No surprises at a book fair in Soweto

NOT A few among us knew a time that the phrase “a book fair in Soweto” would have been taken as absurd, but this world keeps turning, and it turns mostly in the direction called “forward”. (That’s the direction that comes with small headlines, lacking flames and explosions.)

Last weekend, I pointed my wheels to Soweto and recalled that this was once not only an illegal activity for non-Bantu-speaking persons but also a dangerous one.

Nowadays, one gets so used to so much change that a new kind of shock wears in – a shock at not being shocked by how much change there is.

This time, the Rea Vaya bus lanes topped my list. In other parts of Joburg, they’re a tad awkward for motorists, but in Soweto, they’re a brains test. You could do a degree on how to avoid slipping into one, and a doctorate on how to get out after you’ve slipped in anyway.

What has also changed is the vehicles – perhaps more jalopies than on William Nicol but also a full hand of shiny showpieces.

Some things are only half-changed, like the rule that you drive worse in Soweto than in town and worse in town than in Sandton.

That rule is weakened, but not gone. It’s a rule that applies all round, not saying that Soweto drivers are worse but that the same person drives differently. Me too, you go with the flow, like that for two or three seconds after the robot technically turns red, it remains honorary green.

I still can’t bring myself to altogether ignore pedestrian robots even when no pedestrians are present, though I had a close eye on the mirror after the first time, when my brake-lights gave the speedy guy behind me an unwelcome surprise.

Some things remain unchanged: take a pale face out of its mobile tin can and walk 100m, and you get 50 welcomes and five guys asking if you need directions or food or money.

Now here’s Jabulani Mall, new to me, and here’s the Soweto Theatre, something else that would once have caused disbelief, or at best the assumption that it’s a stepsister theatre. No, this one would be comfortable in New York’s Upper East Side.

The book fair is 40 people listening to Verne Harris of the Nelson Mandela Foundation being riveting. We learn that Zeke Mphahlele wordsmithed the start of Madiba’s Long Walk, but after six chapters, Madiba balked at his style, and Nadine Gordimer was lined up. She wanted her name on the cover, which Madiba ruled out. He proposed Zakes Mda and apparently two alternative South Africans, but the American publishers won out with Rick Stengel, later editor of Time.

If I’d taken Verne for one of those PC types who can’t say what they think, only what they think people expect them to think, I gulp and retract. I trust his own book is upcoming, rich in insider insights straightly told, with gems like the fate of Madiba’s wishes for no more statues and a humble grave in the family cemetery.

Most faces here are young. I imagine them in 2066. Are they looking back from a great and famous book fair’s 50th anniversary, showcasing masses of seminal writing from Soweto?

Leaving, I recall in my youth imagining Soweto as far and strange. Now it feels more like another side of town.

At the hospital entrance a tangle of stubborn driver-rivalry jams the intersection, delaying everybody, including the culprits.

Somehow that feels like a throwback, now. One day yet, we’ll drive the same on this side of town as any other.