Issue 35 ~ October 3, 2020


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

Dear BoekBedonnerd XIII Speakers and Guests

I have just returned from a fantastic Heritage Day weekend in Richmond and upon arrival was very tempted to hit the pool, it was that balmy high 20’s. That soon changed and the Mother of the Cape sent cold weather and some wind, giving me the excuse to ignite the old Aga and think of lamb shanks and pot roasts.

The village is slowly crawling out of lock down and the Corona business and it was good to see that most to the people were wearing masks and trying to keep appropriate distancing, not really something that Karoosters are used to.

The guest houses are starting to open to attract travellers. I fact I got a call on Friday afternoon from my neighbours in Parktown North the Callaghans, and they had just driven into town on their way back home from seeing the flowers in Namaqualand….they were apparently fantastic. A good omen I thought. We were on our way out to friends on the Murraysburg road but saw them on Saturday morning for coffee around the Aga. Later on Saturday I saw that I had a missed call from good friends who were travelling through town on their way home from KNP and had no idea I was in the dorp. So, things are gradually clawing back to some semblance of normal. The Percy se Plek is now a Spar store and there are quite a good number of new faces in town. We aren’t on the boil yet but things warming up. The Small  Karoo Hotel closed during Covid and made a plan and are producing wool filled duvets and are going great guns. Check out the recent write up in Daily Maverick:  Karoo Creations: Making every day a duvet day << LINK |

We have had a very good response from just about everyone from all sides that we are indeed planning to stage a Festival in the year of the Great Plague. We plan to run from Thursday until Saturday early afternoonish. The Supper Klub is taking dinner bookings from Wednesday!

Thursday will kick off at a very late morning civilized hour with some introductions and speakers. High Tea / Lunch will follow. The afternoon session will proceed until we feel that we must have a wine tasting session which will relax even the most tense of delegates. This will be followed by another Presentation, and then we will have a feature filum. In fact, we plan to end every afternoon with a great movie and of course more wine as long as it lasts.

Richmond Filums present:

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

Our wine Sponsors are:

  • Hawksmoor
  • Strandveld
  • Springfield
Friday we plan to start proceedings at a relaxed 10am giving everyone time to have a good rest in, or jog and a breakfast as well as little time to stoep sit.

After a couple presentations we will break for High Tea at the Supper Klub and then make our way to MAP just a short walk down Loop Street where Jan Coetzee will be presenting his The Book and the Slave exhibition which will be followed by yet another wine tasting and filum at the BTRHQ. Karoo Chef Annetjie Reynolds will be conducting a Charcuterie Course at her family farm miles out of town in the lead up to BookBedonnerd but will be providing all Booktown participants with a buffet of her smoked and cured meats and other crudités before we break into the old library to watch the second filum. On Friday evening we will host a banquet in the dining room, sort of like we do for the SA Independent Publishers Awards Banquet….but without the SAIPA (!) on the stoep and on the street as the spirit moves. Just an excise to have a jol. We plan to have a guest speaker A menu will be coming out soon and please reserve early.

Saturday will be a very casual affair from 10 o’clock where one of our speakers (probably Ashwin Desai) will  put on an outdoor talk in front of the library before we seat ourselves inside for a couple lectures and presentations. We’ll have a good break for an High Tea session before we all shuttle ourselves out to Deelfontein where Darrel David and Nico Moolman will conduct a guided tour of the iconic remains of the Yeomanry Hotel and the Deelfontein Boer War Graveyard. Cold wine will be served on the spot. Please pack a couple beach chairs so that we can all relax in style in the shade of some tree or other.

Bookbedonnerd XIII Speakers List

1. Nico Moolman. Russia and the Anglo- Boer War
2.  Ashwin Desai. The History of Black Rugby in the Eastern Cape
3. Jan Coetzee The Book and the Slave
4. Ashwin Desai. A Nation in a State
5. Patricia Schonstein. Poetry
6. Anel Heydenrych. Die Afloerder
7. Annatjie Reynolds. Karoo Kos
8. Darryl Earl David -Hari Pottermari. Ashwin Desai's Quiet Masterpiece
9. Jo Els. Om van woorde te droom
10. Maggie Jooste memoir (presenter to be confirmed)
11. Don Pinnock. Wanderings of a Bemused Naturalist
12. Nico Moolman – Buskruit en Laventel – The making of a museum.
13. Carol Campbell. Online Writing Course by acclaimed author of My Children have Faces & The Tortoise’s Last Tear 

George Orwell

Some bedtime reading from our resident short story writer ……


Ian Sutherland

(Placed 2nd in SA Writers College Short Story Competition 2015)

In a twisted sense it was fitting that it was Valentine’s Night when Professor Rodney Huntington-Down discovered the evidence. Most fathers of a teenage son would consider it confirmation that their worst nightmare had materialised. Or perhaps their third from worst. But the fact that his first born son wasn’t dead, or missing, was small comfort.  He was as good as gone.

He stood in the hallway of his Upper Kenilworth home staring at the message on the phone. The ticking of the cuckoo clock echoed about the room. The only other sound was the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. His sense of foreboding was far worse than his usual dread of having to consummate the annual high feast of the greeting card industry with his wife. Something was horribly wrong.

“Rodney...” Shirley was waiting in the Mercedes convertible parked at the head of their driveway. Even from twenty feet, her alto soprano was loud enough to shatter a wine glass.
“We’re late. Again. You know what they’re like at La Colombe. Don’t do this to me.”

She was right, of course. Last year this time they’d arrived at the Constantia Uitsig restaurant twenty minutes late to find that the maître d’ had given their table to an Enrique Iglesias lookalike in black denims and his date. Rodney could picture the girl like it was yesterday. The strapless dress, bare shoulders, the honey bee tattoo at the base of her neck. She was of the age when the lack of make-up only enhanced her beauty. If only he could…

As he waited for the smart phone’s touchscreen to swim into focus he felt a stab of guilt. How could he have looked? If his son James discovered him prying on his correspondence he’d fly into a rage and sulk. The boy still hadn’t forgiven him for calling him a lost cause. That was four hundred and twenty five days ago. All Rodney had managed to extract from him in that time was a drip feed of grunts and scowls and silence. Why couldn’t a sixteen-year-old listen to reason? What, after all, was the point of taking Art and Drama as school subjects? Everyone knew that Physical Science was the key to a meaningful future.  
No, Rodney thought, he was doing the right thing. Why squander the opportunity presented in his finding James’ cell phone without password protection? It might, after all, prove to be the long-sought window to the boy’s soul.

Crnr Lower Main & Station. At first Rodney took the opening line of the message at face value. It spelt the epicentre of Observatory’s hip zone and familiar territory. At forty nine he still indulged in the occasional night out with the boys when Shirley consented. The pool lounge routine was a favourite: sucking on bottles of Carling Black Label, chalking cue tips, drawling commentary, the unhurried shot.

Tonite @9. Tonite?” Isn’t there one good man left on earth who knows how to spell properly, Rodney thought? He guessed it was one of James’ private school friends. They would write that sort of drivel. It was typical. A hundred thousand a year was an awful lot to pay a school that didn’t teach its ABCs.

On the surface it appeared to be one of those ‘get-togethers’ that the twenty first century teenager seemed to prefer to parties. Except something was wrong. A rendezvous at that location? The timing just didn’t make sense. Not tonight, anyway.

Earlier, he’d overheard Shirley making the lift arrangements. A rave party in Upper Claremont, of all things. A parent’s worst nightmare. Or third from worst. And, as always, it meant he’d have to fetch the child at midnight. Taxi drivers and ATMs: the suburban parent’s lot in life. Of course this meant he couldn’t drink. As if Valentine’s night wasn’t already bad enough. Shirley was always quick to volunteer, as long as it didn’t involve her lifting a finger.

The blast of the Mercedes’ horn almost caused him to drop the phone.



He knew he had about sixty seconds until the matter of his tardiness escalated. Her tempers were a precise science. He glanced at his watch, then up the stairway and beyond to the closed door of James’ bedroom. Between ticks of the cuckoo clock he could make out the sound of a fine rain. The boy was taking a shower. He lifted the phone toward his face. There was no time for scruples. Besides, wasn’t it a father’s responsibility to check?

Rodney was determined to stay hopeful. The message could be days old. He scrolled down the Whatsapp time line. No luck. There was no more resisting the fear of the worst. The damnation was there in bits and bytes. What u driving? A message sent from the phone just ten minutes earlier. He laid it on the counter, his thoughts racing. The emptiness growing within him felt all consuming now.

Bzzz. The vibration of the phone in his palm came like the shock from a live wire. The screen lit up. It was a new message. Rodney swallowed. The rectangle of the Enter button seemed to expand. He hesitated, not sure he could bear following through.

He breathed in. What the hell: time to be a man. The first thing that he noticed when the message opened was the sender’s icon. It was the portrait of a bloodhound: a post-modern scheme, or perhaps a comic. Yet it was the name that really puzzled him. Faizel. He’d never heard James mention him. And just as well, he thought. This Faizel was unlikely to be James’ type. Nor his.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. His wife’s footsteps grew louder. The fire-breathing dragon was approaching. He recoiled from the door. Had he really once loved her?

White Nissan Sentra. Rodney’s shoulders tensed at the next line. A cheap car in a dodgy neighbourhood. His dread had grown horns. It was like the feeling he got before a peer review: when a bad thing was to about happen but he couldn’t put thoughts to it.

The creak of the upstairs floorboards startled him. He spun round, let the phone drop on the table. It was quiet. Then another creak. James must have finished his shower. There were only seconds left to find out what he needed.

Bzzz. Another message. This time there was no need to open it. It only had two words, two arrows to the heart. Deal’s on.

His son appeared on the landing. A curious expression. Had he heard the phone drop the last inch to the table?  

“James.” For once Rodney was relieved to hear his wife’s voice. "What are you doing standing there in your underwear?” She looked at the Cartier on her wrist. “Isn’t Charles’ mother picking you up at 20:15?”

Rodney leaned back in the Mercedes driver’s seat. It was still in PARK. His fingers clenched the leather of the steering wheel. He was bracing himself for the fight he knew must follow.

He said, “I think James is doing drugs.”

“Rodney Down…” Shirley only used his maiden last name in those rare moments when she was angry but struggled for words. There was silence.

Rodney removed one of his hands from the steering wheel and used it to change radio stations. It was a futile effort. The system was on mute.

“That’s preposterous,” she said.

“At least hear me out.”

“What? Hear you out? You expect me to sit here and let you pronounce that James is one of those, those...”

“My dear…please.”

“Don’t patronise me. If I was your dear you wouldn’t need to be dragged kicking and screaming into taking me to a restaurant on the one night of the year that it isn’t all about you. What happened to those days you used to buy me flowers?”

“They ended when you ticked me off for getting carnations instead of roses.”

“We’ve been married more than twenty years, Rodney, you should know these things.”

Rodney moved the automatic gearbox lever to NEUTRAL. He looked out the window at the row of roses that lined the driveway. He noticed a dead flower head and wondered if Shirley had seen it. Happiness, their Malawian gardener, was risking his Christmas bonus.

“You even tried to tell me which florist to get them from, remember?”

“Oh, you are a sensitive little man. I was only trying to help.”

“I read his cell phone messages,” Rodney said, pressing in the cigarette lighter. “And it’s there, in black and white. Your little angel is a dope head. All I need it to prove it.”
Shirley yanked at the door handle. Nothing happened. “Shit,” she said. “Why do you have to lock all our car doors before we even leave the property?”

“Because you used to insist on it. Now it’s a habit.”

“Oh, stop it. I can’t bear to hear you calling my son names. What is it with you?”
“Come now,” he said, placing a hand on her thigh.

“Don’t you dare touch me.”    

“You’re my wife,” he said. He watched the cigarette lighter pop up. “Married couples are supposed to touch each other.” He took back his hand. “Anyway. Hear me out. Just this once.”

“I’m through with listening to your conspiracy theories. You’ve got it in for the poor boy. Just because he’d rather paint than watch Super 15. Get over it. He’s not a rugger bugger like you.”

“It’s got nothing to do with rugby and you know it. I’ve watched every one of his hockey games this season. Which is more than can be said of you.”

Shirley’s scream rang in his ears long after she’d stomped off back down the driveway toward the house. Must be a hot button, Rodney reflected as he watched the front door slam after her. Not much would keep her from an anniversary dinner at La Colombe. He sighed with relief. The chief obstacle to the skeletal plan that had been forming in his mind since he’d read the James’ phone messages was gone. He pressed his gate remote, waited for the heavy metal to rumble by, and tapped the accelerator pedal. The road to freedom. He was almost looking forward to learning the truth.

Rodney’s view from the pool hall’s balcony was perfect. Though it was dusk, he still had a clear view of all four corners of the intersection of Lower Main and Station Roads. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. The glass of Castle Draft that stood on the table in front of him was streaked with condensation. If he were a religious man, he would have thought these temporal blessing proof of the presence of a benevolent God. He folded the Cape Times to the cryptic cross word. He was a patient man.

The white Nissan arrived five minutes before nine. It double parked at the far corner of the intersection. Rodney strained to identify the driver. No luck. It was hopeless from his elevated vantage point. Nothing happened. He sipped at his second beer and waited.

He should have noticed James’ party clothes – the boy was wearing his stock-in-trade black jeans and T-shirt, even the beret he reserved for special occasions – but he didn’t. It was the boy’s walk that gave him away. That arrogant swagger. Rodney felt a familiar loathing. He’d given the kid everything: a stable, albeit love-deprived home, the best schools, the list was endless. And all he got was a bad attitude. Attitude and trouble. And now this?

The boy rapped on the Nissan’s roof. The front passenger door opened a crack, then further. He got in. Rodney downed his last inch of Castle. Though the beer had taken the edge off his earlier anxiety, he felt a new birth of panic. Things were happening too fast. He edged out of his chair and backed inside the pool hall.

Rodney followed close behind the Nissan. By the time he watched it turn left onto Malta Road and accelerate toward Salt River Circle, his infant panic had reached adolescence. Within half a mile from Station Road the neighbourhood had changed completely. Gone was the shabby chic grunge of Observatory. It was a land of hard industrial menace.

When the Nissan turned right and disappeared into the gloom of London Road, Rodney, for the first time, thought, of calling the police. If James really was caught up in the drug trade, they’d both be out of their depths. He’d read enough Deon Meyer novels to know that drugs and violence went hand in glove in gangland Cape Town. But what was the point of calling? The one time he’d tried the 10111 number, it had rung for two minutes before anyone answered. No, Captain Griessel of Meyer’s fiction was just that: a fiction.  They were useless. The lot of them.

Rodney decided to walk the last block. He couldn’t risk being identified via his number plate. Whoever James’ dealer was would think he was a policeman or an informer. He would be putting both father and son in danger. Though there was only one streetlight in the hundred meter length of London Road, the professor could make out the overhead cabling of the railway lines. It was the point where the various tracks of the Salt River shunting ground converged. Not for the first time that night, he silently cursed his firstborn. Why couldn’t the bugger just be normal? He clenched his cell phone and edged down the road.

Rodney stopped. Something had caught his eye. He ducked behind a post. It was scant cover, but it would have to do. He peeked around. The Nissan stood in the centre of a concrete lot, its lights killed. From the jagged outline of the building beyond, Rodney figured it was the loading zone of a factory or warehouse. The ground was littered with weeds and broken bottles. On the far side of the lot towering a wall that he assumed belonged to the adjacent factory. It must have been four meters high and spanned the full width of the yard. He backed up the road a few steps to the cover of wall.

He almost didn’t see the dark form of the Toyota Corolla as it rolled down the gentle incline of London Road toward him.  Whoever was driving was being careful. His lights and engine were off. The only sound was a whirring of the gears in neutral. The car’s momentum just managed to carry it across the grating onto the parking lot and allow it to pull up alongside the Nissan.

For what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened. Huntinton was beginning to think he’d imagined it all. Perhaps it wasn’t James he had followed, after all. Or he had persuaded a mate to borrow his father or older siblings’ car so they could find a quiet place to make out with their girlfriends. Faizel might even be a female. He wished he knew more about his son’s cohort. Anyway, there was no turning back now. He’d have to wait it out.

The driver’s door of the Toyota opened first. A wiry figure with a bandana stepped out. It looked male from a distance. He swaggered to the back of the car and opened the boot.

Two figures emerged from either side of the Nissan. The first had a beret. Could he have been wrong about it being his son? Rodney's last hope took flight he saw its outline. By the time the figure had completed its swagger to rear end of Toyota all doubt was gone. Rodney cupped his cell phone in one hand and typed the police emergency number with the other. He wasn’t going to stand around while his own flesh and blood got taken out in a drug deal gone wrong.

James appeared to stop in front of the other figure. He reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. It looked like he was peeling notes from a wallet. The other figure grabbed at the notes, pocketed them, and reached into the Toyota’s trunk. He pulled out a rectangular box. From a distance it looked like a card board school case from the sixties. He placed it on the ground and flipped the lid.

Rodney’s fingers flirted with his phone’s call button, and waited. The glint of metal from within the school case should have been reason enough for him to have made the call. So why hadn’t he? Surely any father worth his salt would have intervened by then. Even if his son was a delinquent, intent on destroying his own and another life.

Rodney watched James reach into the school case, draw something out and place it on the ground, then repeat the motion. The driver of the Nissan got out the car and stood beside the other two. They whispered amongst each other. It had the look of a pre-game team talk. From their body language it was clear that the other two figures were deferring to James. Whatever was going down, Rodney realised with growing horror: his son was in charge. The stakes had just got higher.

The professor shifted his finger from his cell phone. Calling the police was no longer an option. Though still, technically, a minor, James’ future would be as good as ruined if he was caught brokering a drug deal. Rodney’s pulse throbbed in his ear. The panic within him had reached puberty. He saw his family life, already brittle, fracture: his standing in the community, at the university, irreparably ruined.  

As if on cue, the three figures reached down and each grabbed one of the objects on the ground and held it up to the light. Strange, Rodney thought: they had the silhouettes of fire extinguishers. His pulse slowed for the first time since he’d downed his last beer. Could there be another explanation?

The three figures made a dash for the far wall, stopped, huddled again. Rodney watched as James reached over with his free hand to press a button on his wrist watch. A faint light came on. The boy made a rushed hand signal to the other two. Whatever they were up to, they planned to do fast.

As Rodney’s pulse abated to a steady beat, his earlier panic morphed to anger. What the hell was he doing in some godforsaken ghetto on a Friday night watching three juvenile delinquents play the fool? He resolved to leave. Let the little bugger ruin his life. He almost hoped his son got caught. A night in jail might just give him the scare that he needed. The sooner the boy realised it was time to get serious, the better. It was a rough world out there. No guarantees.

Rodney watched as splotches of red, white and blue started appearing on the wall, lines criss-crossing at random. It took a full minute before the realisation dawned. They were defacing the wall.

One of the boys dropped his ran back to the Toyota and pulled out three empty crates. He returned to the base of the wall and assembled placed them on top of each other. Then he stood back and motioned toward the tower. James nodded thanks at the boy, and, spray can in hand, mounted the crates. Soon the spray can was flashing back and forth like a fluorescent flare in the dark.

Later, Rodney would often wonder why he hadn’t left earlier. Perhaps it was the macabre fascination of seeing a public building being vandalised first-hand. Like most upper middle class South Africans, he’d never really paused to consider who was responsible for the graffiti that they drove past on his rare visits to the urban edge: the scum, riff-raff, and common criminals, the faceless other.

In ten minutes they were done. There were high fives, low five, a whooping. One of the boys pulled out a digital camera. They took turns posing in front of the flash-lighted wall. And then they were gone.

Rodney stood before the wall. He’d never felt more alone. A train rumbled by. A siren wailed in the distance. He waited, eyes closed, to adjust to the light. When he opened them and saw the painting, his world changed for all times. An image of unimagined beauty imprinted itself on the eye of his mind. It was a Rembrandt in perfect rendition. A loving father, him, and his repentant son.

Copyright: Ian Sutherland
(This story may not be distributed without the prior written permission of Ian Sutherland)



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




Madibaland World Literary Festival 2020
November 20 – 30th

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 t.b.c
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



(still to be announced)

For further queries, please contact Darryl Earl David on or on Whatsapp 0664558822. Website

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Forever BookBedonnerd

Peter Baker & Darryl David (co-directors)
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