptonite.” The stranger turns his back on the old man. He steps off the pavement. “And I’m superman.”
“It’s got to do with the telescope.”

The stranger stops just short of the Range Rover. “What do you mean?” he says without turning.

“Danger, sir.” He points toward the distant, shiny dome. “SALT is in great danger.”

“Tell someone who cares.” The stranger steps into the driver’s seat, reaches for the door. “SALT’s history, anyway.”  

“But, sir,” the old man pushes back off the door frame, struggles to stand on crutches. He lurches onto the sidewalk toward the car. “It also affects the new SKA.”

The stranger’s right eyebrow forms an inverted ‘V’. “What do you know about the Square Kilometre Array? Your general knowledge is pretty impressive for a small-town hobo, I must say.”  

The old man stops. “Ag,” he says. His face shrivels. “That’s not nice - what you say, sir – it’s not nice.”

The stranger closes the door, winds down the window. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He reaches forward and scratches in his consol. “Let me see what I can find for you.”

“I told you, sir, I don’t want your small change.”

The stranger looks up, confused. He’s grown up in a country where making eye contact means a man’s money or his life.
“I’ll show you myself, sir. You’ll never believe me, otherwise.”

The stranger looks up over the corrugated iron roof of the Minimart to the mountain side of town. On the highest point of the range is a radar station. He’d read about it in his briefing notes: a vital link in the commercial air chain between Cape Town and Johannesburg. “If it’s such a big secret, why are you so eager to share it with me? I bet you tell this story to every sucker that stops for a loaf of bread.”

“My grandfather made me promise to only share it with ‘the one’”

“Oh, really. What makes me so special?”

A tear forms at the corner of the old man’s right eye. It runs down his cheek. He allows it to fall to ground, says. “I’ve walked to town every Saturday since he died, except for the week I got married. That’s sixty years today. You’re the first one to look me in the eye and talk to me. The first foreigner.”

“I’m as South African as you are.”

“Really? My people have been here for countless centuries. Their art is still visible on cave walls throughout the Karoo. From the time before they were hunted like…”

“Ah, the noble savage,” says the stranger. He opens the driver’s door of the Range Rover. “We all have our myths. Makes life bearable.”

“You’re different, sir.” The old man senses the stranger’s softening. “I know it. Just give me this one chance. I’ll take you there.” He pivots on his crutches and points toward the township which sprawls up the side of the mountain. “If we drive it will be quick. Fifteen minutes is all I ask.”

The hillside dotted with box houses is exposed to the full force of the prevailing winds of the high Karoo. A stream of dust follows the Range Rover as it bumps up the rutted excuse for a road. A plastic shopping bag blows up against the passenger window, sticks for a moment and is borne aloft. A half-naked boy runs up alongside, pushing a wire car, all teeth. He keeps up until the road steepens.

“That’s it,” says the old man. The road has petered out to scrub and sand and the occasional stone. He doesn’t have to point. “My house.”

“So you got what you wanted,” the stranger says. “A lift home. Happy now?”

The old man stares out the window at the distant radar station.

“You can get out now.”

The old man doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Isn’t that what this is all about? A free ride.”

Silence.

“Oh. I get it.” The stranger fumbles in the consol. He scrapes together two five rand coins and a few cents. “Here.”
The old man ignores the money. There are tears in both eyes now. They seem to be frozen in place as if they belong there. He opens the door, struggles out. Using both crutches as one, he limps toward his crumbling home.

The stranger is behind him now. They’re through the open posts that once held a front gate. “Look,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

The old man leans his crutches against the door post, fumbles with the latch. A mangy dog noses through the half open door and jumps up, both paws on the man’s trousers. The old man stoops to pat the mutt on the head. “It’s out back,” he says. He takes up his crutches. “Follow me.”  

The garden is a rectangle of compacted sand, broken only by two cacti, a thorn tree and a scrawny bush.  In one corner, hemmed on two sides by a barbed wire fence, is a corrugated iron shed, twenty by ten feet, with a padlocked door and no windows.
“First you must promise,” the old man says. He rummages through his trouser pocket and produces a key.
 
“Promise what? Words are cheap.”

“That you’ll act justly,” the old man inspects the key, then looks up. “And remember my people. That without the telescopes…” He looks out over the township sprawl, beyond the neat rows of houses that line Piet Retief Street, to the glint on a distant hill. “Without the investment and the tourists they bring, we’d be nothing. There’d be no future for our children. We’ll starve.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” the stranger says. “What about the social grants. Fourteen million other people in this country live off them.”

“Ag,” the old man says. “You expect us to depend on the politicians?” He spits into the sand. Within seconds the moisture is swallowed. “The new government has forgotten us, just like the old one.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

“My grandfather said I would know. And I do. Don’t ask me how. Besides…” He passes a hand over his peppercorn hair. “I’m not a young man anymore. And I’ve outlived my children. If I die alone with this secret my ancestors will never forgive me.”


The first thing the stranger notices when the door swings open is the smell of sulphur. Then the rusted iron sheeting inside. He follows the old man into the dark. It gets warmer the further he goes. It’s a wet heat. When his eyes adjust he can see a hole in the ground. It’s ten feet in diameter and rimmed with a wall of stones. Like a well in a medieval town square.
The old man shuffles toward the rim.

The stranger doesn’t move. There’s a faint bubbling sound, like porridge on the boil.
“It’s alright,” the old man says. He’s beside the hole, beckoning. “Come, see.”

The stranger steps toward the rim. His mind is running ahead of him, trying to piece together meaning. He peers over the edge, sees an orange-red glow. He narrows his eyes to the updraft of hot sulphurous air. “No,” he says. “Can’t be.” He recoils, hands over his eyes.

“It only stirred a month ago,” the old man says. “Just like my grandfather predicted. When they announced that the SKA would be based here. Of course he didn’t know what it would look like, the technology I mean, or be called. But he knew, trust me, he knew. He called it the giant bird from space, said it would cover the land.”

The stranger backs off from the rim. He continues until he comes up against the half open door. He has to put out an arm to stop from falling. He says, “Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps.”

Outside, they stand opposite each other in the wind. A dog barks in the distance. The old man looks up at the stranger, silent.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” the stranger says.

“I may be a simple man, sir, but…”

“They chose this town to be the site for SALT and for the SKA because of the area’s seismic stability. And you’re telling me…” he points to the shed. “There’s a bloody volcano about to erupt in there…”

“I didn’t say that,” the old man said. “My grandfather just said that when the ground came alive it would chase the bird away.”
“Bloody right it will.” The stranger wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. He glanced up. “There’re plenty of other places in this barren land with skies that are just as clear.”

The old man nodded.

“What do you expect me to do now?” the stranger says. “I told you I was the chief engineer.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Then you’d know that my first duty is to protect the structural integrity of those telescopes. Lives depend on it. And fortunes. Did you know that complex is owned by three other countries besides our own?”

The old man looks at him.

“So? What now?”

“My son. There’s only one thing.”

The stranger rubs the stubble of his chin. His hand falls to his side. He looks up at a wisp of high cloud and watches it fade. “And what’s that?”

The old man looks past the tin roof of his house at the Dutch Reformed Church steeple, and back at the stranger. “The right thing,” he says.

The wind drops for a moment. A baby cries in the house next door.

The stranger steps forward, places a hand on the older man’s shoulder. Their eyes embrace. “And what, may I ask, is the right thing?”

“You’ll know,” the old man says. He turns toward the house and pushes off on his crutches.

“Hey. Come back,” the stranger calls. “You can’t just leave me like this.”
 
The old man mutters something but a gust of wind snatches his words. He eases himself across the hardscrabble ground with a lightness not felt in sixty lonely years.


SPRING

 

Booktown Richmond & BookBedonnerd
(in partnership with the University of the Western Cape)

 

Presents

 

Madibaland World Literary Festival 2020
November 20 – 30th

 

Part 2

 

THE INDIANS ARE ON BOARD!!!


On November 16, 1860, the first Indentured Indians arrived on the shores of Durban. Many perished, many were thrown overboard. For decades many were enslaved. Yet they rose like the proverbial Phoenix in SA. This year marks 160 years (if not more by some accounts) of Indian settlement in SA. And this festival will be used to commemorate the men and women who toiled so that people like myself could enjoy the sweet taste of freedom

India has always enjoyed a special place in the hearts of South Africans. Our cricketers re-entered the international stage against India. Nelson Mandela’s government had close ties with India. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi looms large in the political landscape of SA. And so, it is such a pleasure to be able to host a group of Indian writers from the motherland.

Highly respected writer SHANTANU GUHA RAY opens the innings with his magnificent biography of one of the greatest cricket captains India has ever produced – Mahindra Singh Dhoni, the much feared ‘master blaster’ of Indian cricket. Who will ever forget that brilliant knock in the World Cup Cricket Final when Dhoni rescued India from the jaws of defeat? In a cricket mad country like India, it is only fitting to give Shantanu a second session. This time to speak on match-fixing in cricket. Given South African cricket’s Hansiegate saga, this is a talk not to be missed.

What Mandela is to SA, Gandhi is to India. And therefore, it should come as no surprise that books on Gandhi will dominate the literary landscape of India. I am pleased to announce a most unique book for our festival: Gandhi in the Gallery: The Art of Disobedience by SUMATHI RAMASWAMY. And then we have Going Native: Gandhi’s Relationship with Western Women by Thomas Weber. To round off our offering on art, we have Masterpieces of Indian Art by ALKA PANDE.

India is undoubtedly one of the great culture capitals of the world and is also home to some of the world’s finest cuisine. As a connoisseur of curry, I should know.  To this end I can’t wait to hear the interview with SALMA HUSAIN, author of the beautiful book Mughal Feast. And who has not heard the term BOLLYWOOD? Undoubtedly one of the more popular books at the Madibaland World Literary Festival is going to be 100 Iconic Bollywood Costumes by SUJATA ASSOMULL.

Like SA, India also has a long history of inequality. Most people who know a bit about India will have heard about the caste-system. And of the term, the ‘untouchables’. It is with great pride therefore that we welcome one of the youngest authors from India, SHILPA RAJ, to the festival. Shilpa will speak on her book The Elephant Chaser’s Daughter, a memoir about her childhood growing up in a South Indian village, and the prejudice she faces as a girl child, and as a ‘Dalit’.

On the South African front, the programme is packed with Indians. Darryl Earl David, founder of the Madibaland World Literary Festival, will speak on Churches of SA. One of South Africa’s most under-rated authors, Ashwin Desai, will speak on his ground breaking book about Black Rugby in the Eastern Cape. The Ahmed Kathrada Foundation, represented by Shan Balton, will speak on the life of Ahmed Kathrada and the work of the foundation in his honour. Goolam Vahed will speak about the one man Nelson Mandela would always visit in Pietermaritzburg – Chota Motala. There are so many more. Rajie Tudge; Deena Padayachee; Adiela Akoo; Betty Govinden; Shantini Naidoo, with her just released book on Women in Solitary Confinement during Apartheid; Sylvia Garib, Rajendra Chetty, Juwaireyah Khan, biographies on the most famous Indian golfer in SA history, Papwa Sewgolum.

Remind me to insert, right at the top of my glossary, the term CHAROUS for our international audiences. Because, to quote Trevor Noah out of context, we’re not Indians, we’re charous!!!!


Part 1 (extract from previous newsletter if you missed it)


I had said this would be the largest online book festival in the world. I did not know it would turn out to be the greatest book festival in the history of SA book festivals. In the last few days some big names have thrown their weight behind the festival. First up was Sophy Roberts, author of The Lost Pianos of Siberia. Below a bit of background to the book.

From acclaimed journalist Sophy Roberts, a journey through one of the harshest landscapes on earth—where music reveals the deep humanity and the rich history of Siberia

Siberia’s story is traditionally one of exiles, penal colonies and unmarked graves. Yet there is another tale to tell.

Dotted throughout this remote land are pianos—grand instruments created during the boom years of the nineteenth century, as well as humble, Soviet-made uprights that found their way into equally modest homes. They tell the story of how, ever since entering Russian culture under the westernizing influence of Catherine the Great, piano music has run through the country like blood.

How these pianos travelled into this snow-bound wilderness in the first place is testament to noble acts of fortitude by governors, adventurers and exiles. Siberian pianos have accomplished extraordinary feats, from the instrument that Maria Volkonsky, wife of an exiled Decembrist revolutionary, used to spread music east of the Urals, to those that brought reprieve to the Soviet Gulag. That these instruments might still exist in such a hostile landscape is remarkable. That they are still capable of making music in far-flung villages is nothing less than a miracle.

The Lost Pianos of Siberia is largely a story of music in this fascinating place, fol-lowing Roberts on a three-year adventure as she tracks a number of different instruments to find one whose history is definitively Siberian. Her journey reveals a desolate land inhabited by wild tigers and deeply shaped by its dark history, yet one that is also profoundly beautiful—and peppered with pianos.


Ever heard of the book SHUGGIE BAIN? This Booker Prize shortlisted novel by Douglas Stuart is undoubtedly one of the books of 2020, even though it was beaten to the line by the first Dutch novel to win the Booker Prize. It is large enough to act as a doorstop for the windiest of days in Simon’s Town, but it is a book that will blow you away. The relationship between Agnes and her son Shuggie will go down in history as one of the most heart breaking, yet unforgettable mother-son relationships in English fiction.

And then there is the award winning book by Charalamos Dousemetzis: Dimitri Tsafendas: The Man Who Killed Apartheid. This is a book that is going to turn on its head every lie we were fed about Dimitri Tsafendas, the man who stabbed Verwoerd. It is a great honour for the Madibaland World Literary Festival to have a book of this calibre on our programme.

On the local front the book – THE LIE OF 1652 by Patric Tariq Mellet sold out in shops across the country within ten days and bookshops have all been scurrying to get more orders met to meet the demands. The Exclusive Books webinar book-launch sign up exceeded 500 but within three hours the podcast had 116 000 viewings. The media attention this book received has been phenomenal. This is a book that is going to shake the foundational narratives of SA good and proper. One not to be missed.

Another author who has just joined the Madibaland World Literary Festival is Greg Arde, author of the highly praised book War Party. A brief synopsis:

Cadre deployment means that the ANC and the state are inextricably intertwined. In KwaZulu-Natal, which has long been the powder keg of South Africa, it’s a monster that means people of competing patronage networks are killing each other for a place at the trough –  for jobs and tenders –  and the taxi industry provides the hitmen, guns and the transport. Travel with journalist Greg Ardé across KwaZulu-Natal into the dark heart of South Africa and the ANC’s ‘culture of blood’.

But the first international author who committed to Madibaland is someone South African book lovers are going to warm to. I met John Connell, author of the international bestseller The Cow Book in Scotland’s Book Town Wigtown in 2018. And even before it gained international acclaim, I knew this man had greatness in him and invited him to SA.




This Irish memoir became a best-seller last year in its native country under the original title The Cow Book: A Story of Life on a Family Farm. In the United States, the book’s title changed to The Farmer’s Son: Calving Season on a Family Farm.  Connell didn’t intend to write a memoir about his farming, and he famously remarked to his agent: Who would be interested in a book about a beef farm in Longford?

Apparently close to 4 million readers! That is who!!! Who knows, we might yet entice the farmers in Richmond and the greater Karoo to start taking an interest in matters literary!!!

Please read below for most up-to-date list of speakers including detailed biographies:

Our line up: (click on the live profiles to find out more)

1. Shilpa Raj: The Elephant Chasers Daughter
2. John Connell: The Cow Book.
3. John Connell: The Running Book
4. Greg Marinovich: Shots from the Edge: A Photojournalist’s Encounters with Conflict and Resilience.
5. Jacob Dlamini: Askari : A Story of Collaboration and Betrayal in the Anti-apartheid Struggle.
6. Jacob Dlamini: The Terrorist Album: Apartheid’s Insurgents, Collaborators and the Security Police
7. Gabeba Baderoon: The History of Intimacy.
8. Christopher Merrill: Poetry.
9. Christopher Merrill: Walt Whitman
10. Michael Greene:  For the Sake of Silence.
11. Christopher Nicholson: Winter.
12. Christopher Nicholson: Among the Summer Snows
13. Angie Butler: Explorers of the Heroic Age
14. Emma Neale: Billy Bird
15. Emma Neale: Poetry.
16. Karen Karbo: The Stuff of Life
17. Karen Karbo: The Gospel According to Coco-Chanel.
18. Kiki Petrosino: Witch Wife
19. Kiki Petrosino: White Blood - A Lyric of Virginia.
20. Sumayya Lee: The Story of Maya
21. Chris Abani: The Secret History of Las Vegas
22. Etienne van Heerden: Die biblioteek aan die einde van die wereld (The library at the end of the world)
23. Fred Khumalo: The Longest March.
24. Hugh Bland: Trappist Mission Stations of KZN
25. Hedi Lampert: The Trouble with my Aunt
26. Ashwin Desai: Indian Indenture
27. Elana Bregin: The Antbear Cabin
28. Dominique Malherbe: Sarah Goldblatt Biography.
29. Chris Nicholson (SA judge): t.b.c
30. Erica Platter: Durban Curry.
31. Vernon Head: A Tree for the Birds
32. Athol Williams: Poetry.
33. Fikile Hlatshwayo: Blacks do Caravan.
34. Carol Campbell: The Tortoise Cried It’s Only Tear
35. Zoe Wicomb: Still Life
36. Joanne Hichens: Death And The After Parties
37. Rumena Buzarovska: My Husband.
38. Amanda Michalopoulou: God’s Wife.
39. Nikola Madzirov: Remnants of Another Age
40. Dana Snyman: On the Back Roads. / Soekmekaar
41. Antony Osler: Mzansi Zen.
42. Mike Lowry/ Steve Wimberley/ Phillip Kretzman: Inspirational Animal Stories
43. Tracy Going: Brutal Legacy
44. Vladimir Martinovski: Poetry.
45. Riana Scheepers: A Writers House t.b.c
46. Diana Ferrus: Poetry
47. Jan van Tonder: Die verevrou.
48. Ronnie Kasrils: Catching Tadpoles
49. Raashida Khan: Fragrance of Forgiveness
50. Ronnie Govender in conversation with Rajendra Chetty (t.b.c)
51. ZP Dala / Sylvia Garib: Durban in words t.b.c
52. Philippe Menache & Darryl David: Churches of South Africa – A Platteland Pilgrimage
53. Hattie Edmonds: The Spectacular Vision of Oskar Dunkelblick.
54. Sophy Roberts: The Lost Piano's of Siberia
55. Shanthini Naidoo: Women in Solitary
56. Jerzy Koch: Pleks van plaas
57. Elleke Boehmer: Southern Imaginings – To the Volcano
58. Nico Moolman: Russia in the Anglo-Boer War
59. Mongane Wally Serote: Sikhahlel’ u-OR – praise poem to Oliver Tambo (t.b.c)
60. Mandla Langa: Dare not linger (t.b.c)
62. Ahmed Kathrada Foundation:
63. Paul Weinberg: A 30 Year Journey with the San
64. Lizzie Collingham: Hungry Empire : How Britain’s Quest for Food Shaped The Modern World
65. Lizzie Collingham: Curry : A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors.
66. Kirsten Miller: All that is left.
67. Andrew Miller: Dub Steps.
68. Don Pinnock: The Last Elephants.
69. Patricia Schonstein: The Inn at Helsvlakte
70. Petro Hansen: Vervleg
71. Andries Bezuidenhout: Onplaats
72. Barry Cohen: Let me play: the story of the greatest Indian golfer SA has never seen
73. Marguerite Poland: Sins of Omission
74. Natalie Conyer: Sisters in Crime – Three Sydney Crime Writers
75. AM Kamaal: Nigeria/ Nome Patrick Emeka - Nigerian poets t.b.c
76. Carmen Miller: Canada's Little War: Fighting for the British Empire in the Anglo-Boer War
77. James Daschuk: Clearing the Plains
78. Pieter Louis Myburgh: Gangster State t.b.c
79. Chris Marais & Julienne du Toit: Karoo Roads
80. Bronwyn Davids: Lansdowne Dearest : My Family’s Story of Forced Removals
81. Zirk van den Bergh: Ek wens, ek wens
82. Erns Grundlingh – Sushi en Shosholoza: Rugbyreise en pelgrimstogte in Japan
83. Antjie Krog: Poetry
84. Petrovna Metelerkamp: Ingrid Jonker: A Biography.
85. Lynne Joffe: The Gospel According to Wanda B. Lazarus.
86. Mike Nicol: Espionage Fiction.
87. Obie Oberholzer: Photography
88. Christy Lefteri: The Beekeeper of Aleppo
89. Zanele Dlamini: Wounds of Ignorance
90. Landa Mabenge: Becoming Him : A Trans-Memoir.
91. Audrey Schulman: The Theory of Bastards.
92. Cherry Lewis: The Enlightened Mr Parkinson.
93. Chris Mann: Troubadour
94. Irene Fisher: I am still here
95. Clinton du Plessis: Poetry
96. Cameron McNeish: Scotland’s 100 Best Walks / There’s Always the Hills
97. John T. Edge: The Potlikka Papers : A Food History of the Modern South
98. Kobus Moolman: The Mountain Behind the House
99. Gerbrand Bakker: Boven is het stil (The Twin) & De omweg (The Detour)
100. Sjon: The Whispering Muse from Iceland. Author/ Academy Award nominated singer
101. Debbie Rodriguez: The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul.
102. Amy McDaid NZ: Fake Baby.
103. John Matisonn: Cyril’s Choices.
104. Sharon Gosling: The House of Hidden Wonders – in conversation with Hugh David
105. Chigozie Obioma: The Fishermen / An Orchestra of Minorities
106. Gaireyah Fredericks, Jadrick Pedro and Duane Miller: Kaaps oppie Richterskaal
107. Johan Jack Smith: Zola
108. Colleen Higgs: My Mother, My Madness
109. Ria Winters: Reise met Schoeman
110. Thomas Mollett: The Anni Dewani Murder
111. Christine Barkhuizen le Roux: My naam is Prins
112. Anel Heydenrych: Die Afloerder
113. Carla van der Spuy: Plaasmoorde t.b.c
114. In Memoriam: session dedicated to all writers who lay down their pen in 2020
115. Anton Harber: So, for the record
116. Andisiwe Kawa: Kwanele: Enough is Enough
117. John Costello: The Wild Coast
118. Raks Seakhoa:  Halala Madiba - Poetry
119. Daniel Hugo: Die verdriet van Belgie / Oorlog en terpentyn
120. Lize Albertyn du Toit: Die Kinders van Spookwerwe
121. Paul Weinberg: On Common Ground: An exhibition of Peter Magubane and David Goldblatt
122. Bridget Krone: Small Mercies
123. Marita van der Vyver: Borderline / Grensgeval
124. Hector Kunene: Poetry
125. Sindiswa Seakhoa: Songs for Madiba – Music
126. Irna van Zyl: Bloedsteen/Blood Stone
127. Barbara Boswell: Black South African Women's Novels as Feminism
128. Deena Padayachee: Poetry/short story
129. Rajie Tudge: Teaching the Canna Bush
130. Lebohang Masango: Mpumi's Magic Beads
131. Shantanu Guha Ray: Mahendra Singh Dhoni biography / Match fixing in cricket
132: Raphael Malangin: Pondicherry
133. Sumathi Ramaswamy: Gandhi in the Gallery: The Art of DisobedienceAlka 21-23 November
134. Cosmo Brockway & Harriet Compston& Karam Puri: Glorious Hotels of India
135. Salma Husain: Mughal Feast
136. Alka Pande: Masterpieces of Indian Art
137. Thomas Weber: Going Native: Gandhi's Relationship with Western Women
138. Jackie Kalley: KwaZulu Natal. The Garden Province
139. Elana Bregin: The Audacity of Hope
140. Jackie Kalley: Mlamulankunzi: The Story of Dick King
141. Charalamos Dousemetzis: Dimitri Tsafendas: The Man Who Killed Apartheid

 

Programme


(still to be announced)

For further queries, please contact Darryl Earl David on ddavid@uwc.ac.za or on Whatsapp 0664558822. Website www.richmondnc.co.za


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