Of all the first-person African narratives of the 20th century in South Africa, this is one of the less celebrated and more interesting. It's been years since I cracked the binding on it, but it stays in my memory, partly due to the wonderful title, and partly because of its intersection with all of the history I studied. I have now woven it seamlessly into my memories of history, and can't really pull any single scene or lesson out of the book without dragging narratives in from countless other
Of all the first-person African narratives of the 20th century in South Africa, this is one of the less celebrated and more interesting. It's been years since I cracked the binding on it, but it stays in my memory, partly due to the wonderful title, and partly because of its intersection with all of the history I studied. I have now woven it seamlessly into my memories of history, and can't really pull any single scene or lesson out of the book without dragging narratives in from countless others, but I assure you that, if you are looking for a personal perspective on life under Separate Development and (early) Apartheid, you can't to much better than this. Put it on your shelf with Mark Mathabane's Kaffir Boy and Bloke Modisane's Blame Me on History. Yes, all these are men's narratives, and now I'm going to go wrack my brains to remember (and recommend) an autobiography of a black South African woman that also hovers in the dusty corridors of memory. (Reaching for a broom now.)
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