Es'kia Mphahlele’s Down Second Avenue was a
thrilling tale of growing up black in white supremacist South Africa. Moreover,
I learned that marabi music, the earliest South African jazz from the
townships, was created in Marabastad, a township of Pretoria where Mphahlele
lived. Given to me by a South African woman from Cape Town who sees herself as
having studied apartheid too much, gladly parted with the text. As someone
whose only text dealing with apartheid was Kaffir Boy (which contains
horrific scenes of discarded infants in trash heaps and child prostitution,
leading to its banning in many US schools), Mphahlele’s story of an educated
but impoverished black South African trying to transcend rigid racial hatred
seems like an important precursor to the future narratives of blacks resisting
apartheid. However, unlike what I recall of Kaffir Boy, Down Second
Avenue contains surprisingly little information about key moments in the
life of any young person, and also leaves out significant details about his
personal life. For instance, how is it that he has a brother and a sister, but
they are rarely discussed in any intimate way? Even later in life, when
describing his marriage to Rebecca and their children, he never gives their names
and his writings seems to suggest apathy to his progeny. But perhaps that
general lack of description of loved ones and other moments in his adolescence
reflect the psychological trauma he experienced, as well as bouts of
depression, anger, restlessness, and the desire to leave, culminating in his
move to Nigeria to teach.
The novel also
contained useful information regarding race relations between Indians and
Blacks, as well as whites and blacks in Pretoria. The Afrikaans-speaking
whites, unsurprisingly in Pretoria, tend to be more racist whereas the English
whites and Europeans were more liberal. Indeed, Es’kia befriends many whites as
well as some Coloureds during the course of his schooling and employment.
Although at times mired in anger, he also knew very well that the only reason
white supremacy could function so effectively in South Africa was with the
complicity and active support of many non-whites, including the corrupt African
policemen who actively protected pass laws and targeted other Blacks. Moreover,
his account of his Aunt Dora’s fight with Abdool, the Indian shopkeeper, was
also hilarious for the imagery of a heavyset woman publicly beating a man. The
debates he represents between the ANC and the All Africa Convention were also
interesting for the commentary among activists and leftists about a multiracial
future for South Africa.
Overall, a
fascinating account of a region of South Africa I knew little about, albeit
written in a rather normative style. Perhaps the Capetonian who gave me the
book was correct (as well as the author himself, who finds the style taken up
by anti-apartheid writers as forced) in that much of the anti-apartheid
literature becomes banal due to its proliferation and identical messages by
authors who see themselves as bearers of a new message for racial harmony and
progress. Indeed, I may have to return to Coetzee’s Life and Times of Michael
K. for a good apartheid-era novel and discover some other works I have missed.
Perhaps Nadine Gordimer is next on my list of authors, who is mentioned in Down
Second Avenue.
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