The works of important Anglophone African novelists, in particular those who have contributed to the growing body of literary criticism, support their claim that there is a distinctive African novel. Their novels clearly demonstrate the attachment of the novel form to the specific cultural, social and political milieu in which it is produced. The thematic concerns of Anglophone African novelists have far-reaching effects on their treatment of subject-matter and on their narrative methods. The structures of certain important novels reveal patterns of experience which are typical of African societies. Symbols and motifs which are used to further structural development in many novels are derived from situations existing within the culture and from traditional oral literature. In depicting character, novelists emphasize African social values and develop characterization with reference to the present problems facing individuals in contemporary African societies. Verbal and narrative style in the novels are also clearly influenced by local idiom and the patterns of the indigenous languages. In general, novels by Anglophone African novelists show how the social motivations of the novelist and his cultural situation control his development of themes and his exercise of technique.

No description available.

Abstract not available. / Thesis (M.A.)-University of KwaZulu-Natal, 2006.

This study is an attempt to examine the use of realism in three African novels by different authors from different countries, which are set at different phases of independence. Sembene Ousmane's God's Bits of Wood, is set in Senegal and is a pre-independence novel. On the other hand, Petals of Blood by Ngugi wa Thiong'o, is a Kenyan post-independence novel. Pepetela's Mayombe is set in Angola during the resistance struggle. What these novels share, though, is the use of realism. It is the use of realism, I argue, that enables these authors to capture the political realities of their respective countries. However, each author's employment of realism remains umque. The first chapter engages with the foundational theory of this study. Georg Lukacs' argument on realism will be the point of reference. I attempt to illustrate certain observable characteristics of realism through the examination of this argument found in The Meaning of Contemporary Realism (1956). Lukacs' notions on naturalism, critical realism and socialist realism will be closely examined. But, before that discussion, I will demonstrate the importance of realism in arriving at the "novel" form, which is distinguished from previous literature (for example literature of the Middle Ages). Chapter Two establishes Ousmane's God's Bits of Wood as a socialist realist text. The possible influence of Zola' s Germinal on God's Bits of Wood is examined. The argument being that certain elements of Germinal are resonated in God's Bits of Wood, yet they each still retain their uniqueness. Zola's naturalist style is also evident in Ousmane's novel. But it is in the area of ideology that the two novels differ. God's Bits of Wood is a working class novel that successfully employs socialist realism. Ngugi wa Thiong'o's Petals of Blood is the subject of the third chapter. This chapter reflects on Ngugi's use of the socialist realist principles to convey the social and political climate of post-independence Kenya. However, his formulaic use of socialist realism is questioned as it gives rise to a novel that reads as didactic. The Marxist ideology that informs this novel is altogether too obvious. The fourth chapter is an examination of Mayombe by Pepetela. This is a very significant novel in regard to Angolan history. This novel successfully deals with the complexities of the resistance movement. The employment of realism is obvious, however, the kind of realism employed is difficult to categorize. The emotional and psychological trauma of war is illuminated. Although a socialist perspective is evident, a formulaic use of socialist realism is avoided. Pepetela seems to be more interested in engaging in discussion of issues surrounding independence, such as tribalism and power hunger. It is then evident that these authors use realism to attain a simulacrum of reality. However, it is the author's specific perspective that shapes the text that is produced. / Thesis (M.A)-University of Durban-Westville, 2004

No description available.

No description available.

Submitted to the Faculty of Humanities, Social Sciences and Education, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts, Creative Writing., July 2012 / XL2018

A research report submitted to the Faculty of Humanities, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts in Creative Writing, 2017 / XL2018

Abstract not available. / Thesis (M.A.)-University of KwaZulu-Natal, 2008.

It is evening. Anna and her Großmutti are watching the first star rise over the Wortmanns’ sugarcane fields. They sit on the stoep of the house Anna and her daughter share with her grandparents. The house is on the same property as their family business, the Wartburger Hotel. There is a comfortable silence between Anna and her Großmutti, suspended in the evening air, along with black ash and the smell of smoke. The Wortmanns have been burning their fields today. Anna looks towards the Wortmanns’ farm. She scans the fields from the road separating the hotel property and the Wortmanns’ farm, to the Blinkwater mountains on the horizon. There is no sign of a motorbike, or of a streak of dust twisting through the fields. She’s longing for a glimpse of Michael Wortmann on his motorbike, but she knows her search is pointless. Michael is far away, in Germany. At the horizon, the evening air is red and heavy with the dying light. Anna blinks away the sadness welling up in her eyes. She tries to focus on the blanket over Großmutti’s knees instead. Großmutti loves that blanket. Her mother knitted it for her, many years ago. Großmutti says that the blanket makes her feel homesick for her childhood. There is something in Großmutti’s eyes that makes it easy for Anna to imagine her as a little girl, climbing the highest tree on the hotel’s property, and feeling the freedom of being higher than everyone else in Wartburg. Almost like flying. The church bells strike six. Großmutti taps her walking stick against the stoep’s tiles. Großmutti doesn’t need a walking stick, actually, but she likes to use one – mainly in moments like these, to draw attention to herself. “Isn’t there anybody to serve me here?” Großmutti calls, loudly. Großmutti never says anything softly. “No,” Anna says, her voice heavy. She gets up. “Oh good, we aren’t having a drought after all!” Großmutti coughs, and catches Anna’s eye, finally managing to force a smile from her. Anna returns to the stoep, carrying a tray of drinks. Cane and Coke for her grandmother, who loyally supports the sugar farmers. Großmutti’s family used to own three of the biggest sugar farms in the area – but Großmutti’s Onkel Hermann had been more interested in drinking away his money than in farming, which meant that most of the land now belonged to other families. Luckily, the hotel was still in the family, Großmutti often said. Anna put two glasses of Wartburger Hotel home-brewed beers for Großvater and herself on the stoep table, and a cup of Großmutti’s special lemon juice for Emma, Anna’s daughter. “Großvater and Emma are on their way,” Anna explains. “Großvater’s speaking to Philani, you know, the painter – Philani’s saying something about Großvater not paying him, but Großvater says he did.” It is evening. Anna and her Großmutti are watching the first star rise over the Wortmanns’ sugarcane fields. They sit on the stoep of the house Anna and her daughter share with her grandparents. The house is on the same property as their family business, the Wartburger Hotel. There is a comfortable silence between Anna and her Großmutti, suspended in the evening air, along with black ash and the smell of smoke. The Wortmanns have been burning their fields today. Anna looks towards the Wortmanns’ farm. She scans the fields from the road separating the hotel property and the Wortmanns’ farm, to the Blinkwater mountains on the horizon. There is no sign of a motorbike, or of a streak of dust twisting through the fields. She’s longing for a glimpse of Michael Wortmann on his motorbike, but she knows her search is pointless. Michael is far away, in Germany. At the horizon, the evening air is red and heavy with the dying light. Anna blinks away the sadness welling up in her eyes. She tries to focus on the blanket over Großmutti’s knees instead. Großmutti loves that blanket. Her mother knitted it for her, many years ago. Großmutti says that the blanket makes her feel homesick for her childhood. There is something in Großmutti’s eyes that makes it easy for Anna to imagine her as a little girl, climbing the highest tree on the hotel’s property, and feeling the freedom of being higher than everyone else in Wartburg. Almost like flying. The church bells strike six. Großmutti taps her walking stick against the stoep’s tiles. Großmutti doesn’t need a walking stick, actually, but she likes to use one – mainly in moments like these, to draw attention to herself. “Isn’t there anybody to serve me here?” Großmutti calls, loudly. Großmutti never says anything softly. “No,” Anna says, her voice heavy. She gets up. “Oh good, we aren’t having a drought after all!” Großmutti coughs, and catches Anna’s eye, finally managing to force a smile from her. Anna returns to the stoep, carrying a tray of drinks. Cane and Coke for her grandmother, who loyally supports the sugar farmers. Großmutti’s family used to own three of the biggest sugar farms in the area – but Großmutti’s Onkel Hermann had been more interested in drinking away his money than in farming, which meant that most of the land now belonged to other families. Luckily, the hotel was still in the family, Großmutti often said. Anna put two glasses of Wartburger Hotel home-brewed beers for Großvater and herself on the stoep table, and a cup of Großmutti’s special lemon juice for Emma, Anna’s daughter. “Großvater and Emma are on their way,” Anna explains. “Großvater’s speaking to Philani, you know, the painter – Philani’s saying something about Großvater not paying him, but Großvater says he did.” “He did pay him, I was there,” Großmutti says. “Philani seemed quite angry, but Großvater managed to get rid of him in the end,” Anna says, yawning. “Are you tired, Schatzi?” Großmutti asks. “You’ve been rushing around all day.” “ So have you. A 76 year-old should be sitting around resting more. Like this.” “It’s rude to talk about someone’s age. Guck lieber den schönen Stern an,” Großmutti retorts, pointing at the evening star. The star is directly above what Großmutti calls her tree – just to the right of the stoep, an old jacaranda in full bloom. Anna hardly notices the star. She hopes Großmutti won’t realize she’s not paying attention. All she can think of is the news she heard that morning. Anna and Michael are sitting underneath the jacaranda tree, eating red grape ice lollies. They are five years old, and they’ve just met. Anna’s parents have sent her to Wartburg to spend the summer holidays with her grandparents. “I think we should get married,” Michael says, taking Anna’s sticky ice lolly hand into his, which is equally sticky. “Now?” “No, I think we can wait a while.” “Ok,” Anna says, giggling. She pulls her hand away. She drops her ice-lolly’s wooden stick, and starts running. “Hey, Michael, bet you can’t catch me!” Großmutti is already halfway through her Cane and Coke, and Anna hasn’t touched her beer yet. “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you? I heard the news, too.” Anna ignores her. But Großmutti never lets herself be ignored. “Don’t dwell on it, Schatz. First boyfriends normally don’t work out. And you’ve been coping without him for years now.” Anna looks away. Großmutti moves closer to Anna. “My first boyfriend,” Großmutti whispers dramatically, “was the Swiss poet.” “I know, Großmutti. I’ve met him. Christian. Wasn’t his poetry quite bad? Großvater says so.” “He’s just jealous. Ok, I admit there was a bit too much about the mountains and birds and how he feels when he looks at them in his poems. But I liked them.”’ This is one of Großmutti’s favourite stories. Anna has already heard it, more than once. Großmutti’s favourite part of the story is the beginning part, where she speaks at length about her looks. Großmutti likes to exaggerate. But Anna knows that when it comes to speaking about her looks, Großmutti is telling the truth. Anna has seen photos, and her grandmother had really been beautiful as a young woman. “Sie hat die Schönheit in die Familie gebracht,” Großvater likes to say. Anna just hopes Großmutti hadn’t spent so much time speaking about her looks back then. Vanity is easier to handle in an old person. In fact, Großmutti’s vanity is quite charming. “You know, mein Schatz, I was also beautiful once. I looked a bit like you—just prettier. Same blue eyes, dark hair, and good figure. My complexion, people used to say, was the best in the whole of Wartburg. And the men … they were just crazy about me. As I’ve noticed they are about you, too. Ja, die Männer!” At this she giggles, and blushes, and puts a stray strand of hair behind her ears. Anna knows exactly what Großmutti is going to say next. “The first time the Swiss poet kissed me was right there under that tree.” “Does Großvater know this story? I’ve noticed you never tell it when he’s around. He’ll be here any second …” “You know, I was still getting to the point of the story. But you young people… you just don’t have any patience. When you’re 80 years old, like me, you won’t like to be interrupted either,” Großmutti twirls her walking stick around, as if to emphasize her age. Anna wants to mention that she’s heard this story, many times, and that actually, Großmutti is only turning 76 this year. “What I want to tell you, Anna, if you let me finish my story, is what the Swiss poet taught me…” “Großmutti, I don’t really want to talk about Christian.” “You just don’t want to talk about his grandson. What’s the grandson’s name again…” “It’s such a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Anna says, pointing at the sky full of streaks of evening-red light. “What’s his name again?” Großmutti persists. “You see, I really am getting old... I never used to forget things.” “His name’s Luka. And another thing you keep ‘forgetting’ is that I really don’t want you to even mention him.” “I told you to be careful of Luka, didn’t I?” Anna blushes and looks away. “What do you want to tell me about then, Großmutti? Do you want to tell me that Christian taught you how to kiss? Because you’ve explained that to me before, in detail, And some only hear noise. That is their choice. But I hope that you won’t choose noise. And then, you will realise that not only is there music all around you, there is music inside you, too. The music has been there – inside you, around you, since before you were born. You just need to learn to listen, mein Schatz – listen before you sing.” Anna looks towards the mountains at the horizon, and tries to listen. All she can hear is the sound of night settling over Wartburg, and she wishes that there were a moon tonight. / Thesis (M.A.)-University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban, 2010.