Chairman of Fools

Chairman of Fools (2005) by Zimbabwean author Shimmers Chinodya has a very wobbly start. Coming from the high of the previous book (Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries), perhaps a book hangover, I found the thin prose in Chairman of Fools quite off-putting. Despite being a little fast paced, I grew frustrated by the lack of a substantive plot early on, whose effect is that one senses a rambling of sorts.

A little research online explains the book’s lack of plot—it is loosely autobiographical. It reveals the crisis in the life of Farai, a popular and well-known literary writer and academic who has just returned to Zimbabwe from the United States on leave. An alcoholic, he suffers a mental breakdown and is diagnosed with the bipolar syndrome. Upon his admission to a psychiatric facility, he becomes the chairman of the patients there—or the “chairman of fools”. Through his reflections and experiences, we learn that he is troubled by a combination of factors—a creeping lack of confidence in his literary career, an increasingly assertive and independent wife, the deaths of his mother, father and brother in rapid succession, and competing pulls of modernity, Christian faith, and traditionalism.

Chairman of Fools is rich in portraying Zimbabwean society, and uses Farai to provide a microcosm of middle class life in Zimbabwe. A number of themes are infused into this short book—just over 180 pages long—such as loneliness and dislocation in exile; traditional practices (such as a proposed visit to a traditional spiritual healer to “cure” Farai’s mental instability) juxtaposed against Christian faith (which his wife espouses); materialism and consumerism; a slowly unraveling Zimbabwean economy (passing references to the effects of land reform and a weakening currency are made); and the effects of all these on marriage and family.

To this extent I think Chairman of Fools is a worthwhile read, although I would have been much happier if it was stylistically and aesthetically richer. Chinodya is able to reveal the tensions and dilemmas in Farai’s life in a convincing and dramatic way, but is let down by the disjointedness and thinness of plot and prose. I would however still like to read more of Chinodya, especially his award-winning novel, Harvest of Thorns.

Picture credit: Goodreads

Waiting

Patience conspires with time—

A ponderous constant, a found-here

To-be-left-here, unseen but felt—

And forces upon us a lifetime of waiting:

For a lunch order, the train, the bus, a flight;

Or a service—a document from Home Affairs,

A love to be returned, a pain to ease,

A wound to heal; perhaps for the sun to set

To relish its delight, or the dawn to rise

To hearken upon a birdsong; we wait

For the summer to revel in gaiety,

Or for the winter to create different memories;

For a war to end, an answered prayer,

Perhaps for times to change—

A hope to be realized, an ambition fulfilled,

Or a penny to drop in the bowl—we wait

In haste, banal bore, or suspense;

In anguish, or palpitating excitement

With a fuss, or not a care at all

In stark awareness, or sweet oblivion;

Gazing upon stars and blue horizons

Pondering over vast spaces, wondering why:

We wait upon life itself.

Picture credit: Etsy.com

The Luminaries

I must first convey my warm congratulations to my fellow Kenyan (proud to say that), Okwiri Oduor, for having won the 2014 Caine Prize for African Writing for her story My Father’s Head. I was pretty sure it was one of the strong contenders, along with Efemia Chela’s Chicken and Diane Awerbuck’s Phosphorescence, and if you missed my take on it you may find it here.

Now that the World Cup is over, I can do some greater amount of reading, something I guiltily haven’t been able to do much of over the past one month. I have indeed read Eleanor Catton’s Man Booker Prize Winning Book, The Luminaries (2013), for over a month—the longest I have taken save for an all-time favourite, Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

Part of the reason—the World Cup being the other part of course—is that The Luminaries is quite voluminous—over 800 pages. But that has never discouraged a lover of words, and I was soon drawn to its lovely prose, beautiful sentences, and cleverly crafted story. I was immersed in 19^th Century New Zealand so convincingly that I felt like an invisible observer walking the streets of Hokitika, pitying Anna Wetherell and Crosbie Wells, stalking Francis Carver to his nefarious ends, marveling at Walter Moody’s and the Crown Hotel’s dozen’s mettle and elaborate counterplot, and so on. It has been a while since I read a story so elaborate and convincing, and one is astonished to learn that, for all its seeming intricacy, it is simply a story about love and fate, or destiny—as written in the stars.

Walter Moody, running from a broken family, arrives in Hokitika, New Zealand, and chances upon a group of twelve men gathered to solve a mystery—the disappearance of a wealthy man, Emery Staines; the apparent attempted suicide of a whore (a term used descriptively in the main, though in some conversations its derogatory sense was inescapable), Anna Wetherell; and the discovery of a fortune in a home whose owner, Crosbie Wells, has died. What follows is a slow unfolding of the mystery, told through the gathered men and through subsequent events as well as flashbacks to the past.

The depiction of life in New Zealand in the 19^th Century is so complete and credible that it is hard to believe this story was written in 2013. It is quite a feat to write so beautifully and in a form of language so evocative of this era. Whether in the description of places, or the seas, the characters, and events, Catton employs a style that is as expansive as it is detailed, and as lazily poetic as it is vivid. The lovely and at times thick prose is complemented and tempered in a harmonious way by great and entertaining conversations. They are irresistible in their portrayals of dramatic events, especially the scenes at the Courthouse. They flow in a most natural way, betraying the tensions, motivations, and temperaments of the characters.

Through the course of the story we see some pertinent themes such as colonialism, exploitation, the destructive effects of opium, revenge, and even corruption. The novel is also a tribute to the Maori people and culture in a way. These themes unfold as a given, as the way life was at the time, and thus one doesn’t sense a pontification about them.

However, astrology comes to the fore as a tool used to explain the love between Anna Wetherell and Emery Staines, whose lives, according to a reading of the stars, are fated to entangle. Is it possible—I am not at all sure—that the twelve men gathered at the Crown Hotel evoke some kind of celestial formation, probably the twelve lunar cycles, and perhaps Walter Moody, as the man who sets in motion the counterplot to tackle the villainous Carver, is the earth around which the lunar cycles take place? In the context of astrology, I suppose the luminaries in the story are Anna and Emery. Indeed, like the sun and the moon, the light providers, they both provide the keys to solving the mystery, and are drawn together and their fates linked.

Man Booker Prize winning books have a reputation for dwelling on the “human condition”, tackling innate and profound human attributes. It would be hard to point to one in this book other than an intrinsic desire to confront evil and vanquish it: the thirteen men all work in concert to reverse the devious plan by Francis Carver and Lydia Wells.

Some say that this story could have been much shorter—perhaps 400-pages instead of 800. But it wouldn’t be the masterpiece that it is, would it? I wouldn’t want my relish to end soon while reading such lovely prose:

As the conjugal act cannot be spoken of aloud for reasons both sacred and profane, the ritual of the pipe was, for the pair of them, a holy ritual that was unspeakable and mortified, just as it was ecstatic and divine: its sacredness lay in its very profanity, and in its profanity, its sacred form. For what a solemn joy it was, to wait in silence for the resin to melt; to ache for it, shamelessly, wondrously, as the sweet scent of it reached one’s nose; to pull the needle through the tar; to cut the flame, and to lie back, and take the smoke in one’s body, and feel it, miraculous, rushing to one’s very extremities, one’s finders, one’s toes, the top of one’s head! And how tenderly he looked upon her, when they awoke.

Reading The Luminaries is a journey of delight, a luxury whose end one becomes averse to, and a joy on which one is content to linger. I would doubly recommend it.

Picture Credit: Goodreads

A Love Recalled

‘Babuuu! Fatima is harassing me!’ comes Hussein’s half entreaty, half-wail. This boy, six-years old, petulant, soft-spoken, thoughtful, introverted, worries me. I wonder when he will learn to stand up for himself against his feisty four-year old sister.

‘Wewe Fatima! Stop it!’ I admonish her in half-jest. She darts a naughty glance at me, a twinkle in her eye and a smile playing on her lips, every bit as spirited and tongue-in-cheek as her mother—my daughter Zuwena. Even now, she has disappeared in the vast multitude here at the beach, cheekily leaving me to tend to her kids while she presumably catches up with some long lost friend. She would come back, as I know from past experience, with excited chatter about something obscure—I have never failed to fall for it—and the question wouldn’t be raised altogether.

I do not mind, however. I quite like to play mediator between the feisty and the petulant. Sometimes I would even indulge them with magical stories of the past, or play with them—occasions Fatima takes as freedom to bully me somehow, pulling my beard, or grabbing my cap and trotting off with it, shrieking with delight as I curse and chase after her. Hussein would join in the chase, emboldened, and more often than not we would end up in a squealing heap on the ground—or to be more precise, Hussein and Fatima would be squaring off upon my chest and stomach in what I expect to be a timeless sibling duel.

Today, however, I prefer to just sit under the shade and drown in the salty warmth of the breeze, blown in tandem with the tide’s swish and hush, whistling calm tales and memories of times past. As usual, a carnival atmosphere hangs around the beach. I resent this crowd. I yearn for the quiet and peace of the beach I knew as a young boy accompanying my father to fish in the sea, when the green of the swaying palm trees was truly green, and the blue of the sea and sky was truly blue. It never failed to take my breath away, this beach—its expanse, white sands, fishes washed ashore, salt in the air, and the mystery of jinns lurking in the shadows of a full moon. It is here where the sunlight was glorious but now somehow isn’t, and where the moonlight shone on Christine’s wide-eyed chance glance upon me.

Zuwena remarked the other day that I have become more thoughtful lately. I presume this is expected in one’s sunset years—age seems to weigh down on one more and more, becoming progressively difficult for life to carry. One can see it in the slight stoop of my shoulders and upper back, in the slow deliberateness of my trudge, in the relieved sighs I heave when I sit, and in the strength I draw from a supporting hand. My wife Aisha used to make fun of me—and I of her—and it was easy, even bearable, but now she rests, may Allah grant her jannah.

Now Fatima faces me—eyes wide, nose flaring, and catching her breath, ready to make a damning reportage, most likely of some tit-for-tat miscreant deed by Hussein. Even at her young age, I can see Aisha already in her curious and restless eyes, her mischief, beauty, and tough love, apparent only after she bullies her object of affection. Aisha’s eyes, when we first met through a calculating uncle, seemed to know that our fate was already sealed, and she smiled as though to say I was a pretty good pick. I was well read in Deen, my family was well known and respected for its staunch faith, and I believe she thought I was good looking. We both knew it wasn’t really up to us—these considerations had already been taken into account by both families, and a ‘chance’ introduction was a trivial formality. She might have known about Christine—she was from the island, but word travelled fast even in those days—but she never once raised this subject. We took a great liking to each other, one that developed into profound love and companionship over the years. I terribly miss her now.

Fatima thinks I am ignoring her, and pulls my beard. ‘Babu! Look at Hussein playing with a stranger!’ Which is to say she is jealous. Indeed Hussein has made a new friend, and together they are engrossed in building a sand castle. I hear him mumbling something about Fort Jesus, to which his father, constantly away on business in Dubai, took him last month.

‘Hussein!’

‘Naam Babu!’

‘Come get your sister and play together.’ I turn to Fatima with a playful smile and say, ‘Go, show your brother how to build a better castle, that one looks bad!’ She brightens up at this implicit compliment, a nod to her belief that she should be in charge. She runs off, her whiff of jealousy gone, and soon they are all getting along.

They bring me so much joy, these two. Alhamdulillah, I have been blessed and lucky to have such a warm family: from my late grandparents and parents; my brothers, sisters and extended family; and to Aisha and our children and grandchildren. Zuwena, a doting daughter to say the least, never wanted us—Aisha and I—out of her sight. She decided to stay close to us, especially as her brother Mustapha decided to settle in Nairobi, that clever city. I must pressure him to marry—the boy is taking too long. I must see more grandchildren. But where will he find a suitable Muslim wife in that big city? I have asked him to spend more time here at the Coast, but he seems reluctant. Like Hussein, he is thoughtful and inward, a little different, much like me in my youth.

Yet, as happy and lucky as I have been, I can’t help but wonder how it would have been with Christine. Her of the arresting hazel eyes and teeth as white as the sand on the beach, of the pretty nose perched with a sculptor’s precision upon her pretty face, of the high cheekbones and deep dimples, and of the long eyelashes and thin, smiling lips. As the moonlight shone on her that night a great many years ago—under a palm tree I have revisited countless times, her dress fluttering with the warm breeze, standing there, graceful, fair-skinned, smiling—I became aware of a warmth I had never felt before.

‘Salaam…’ I stopped in my accustomed greeting, as, in my slow awakening from a befuddlement, I realized she couldn’t be Muslim—she had no hijab on. I must have hesitated as I searched for the right salutation, for she giggled—a high-pitched, melodious giggle that sounded sweet as a bird’s song. Conscious of my awkwardness, I laughed too.

‘Such a lovely night!’ her voice sang. I had never heard such a beautiful voice. It carried an irresistible cheer, inviting me to a conversation. I made a step towards her and away from the boat, to which my father had sent me to fetch the last fish harvest of the day.

‘Yes, it’s always lovely here in Diani. We are used to this.’ Thinking these words to be inappropriate, perhaps belittling her observation, I hastily emphasised, ‘Yes! Yes, very lovely indeed.’ I glanced at her, nervous. She was lost in the beauty of the full moon shining upon the calm waters of the sea. She sighed, her eyes dreamy and absently happy.

‘We don’t get to see this where we are from,’ she remarked. ‘Back there it’s always the mountain and the cold and endless plantations of coffee.’ She turned to regard me, her eyes casting a helpless befuddlement again upon me. I had to say something—she seemed to be a natural conversationalist. My anxiety increased, for I tended to ponder before talking.

‘You are very lucky to live here—you can’t imagine the cold in Nyeri! I’m so glad we have moved here,’ she continued.

‘Ah, you are most welcome. You will love this place. I’ll show you around,’ I ventured, more relaxed. Something about her set me at ease.

‘Great!’ She turned again, a question forming on her lips. ‘Is it safe to swim at night?’

I feigned seriousness. ‘Actually, I wanted to warn you. You shouldn’t be alone outside like this. There are jinns,’ I whispered. Her eyes widened in contemplation, searching my face. We both burst out laughing.

‘You are very funny,’ she laughed. Although I dramatized my seriousness, I wasn’t sure the question of jinns was entirely funny, as I knew one or two people who could swear to have seen them. But having made her laugh, I was loath to further contemplate this question.

She enrolled in the local High School where we all went to—it was the only one in Diani at the time, and the next six years were among the happiest of my life. We were inseparable, doting on each other like lovebirds. Many thought it was a great friendship, platonic and harmless, and we quite didn’t mind putting a name to it—we made each other happy, and not much else mattered. Apart, we would fret and worry about the other; together, we would lose ourselves in bliss, unaware of the passage of time, or of people around us. Whether in silence, during which we pondered with great sighs the magnitude of what we shared, or in passionate conversation, we found a happy and undeclared harmony, a natural coming together of souls.

Thus, it was an inescapable fact that I was bound to announce to my father my wish to spend the rest of my life with Christine. We had just finished our A-levels, and I thought of myself as a man, according myself the right to approach him in a way I had never attempted before.

A stern faced man, my father surprised me when he settled back in his favourite chair and let out a soft, benign laugh. I was thrown off-balance, as I had expected a tongue lashing of sorts, for which I had prepared myself.

‘Ahmed, my son, you know it’s not going to happen,’ he said in a steady voice whose resolve was stark, and whose rebuke was greater than what a berating voice could possibly carry.

‘Habibi,’ my mother, sitting next to my father, began. ‘She is a good girl. We quite like her, but you know our ways, habibi, we have taught you well. Think about your family.’ She spoke in a calm voice, but I could see her eyes carried a fear—the very possibility that a son might betray and dishonor the family and Deen seemed too terrible to contemplate.

In the agony of the weeks that followed, I tried to remain steadfast in my wish, which I made obvious to the rest of the family, and which the neighbourhood came to know of. What I had imagined became the subject of hushed discussions, and once, even of a Friday sermon at the local Masjid. I sat through dissuading family meetings, petulant and stubborn. Soon, however, the overpowering implausibility of my aspiration began to unfold before me, and when Christine informed me one Sunday afternoon, tearful and hysterical, that her parents were sending her abroad to study, I knew it was altogether impossible. In her hysteria she mentioned—though I am not quite sure—that they were anxious to get her away from the all the tension and from me.

Well, not that all this matters now. I have had Aisha and a glorious family, I have been happy, and I couldn’t wish for anything more. I look to my right in search of Hussein and Fatima, and I can’t see them. A mild panic comes over me, and I look again, left, right, but they are nowhere to be seen. Frantic now, I sit up and look behind me, and there, releasing excitement pent up while waiting for me to turn and find them, as they knew I would, they let out massive and delighted squeals.

‘Enhe! Huo ndio mchezo, eh?’ I get up and run after them. A large tidal wave hits the shore, unexpected, and surprised and excited screams from the crowd rend the air. I bump into a few people rushing for the next wave, and catch up with the feisty and petulant pair. I feel exalted, my spirits soar. I let myself fall on the sand, and they immediately pounce upon me. Hussein is quite heavy as he tries to restrain Fatima from pulling my beard. I laugh and mock, they shriek with relish.

If Christine chances upon this scene, I’m quite certain she wouldn’t feel missed.

Picture credit: Wetcanvas