Petina Gappah’s first novel, ‘The Book of Memory,’ is an epistolary tale of an albino girl named Memory who hails from Mufakose, Zimbabwe (Clearly we were meant to remember the protagonist’s name, if no-one else’s).
As a result of a combination of events, or Ngozi (vengeful spirit) or whatever else the reader decides to ascribe Memory’s fate to, she is charged with and incarcerated for the murder of a man, her guardian – Lloyd (fear not reader, this is not a spoiler, Gappah reveals these details early on).
The conditions of the jail from which Memory writes are part of a system that inculcates people to acquiesce wholly to an oppressive environment.
Gappah literally and literarily cuts through the s**t of the ablution block of Zimbabwe’s Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison, while simultaneously decrying oppression with a pen that is mightier and more virile than many swords we have witnessed.
I have thus dubbed her my ‘Wright’-in-shining-amour for climbing onto her high horse of a soapbox and stabbing bigotry with a pen tip so fine that it bled the ink that produced this book.
Now, before I am accused of being a sycophantic reviewer, I too will climb onto my soap box and justify why I’m an unashamed fan of this… magnus opus (I was going to say book but that didn’t seem grand enough a title—go big or go home right?).
PIC: COURTESY OF THEOWLONTHEBOOKSHELF.WORDPRESS.COM
Bias established– now let’s dive right in.
At the core of the story is bigotry in its multitudinous forms. Gappah provides provocative perspectives and uses lampoonery as educational social commentary. The tensions between the marginalised and their oppressors (even when they are self-inflicted) are thoroughly explored. She addresses issues of core versus periphery, colonialism, racism, sexism, homophobia, and the whole kitchen sink of ‘isms’— it’s all in there, neatly packaged in well-formed sentences and mirth-inspiring descriptions of Zimbabwean life and the characters that populate it.
The characters are so familiar, and the fact that she uses familiar neighbourhoods, quintessential Zimbabwean names, as well as factual current and historical events of Zimbabwe, ensures that the reader never has to work hard to suspend disbelief.
The characters range from prison guards, such as Synodia, with blonde plastic weaves and hairstyles named after famous people like Rihanna, to a ‘baby dumper’ sharing the “D block” with Memory, to a racist Rhodie named Ian (this particular Ian was not a Smith, but equally racist), to the archetypal Rasta artist planning his way to Europe via an older white foreign benefactress’ bed.
The character to round it all off is Lloyd, the white hipster who has gone one hundred percent native and is fully embedded in Zimbabwean culture—he turns out to be more well-versed in local traditions and language than Sekuru Kaguvi himself. The characters’ interactions, mannerisms, as well as thoughts are astoundingly astute and peppered with humour and pastiche.
Even though there are multiple explored interactions, Lloyd and Memory’s relationship is at the epicentre around which the plot thickens into a “memorable book” (if we may borrow some words from the title). Lloyd and Memory are superficially polar opposites – the rich, educated white male at the helm of Zimbabwean society, and the albino girl from “Mfombi” who has experienced discrimination from birth.
In addition to social commentary, ‘The Book of Memory’ is also an ode to language and culture. The author’s command of the written word is literally in your face each and every page. Her stunning command of the English language is refreshingly matched with an equal respect and nod to the beauty of local languages such as Shona and Ndebele.
There are words or phrases she does not translate for the English readers when they don’t disrupt the context necessary to understand the book and this is a defiant move a’ la Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, demonstrating pride in one’s own language and providing Shona-speaking locals with a metaphorical wink.
In a country where English is deemed superior, the choices Gappah makes on how to navigate the politics of language won me over. The politics of language is fraught with drama in Zimbabwe. There is a pervasive brainless notion that English proficiency is the true sign of class.
Unfortunately, this farce does not stop at proficiency but even spills over into accents. People deem stereotypical Anglo-Saxon accents to be superior, notwithstanding the fact that accent or language has nothing to do with intelligence or quality of content.
Memory touches on these ideas as she describes her friend Mercy as someone from a mission school whose English was learnt “third-hand, the accent undiluted, the ambition strong.”
Memory’s parodies of the other characters reveal how we cling to the petty “Ma-salad mentality” (briefly explained as snobs ostensibly more British than Princess Di–this name came about because salad is a vestige of westernisation).
Colonialists really penetrated the minds of many but what is worse still is how the mentally-inculcated have taken over in a quest to re-colonise themselves and stamp out the diversity which makes the world so beautiful. This diversity in opinion, looks etc. is artfully depicted through Memory’s observations. With regard to language she aptly points out in her letter, “We have sacrificed our languages at the altar of what the whites deem supreme.”
A pet peeve I have with many African texts is that the authors tend to use the adoption of western norms, dressing, language or even education as the argument for equality. Gappah does not. She does not give her protagonist the typical besides-complexion-we-are-the-same arguments that claim parity based on dressing like the Queen or speaking in iambic pentameter so well that Shakespeare would blush.
She does not use her western education and exposure as the reason she should not be discriminated against. Those acquired traits are not what make us equal as humans. Memory’s sense of self is not rooted in superficial likeness or imitation. Refreshingly, her cogitations on racial relations do not take us back to the bowels of mental enslavement by placing western education above Shona culture—she honours both.
When authors use their education, exposure etc. as the reason their characters should not be discriminated against, it devalues their own culture outside of that western definition of propriety while basing a person’s worth on the ability to assimilate. Gappah overtly subverts that style of thinking. For example, Memory is fluent in Western literature and she unashamedly flaunts this knowledge then highlights the complexity of Zimbabwean mythological creatures.
Lloyd, the deceased guardian, studies African literature and translates European literature into Shona during his life as a lecturer at the University of Zimbabwe. Local mythology is explored and presented as equally, if not more, fascinating as the “Ariels” and “Antigones” of the world.
Zimbabwe has its own mystical spirits such as the Njuzu (African water creature). With regard to the Njuzu, Memory explains “there is no direct equivalent in [western] mythology. It is convenient to translate it as a mermaid or a water sprite, but it is more sinister than either.” This juxtaposition of Njuzu and mermaids shows the complexity and sophistication of the Shona language and culture, and also demonstrates the author’s fluency in both western and Shona culture, something necessary in order to understand the subtle (more insidious) as well as stark differences. Memory showcases her vast knowledge of the “other” culture and literature, while planting her own on the same level or even higher, thereby levelling the playing field of what we label “classical.”
Often, an oppressed, or in this case “colonised” people (as demonstrated by Memory) understand their own ways as well as the ways of the oppressor (a must for survival) thereby creating a dual-culture, whereas the oppressors, unless they are open-minded and inquisitive like Lloyd, are often only privy to their own world view. The views and traditions of the oppressed are thrown out with the rubbish and left to putrefy into a once-upon-a-time-people-used-to… type of culture.
Throughout Memory’s letters, the reader is exposed to the stereotypes of how black and white people are and the derogatory notions (voiced by the characters of Ian and Alexandra) that refuse to die even at the altar of logic.
The spooky thing is the self-perpetuating nature of such stereotypes, cognitions and resultant behaviours. For example, the prison guards are so enamoured of Western hair that weaves are seen as a necessary adornment. Synodia, for example, does not even know what her own hair looks like as she perpetually covers it with weaves that look as if they belong to a blue-eyed Barbie doll.
Memory’s ability to objectively look at these racial issues and juxtapose her English versus Shona life, her high-density versus “golden triangle” house while contextualising it appropriately shows the author’s ability to parse complex thoughts through the voice of her protagonist. Memory’s awareness of “the self” highlights her own and obviously the author’s sharpness of mind and (pun-blatantly-intended) pen.
Gappah’s writing is self-reflective. It is meta-fiction well-executed, which generously uses literary devices. A good exemplar of her command of literary tools is the following line used to describe a woman from Good Will Fellowship’s feigned concern for the imprisoned protagonist, Memory; “Her face was a symphony of manufactured sympathy…” In that single line Gappah has used synecdoche (the face representing the whole), synaesthesia (symphony, which alludes to sound, is used to describe an expression) and alliteration (symphony and sympathy). Gappah also reveals numerous ironies in retrospect for dramatic effect (I will resist the urge to type in spoilers and opt to pass on specific examples)—there are a few shockers to look forward to, regardless of the fact that the reader knows from the beginning that Lloyd is dead.
Meta-narrative-esque allusions to the act of writing are ubiquitous throughout the text. For example, Memory states in her memoirs, “But as it turns out, writing is not as simple as I had imagined. I had thought that when I sat down to write, it would be to tell a linear story with a proper beginning, an ending and middle.” The protagonist, consistently comments on bad grammar lest anyone mistake the broken English spoken in the jail or about town as Memory’s mistake. This conscious commentary simultaneously showcases Memory’s impeccable language skills and those of the writer. Such astute writing reminds the reader (who is obviously assumed to be intellectually competent—thank you Ms. Gappah for not dumbing it down for us) that the author is an empress of the pen.
Gappah is not only a master storyteller, but also demonstrates dexterity and great skill as a wordsmith. At the beginning of the book she explains the etymology of the Shona name for an albino (which is actually derogatory when analysed linguistically): “Murungu Dunhu.” Murungu is a white person, Dunhu is a game—so this roughly means a fake/mock white person. Essentially this name means that black people are not “fooled” by this whiteness, and in fact, traditionally, regard it a curse—damned for being white and black.
I guess albinos are actually coloured/mixed if we follow that logic, not really belonging to either side. I wonder why an albino would be called “fake white,” when in fact their skin is actually white, even whiter than a white person’s? The logic is egregiously flawed but nonetheless it persists and affects Memory daily–and of course other real-life albinos globally.
Memory, for time immemorial, prays for dark skin and only when jailed writes, “For the first time in as long as I could remember, I prayed for something other than dark skin” when freedom became more important. How ironic, because technically, in our delusional rankings of human worth, a white complexion is better and falls into the aristocracy of world domination, but the whiteness of a person meant to be black (black albino) is lower than blackness? Confused? You should be. We all should be because discrimination based on skin colour has crater-big holes poked in its logic by albinism and again, Gappah’s pen. Apparently the whole argument of less melanin corresponding to higher societal positioning does not apply to albinos, who are seen as anomalies because they weren’t “meant” to be white.
Digest.
‘The Book of Memory’ is an epistolary repudiation of the nonsense that is bigotry and discrimination. The multiple forms of oppression captured in its pages cannot be read as mutually exclusive—they are inextricably linked and affect all the characters in the book. ‘The Book of Memory’ is a thorough exploration of social status, othering and the tragedies that arise from our own myopia as a human race. From the very first page neither character nor reader is safe from the satirical stab of Gappah’s pointed pen. Trust me: Read this book.
. As a result of a combination of events, or Ngozi (vengeful spirit) or whatever else the reader decides to ascribe...Read More){kind=link}