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the most important article about money you will ever read is to be found here

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It’s brutal, obscene and acutely insightful -

Laduma by AK Thembeka
Pine Slopes Publications
First published September 2004
ISBN 0-9584755-8-X

The Queen’s English is a feast of tedious moralities, a language ill-equipped to celebrate. I dream of cutting out my tongue and devouring it; my mother tongue. In this way to go beyond speech; to return to that oneiric solitude before language. - Laduma Moloi

It’s brutal, obscene and acutely insightful. It’s Laduma by AK Thembeka - Thembeka meaning “he that can be relied upon to tell the truth” in Zulu. This new South African writer is unafraid of public opinion and takes no prisoners in his radical and innovative first novel, a book that was published in September 2004 and has already been reprinted. The front cover illustration - an unsettling, enigmatic painting by V Mojapelo - vaguely hints at what lies between the covers.

In visionary, surrealistic style, Thembeka illuminates the convoluted labyrinths of one man’s psyche and leads the reader on a mythological quest into no man’s land in search of identity. Laduma Moloi, “Jozi’s Toxic Messiah”, is Thembeka’s displaced, insatiable and inconsolable anti-hero who kills his girlfriend, his mother and his childhood friend on his journey towards self-realisation.

A hermitic dreadlocked figure in a modern wilderness, Laduma is neither a pleasant nor loveable protagonist, but it is difficult not to appreciate his intelligence and highly-developed consciousness. Part human, part holy, he is a multi-layered shape-shifter who burns with the fire of divine madness. In Book One, Bantu Nihilismus, he assumes various guises, including the magical Mantis, the Devil, Friend of the Gallery and Unemployed Gynaecologist. In Book Two, Uhuru Continua, he is reborn - as Kafka.

Thembeka is an enlightened spinner of fables who skilfully weaves cosmic symbolism into his work. A cast of black and “non-black” angels and demons trip through the stream of consciousness narrative, appearing, disappearing, and reappearing like delirious dreams and terrifying hallucinations. Laduma’s seductive, elusive Angel of Death is queen of the action and, in the second part of the novel, confronts him with her irresistible force of attraction.

The pace of the novel is, at times, both manic and inspired. There is a savage pulse, an explosive sense of urgency, as the reader is taken across the bustling city streets of Johannesburg, over the continent to Europe, and back to South Africa, while being intermittently dropped down rabbit holes.

“Why I did it? Somebody has to play the Devil. It’s a role the good aren’t fond of. The good. The world teems with them and their tight-lipped sense of superiority. History’s most virulent epidemic, the Bubonic Plague, was incurable and brought death to 43 million people. Which is not many people nowadays, unfortunately. We need something a lot more rigorous. Possibly that’s why I did it. To get the ball rolling.”

Laduma is a dance of death, a potent and revelatory brew of metaphysical dimension. Thembeka draws from a wealth of sources: philosophy, mythology, theology, the occult and classical literature.

This is a tale of exile, rage, despair, treachery and betrayal. Ultimately, however, like the first card of the tarot’s major arcana, The Magician, Thembeka reminds us the universe is a cosmic game and reality is an illusion, a projection of our consciousness. There is much that is hidden, concealed, buried deep within us. We have the power to transform, to develop our potential by exerting free will, to become masters of ourselves and our destinies, and to determine the course of our lives.

In a letter to Oskar Pollak, Franz Kafka (the other Kafka) wrote, “…the books we need are the kind that act upon us like a misfortune, that make us suffer like the death of someone we love more than ourselves, that make us feel as though we were on the verge of suicide, or lost in a forest remote from all human habitation - a book should serve as the axe for the frozen sea within us.” Laduma is a work of profound psychological complexity that will, perhaps, stay with the reader for the rest of his or her life.

Undoubtedly, many will find Thembeka’s novel offensive. In this case, one could possibly consider Aristotle’s notion that “it is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”

Like the lifting of a veil, the unlocking of a door, or a stinging slap across the face, Thembeka’s powerful, haunting voice will wake you from your fugue state and force you to see the world, if only momentarily, through new eyes. This is groundbreaking South African writing. Laduma is the challenging, risk-taking stuff cult classics are made of.

this review was first published by litnet and was also published in the special south african issue of unlikely stories, edited by dave chislett

“A sense of beauty is always dangerous and antagonistic to any dictatorship because it implies a realm extending beyond the limits that a dictatorship can impose on human beings. Beauty is a territory that escapes the control of the political police. Being independent and outside of their domain, beauty is so irritating to dictators that they attempt to destroy it whichever way they can. Under a dictatorship, beauty is always a dissident force, because a dictatorship is itself unaesthetic, grotesque; to a dictator and his agents, the attempt to create beauty is an escapist or reactionary art.”

Reinaldo Arenas
Before Night Falls

They said he was coming. Some who knew who he was winced and held their
jaws.Others scurried about not thinking about the idea of seeing him coming
riding down the hill on his cb100 motorcycle his larger than life
sunglasses, tooth pick in his mouth and flashy polyester shirt. The children
were excited as they played marbles in the front yard.

Granma by this time stood outside just by the dead cotton tree bowed
over, girgling a glass of salt water, When she was done she spat it out over
the grey hard rock of the yard.
She had been bowed their for long time and we all didnt quite understand
what she was doing. The more she girgled the more blood came.

At long last the man on the motorcycle pulled up to the gate. He was
followed by a dozen or so children with dirty feet and dirty clothes..
panting and pointing at my granma who by this time was seated and moaning.

“Lawd”,she said, me sey me mouth a hurt me you see. me neva feel so much pain
not even when me was givin birth.”
The man on the shiny motorcycle by this time had dismounted and was setting
up a portable table. He had a big bag and in that bag he had all these
instruments that looked more like tools for a car .
They were shiny and glistened in the daylight..

The children meantime, stood gasping and holding their mouths. Granma
moaned, steadily her eyes closed and head turned up to the sky, not paying
any attention to the children or the setting of the table around her. In the
distance cocks crowed and goats nayed.A small transistor radio gave scores
for the west indies test match with England..

I brought a pail, like i was asked, and set it at my granma’s feet. The man
thanked me and went off to wash his hands. When he came back, he was dressed
in a white apron with strange stains on it.. It looked like the butcher’s
apron only shorter and much cleaner.

Now aunt sista,he said, what can mi do fi you,Granma looked at him and
rolled her eyes, the cloth in her mouth was filled with blood.She removed it
to reveal two big crooked stubs .. the children were silent .I stared on
listening to the doctor bird nearby sucking on the blossom of a banana tree.

The man stared for a long time at her mouth and moved it up and down. He
poked and pushed and asked ..dis hurt, dat hurt.. granma responded with
ohh’s and ahh’s.

When he was done he turned and picked up one of the shiny instruments and
proceeded to stick it in gran’s mouth pushing and pulling. Gran’s eyes
rolled back in her head as her feet kicked against the rocks. The children
all gasped and covered their eyes.

Not I though, i just stood their and watched as the instrument pulled the
two stubs, blood trailing.I heard the ping as they fell in the white pale
all bloodied.

Then just like that it was over.He packed his instruments back in his black
bag.. took his bloodstained apron off,took the money from granma, and rode
back up the road with the children running behind him..Granma meantime held
her jaw and was in deep pain.
When she saw me looking at her ..she said..ahhh mi pickni it hurt but mi haf
fi bear it.”
She tried to laugh but instead just dribbled all over the stones..

          Charlie Manson is irritated to see that Sammy The Shake has brought
The Son of Man to the appointment. The Son of Man is brandishing two lead
pencils he’d jammed up his own ass a month ago as a protest against the
war on drugs. Although Charlie entirely agrees with The Son of Man’s
sentiments he does not like the close proximity of the two shit-stained
pencils to his olfactory organ. Sammy The Shake mutters grimly that
he’s not interested in politics, he’s got the shakes again.
          The three of them wander around the inner city streets for a while
looking for The Penguin to score from but he’s nowhere to be found and
soon Sammy The Shake has got the shakes so badly that Charlie Manson
pulls out a Stanley knife and holds it to Sammy’s throat all the while
yelling “Quit that shaking dammit, quit it” but Sammy can’t stop
shaking which is the very reason he’s called Sammy The Shake. Just then
and by way of a solution The Son of Man has the bright idea of selling
the shit-encrusted pencils to the Institute of Contemporary Art which
is just off the Herengracht. They jump into a taxi which is immediately
mired in a huge traffic jam on the Vijzelgracht.
          The taxi driver is wearing a yellow plastic Star of David stapled to
his ear. He turns nonchalantly towards Charlie Manson and asks:
          “So how long did it take?”
          Charlie Manson snarls.
          “Nine months.”
          “And when were you born?”
          “Two days ago.”
          “And to murder your mother?”
          “Twenty seven years.”
          “Oh. You’re slow. Now for your father.”
          “He ignored me.”
          “Forgive him.”
          The traffic unjams, exposing the remains of a cyclist who seems to
have mutated into a cyborgian tramrail sculpture. Man and machine,
perfectly fused in a classical postmortemist sculpture. Charlie Manson
grins and asks the taxi driver for a receipt. He pays with fake
banknotes, Euro replicas picked up in Albania before the nuking.
Charlie, Sammy The Shake and The Son of Man rush into the crisp front
office of the venerable Art Institute just before closing time. The
shit-stained pencils are examined by an owlish curator. He hums and
hahs. Scrapes off a piece of the excrement and places it under a
microscope. Makes measurements. Dabs and daubs chemicals onto the
sample. Checks the results on his computer. Finally the curator turns
to the motley trio with an almost-smile playing on the sides of his
mouth.
          “They’re originals.”
          He pays Charlie Manson in cash. The banknotes smell suspiciously
of wine, but seem authentic to Charlie. A month after the transaction is
conducted the valuable pencils are accidentally sharpened by a
fastidious Morroccan cleaning lady who is fired on the spot when the
heinous art vandalism is discovered.
          Meanwhile our merry brigade, their pockets brim-filled with
wine-stained banknotes, rush back to the Zeedijk where the Penguin has
finally arrived. The Son of Man rolls the bones while Charlie Manson
scores and then the three of them share a single rusty needle in order
to save funds.

first published by underground voices

ian kerkhof and eva huttunen

It was the day after
The votes had all been counted
The day before
The new government
Would be installed
In fact, it was a day like any other
Kain was sentenced
To kill his brother
Eve used apple lubrication
To convince Adam to be her lover
I woke up late
Constipated
None of the shit inside me
Wanted to come out
So I wrote this poem
Instead of crapping

first published by xanga

remember that first weekend
we met, we jumped into
your car, drove up
through the mountains, excited
but unsettled by this
spontaneous advent.
you wanted to hike,
I wanted to swim, you
let me have my way.
we lay down along
the narrow river’s
edge, shared a threadbare
orange towel, watched
the water dip and swirl,
sweep round mossy
boulders. inspired by
the scenery, I told you
you had eagle’s eyes.
we drank pink champagne
from long-stemmed flutes, ate
leftover chocolate cake,
talked quietly, sticky hands
entwined, you stroked my
face, head cushioned
in your lap. brooding clouds
rolled over blue peaks,
it began to pelt warm
summer rain, but we were
wet already. giddy
with wine and secrets,
bedraggled, grinning ear to
ear, something unaccountably
light was born.

Constant work is the law of art as of life, for art is idealised creation. The great artists, the complete poets, await neither command nor inspiration. They give birth today, tomorrow, always. From this follows the habit of labour, this constant knowledge of the difficulties which maintain them in permanent concubinage with the Muse, with the creative power.

Balzac

for more information about the beautiful films of dionysos andronis check out his site, here

ian kerkhof and yvette van boven, amsterdam, 1993

They found her on a sunday, with her clothes torn and thrown over
her head.Her body was badly decomposed and half eaten.The john crows
skipped and jumped around her sprawled body as birds overhead chirped
the day away. The sky lit up with lightning as the clouds drifted by.

In the distance you could see rows and rows of green tomatoes and a
bus coming round the bend.Grasshoppers sung in the tall blades of grass
surrounding the gully.

Death they said was swift, she was thrown over the gully in a clear sweep.
Now her mother and brothers were weepind and moaning.You could hear
their screams and curses through the whole district. My granma kept
spitting over her shoulders and my cousins were bent over vomitting in
the back. It seemed that they had led the search party that found
her. Aunt Gladys,her mother, stood, holding onto a gate post as her
granchildren faned her.Granma was there pointing and sending people to
fetch the undertaker and get the coffin maker.

Her voice was harsh and angry and noone really understood what was
going on.Then the police arrived in their large land rover jeep.They
didnt really show that much concern save for their stiff uniform and
their dark glasses and dark boots.They emerged from the jeep vainly
adjusting and fixing themselves.

One of them took notes as aunt Gladys told them of her daughters
routine and the other just twirled his billy club and looked around at
all of us. I stood to the side looking at his gun hanging on his waist
and watching the reflection of my own shadow on his dark glasses. When
they were done, they got in their jeep and turned and went back up the
road.
“Lickle good that will do” said granma, as they sped away.

By this time a crowd had gathered by our gate outside the graveyard.
They had all come to give more details about the when and where of
aunt Gladys’ daughter.But it was too late she was dead and layed
sprawled in the gully two districts away. She had been missing for two
weeks and noone knew where she was and noone would ever know to this
day what really happened.

There were more rapes and murders in the area, some more gruesome than
the other. There were stories of the “sweety man abducting school
children ,with the promise of sweets. They always said never get inna
car with a cooley man, cause you neva know”

Many things happened after my cousin was murdered but noone knew who
did it.Aunt Gladys and granma held a funeral and buried what little
was found of her. It rained that sunday as loads of people gathered
across from our veranda to pay their last respects. The local papers
were there and the odd visitor fom the other district.

I hung about under the pimento trees, just near my greatgran’s grave
and watched as the old folks cried their eyes out . The day brought
mosquitoes and they were eating away at my feet. i was frightened and
really wondered what murder was and who could do such a thing.

The other boys were scattered around the graveyard watching as the
coffin was lowered into this hole. Then they began to sing and i stood
still remembering my cousin staggering through the district on hot
days laughing and pointing as we played marbles or fly kites. Granma
always said when she saw me staring at her that she was “touched”.

Now what remained of her touched body was being lowered in a deep
hole. That evening would find me dressed and ready to go back to
school far away from Lime Hall and this talk of rape and murder. But
in my mind’s eye though, my mind would still be on her, my aunt
Gladys’s and her sons grief.For they had lost a sister and a daughter
who wasnt intelligent enough to even know her name.

Here we see that the snake has crawled into a vase of flowers. A very ordinary ‘domestic’ situation. The contrast between the snake and the vase of flowers should disturb the viewer. Yet the beauty attracts. The white flowers all have black centres. The weight of the snake is around the thickest of the stems: the ‘protea-like’ flower. The yellow wall contrasts with the dark and disturbing skyscape. The moon is full and potent. There are no markings on the snake to keep the image clean and simple. The vase of flowers for me is a particularly potent apartheid image: the flowers/plants all have a shortened life span - they have been removed from their natural environment and although ‘blooming beautifully’ they are tainted with an inner decay.
The snake therefore is displaying its mission - to bring to consciousness that which cannot (or will not) be ’seen’ - the disharmony being created by the aparthied state.

ek verstaan niks nie
ek is poesdronk
ek treur oor die dood van mense
wie ek het nie geken nie
heimwee spreek ek
geen afrikaans nie
hierdie gedig is fokken skeef
ek glo in dimensies
heimwee is ’n kak gewoonte
asseblief niks glo wat ek sê nie
hartseer
myn taal is hartseer
en ek ook
ek is poesdronk
ek verstaan niks nie

first published by litnet