Die Kapokdokter deur François Loots

Ek is al vir ’n lang tyd gefassineerd met die lewe van Doktor James Barry, ’n Engelse doktor wie gedurende die jare van 1816 tot 1827 aktief was in die Kaapse Kolonie. Maar die ding is, James was geen man nie, maar ’n vrou. Die enigste manier wat destydse Margaret Anne Bulkley geneeskunde kon studeer was om vir haarself as ’n jong man voor te gee – dus het sy James Barry geword. So suksesvol was die aanpassing van identiteit dat Margaret heeltemal in James weggeraak het, en toe James by die weermag aansluit, het ’n hele ander wêreld vir hom ontvou. As mense ooit iets van die waarheid verdag het, het dit nooit uitgekom nie – eers na sy dood in 1865.

Die Kapokdokter deur François Loots is ’n fiktiewe narratief wat vrae stel meestal oor identiteit. Meeste van die storie speel af gedurende die tyd wat James in die Kaapse Kolonie geneeskunde beoefen het – en ons sien hoe hy geworstel het met sy verlede en hede binne die konteks van die gesig wat hy vir dié rondom hom wys en wat hy innerlik voel. Die stres van sy geheim is groot, en al sukkel James met die verskillende situasies waarin hy homself bevind in die Kaap, moet hy nog boonop nog vir almal die mees belangrike geheim wegsteek. Ek sal maar sê: dis gekompliseerd.

Ek het in die begin ’n bietjie gesukkel met die styl – en het gevoel asof Loots doelbewus inligting wat James sal weet van lesers weerhou – maar die verhaal speel hom mooi uit, so dit was nie iets wat vir my die einde van die wêreld was nie. Ek voel diegene wie van historiese romans hou, en nuuskierig is oor James se lewe, hierdie boek sal geniet. Dis ’n stukkie van die Kaapstad van die vroeë negentiende eeu wat lewe vind tussen die blaaie deur die lens van ’n besondere mens.

Vetplantfeetjies deur Fiona Moodie, Antjie Krog en Ingrid de Kok

Vir die wat vir my goed ken, sal julle weet ek is kompleet betjoinks oor vetplante. Ek versamel hulle al vir jare – aalwyne, kaktuse, euphorbias – allerande soorte. Toe ek sien dat die boekie Vetplantfeetjies uitgeryk is, moes ek toe 'n kopie kry. Dis nou rerig 'n oulike boekie díe, deur Fiona Moodie geillustreer en met die teks deur Antjie Krog en Ingrid de Kok. Wat meer kan 'n mens vra vir van so 'n samewerking?

Kyk, die ding met Afrikaanse gedigte is dat die woordespel net te pragtig is. Dit klink soms ook better as die Engelse vertalings – en die rympies in hierdie boek moet hardop gelees word vir hoe die woorde oor mekaar kabbel. En die konsep is wonderlik. Toe ek klein was, was ek dol oor die Flower Fairy boeke van Cicely Mary Barker, en Vetplant Feetjies is 'n eg Suid-Afrikaanse weergawe hiervan. Ek dink ook aan die DJ Opperman digte bundel waaruit my ma vir my voorgelees het – die rympies in Vetplant Feetjies het dieselfde gevoel.

Elke paar bladsye is toegewy aan 'n plant – meestal inheems, soos Euphorbia, Boophone disticha, Lithops, Crassula, en Kalanchoe, maar ook Echeveria. Die feetjies is so skattig, en die illustrasies onthul meer detail elke keer as ek hulle bestudeer. Dis 'n boekie wat ek in my permanente versameling gaan hou – vir inspirasie en net omdat dit so flippen mooi is. As jy kleingoed het of sommer net van mooi gedigte hou, en jy is lief vir vetplante, is dit nou 'n boek om in die hande te kry.

Across the Kala Pani by Shevlyn Mottai

Don't read this book if you don't want to get even more angry at British colonialism. That's my advice. Me? I like to get plenty angry about what these powers did to Africa. Across the Kala Pani by Shevlyn Mottai tells the story of four indentured Indian women who sought a better life for themselves in South Africa, working on the sugar plantations in what is now KwaZulu-Natal during the early 1900s. The author herself, is descended from indentured Indians, so these four intertwined lives draw deeply from her own cultural heritage.

One thing I've also thought about at length is that for anyone to uproot themselves from their home to take a chance in another land, with an ocean between, is an option that a person would only choose if their present state has become intolerable. And each of the women in this story – Lutchmee, Vottie, Chinmah, and Jyothi – has a tragic situation that has resulted in them finding themselves aboard a ship headed to Africa.

In South Africa, the rigid castes that defined them in India no longer matter, but what does matter is the bonds of friendship that they have formed during a difficult voyage and endured during the hardships they continue to face. Life, they find, is no easier once they disembark, where they now contend with British plantation owners who treat them no better than chattel, one step up from outright slaves. This is heartbreaking and illuminating, painting in stark tones the lived reality that many immigrants faced here.

I find the idea of culture transplanted and transformed fascinating, and this is one such story, underpinned by the efforts of brave women who carve their own fates despite the incredible adversity they experienced. This is is a harrowing tale, but it is a heartfelt one, that I believe is important, offering a glimpse into our country's colonial past that is crafted with incredible empathy and an eye for laying bare inconvenient truths our history books may well gloss over – highly recommended.

Sisters of the Circus by Laila Manack

What drew me to Sisters of the Circus by Laila Manack is that I'm a huge fan of stories about performers that are set in liminal spaces such as theatres and circuses. This story introduces as to twins Kahina and Noor, who together perform a trapeze act in a circus. This life is all they know, although they are aware that they were sold to the circus owner, Garret, when they were very young – so in essence, they are slaves.

Although the setting is nominally European, and it's suggested that the story takes place during the interwar period, the focus is very much on the microcosm of the circus and the small dramas that play out beyond the eyes and ears of the audience. Theirs is a tight-knit, often toxic community, and Noor and Kahina endure much cruelty. 

It's a kind of love-hate situation, because undeniably performance offers one heck of a kick to the sisters, and this is the only life that these two young women know. Although they can conceive of a life beyond that which is familiar, it is understandably difficult for them to break from the routine – until events conspire that see Kahina training a mysterious young man to be part of her act. Central to the plot is almost a coming of age, as the sisters struggle with notions of identity and a claiming of agency out of an oppressive space.

All this plays out against the somewhat exotic background (for those of us not in the business, of course) of circus life and the often harsh realities the performers face when they're not in the ring. Kahina and Noor soon discover that there is a bigger, more dangerous game at play, and while they navigate and negotiate the terms of their potential freedom, they face many risks while bigger players revel in their machinations. 

This was, largely, an enjoyable read. I did feel that the editing for this book could have been a bit sharper – I picked up quite a few obvious typos and grammatical errors. And not just copy editing, but I felt that the story itself, while it has a strong start, becomes a little muddled towards the end, as if Manack wasn't quite sure where to end it and the developmental editor either didn't leave strong hints or these edits were rushed and not implemented. It could be a combination of all these, which I've seen played out with otherwise awesome books over the years. Some pretty exciting stuff happens plot wise, but I often feel as if Noor and Kahina are carried along by events rather than having a firmer hand in steering them. I also would have liked to have seen more attention paid to differentiating their voices, as I often struggled to tell the two apart.

All things considered, this is still a great little story, left open ended enough for continuation. Manack's voice is fresh, and she weaves a compelling tale in the kind of setting that should appeal to those of us still sore about the fact that a series like Carnivale was canned after only two seasons.

Mirage by David Ralph Viviers

I love a good mystery that flirts with magical realism, and Mirage by David Ralph Viviers blends so much of what I love. Part Karoo-gothic, part mystery that teases at time-travelling, this is a book that is difficult to fully quantify. And maybe it should not be picked apart, because in its lyrical prose it presents us with lush narrative ambiguity that plays out against the backdrop of the South African hinterlands and all the mysteries that abound there.

We have two threads interwoven in the mythical Karoo town of Sterfontein. On the brink of the South African War, writer Elizabeth Tennant stays here in a hotel frequented by those wishing to convalesce in the Karoo's fresh air. She grapples with her own, deep sense of loss while trying to claim meaning for herself. We also meet Michael, a university student whose deep fascination with the life and work of Elizabeth sees him delving into her journal and the mystery surrounding her death. He, too, carries a great burden of loss, which he subconsciously tries to work through by uncovering the secrets presented in Elizabeth's work.

I really don't want to delve into particulars, because that would ruin the journey for you. And this is a journey, liberally flavoured with the aesthetic of the Karoo's history. Threaded through this tale that blooms like the enigmatic Boophone disticha, are the light of distant stars and delicate strands of past and present woven together in the discrete threads of a surprisingly interlinked narrative. 

Grief and disappointment are hallmarks of the human condition, and Viviers takes these aspects of his characters' lives and examines them closely, then puts them together again in a way that made me sit back and say, "Oh." He effortlessly evokes the magic and mystery of this region in a way that only those who've fallen under the Karoo's spell will fully understand. This is an old landscape. It has drunk many tears. In it, you may examine your own life set against an ancient backdrop where you truly understand how insignificant one human life is. And yet each brief flowering is precious.

Much like Elizabeth steps into a liminal space, you do, too, following Michael as he embarks on a road trip that will allow him to confront aspects of self and his past that he has not dealt with, along with gaining a better understanding of the woman whose words have moved him to journey to Sterfontein. Everything is connected; everything is significant. 

Notes on Falling by Bronwyn Law-Viljoen

Every once in a while, I encounter a literary work that is best described in terms of imagery, tones, and textures, and Notes on Falling by Bronwyn Law-Viljoen is one such work. We start the story with photographer Thalia, who has grown up motherless and raised by her father, who has done his best for her, but who has also never shared anything about her absent mother until quite late in her life. We learn that Thalia's mother left the country, left the baby Thalia in the father's arms, and that's about all we know – and this nagging absence perhaps does manifest itself in Thalia's life by her hunger to capture and quantify the world around her. If she can describe her world, lend it some form of permanence as a still image, perhaps she can control it in some way. Or at least these are my thoughts on the matter.

Thalia herself is a photographer, her entire life framed by how she works with light, objectifies and tries to understand her surroundings – and in that degree, Law-Viljoen paints with words in the same way a good photographer will paint with light, shadow, and subject matter. The reality that we are given is often naked, unforgiving, made up of sharp planes and angles that slice. A great photo will foreground details, open them up for analysis and understanding.

In this layered tale, we deal not only with the discomfort of the present, but we sift through memories encapsulated in stark imagery, be it 1990s South Africa and New York, and then also take a step even further back, to a New York of the 1970s, to catch a glimpse of a creative zeitgeist as ephemeral as its participants and instigators. Somehow, all these snapshots are tied together in Thalia's search for a mother who was willing to abandon her for a dream. 

Through Thalia, we encounter Robert, whose own search during New York of the 1970s, is intrinsically linked to Thalia's journey – though for fear of spoilers, I won't say how. What Law-Viljoen does well, is show how an individual can frame their lives in a search for meaning, not only of their innermost selves, but also in how they fit into the larger picture – even when the world is like an unstoppable train that continues hurtling through space and time with or without your presence. This is very much an existential novel, that does not have the neat, tidy hallmarks of a happy tale – much like real life, in that regards – that will leave readers with much to ponder on these seemingly isolated yet intrinsically linked themes expressed within the story. 

And as someone who majored in photography at university, it was a real treat for me to read a novel that spoke a language that I understand well. This is a beautiful, if disquieting and uncomfortable book.

The Artist Vanishes by Terry Westby-Nunn

When the opportunity came up to read and review The Artist Vanishes by Terry Westby-Nunn, I snatched up the book with both hands. A goodly many years ago I read The Sea of Wise Insects, and while most of the novel's details have grown foggy for me due to the vagaries of time, I recalled that I resonated with Terry's writing style. Not only that, she writes about the Cape Town I know all too well – its quirky denizens who often inhabit liminal spaces.

The Artist Vanishes is chock full of thoroughly unlikeable characters doing thoroughly awful things, but the hallmark of a good author is someone who makes you care about these dreadful people despite their questionable antics. And this novel is so cleverly written. Actually, it's two novels, following two loosely interlinked timelines. On one, we follow the story of the quintessential starveling artist Sophie, who occasionally makes ends meet by working in the film industry (hey, I relate to that particular brand of suffering) until she wins a grant for her incredibly controversial art project that catapults her into notoriety. Needless to say, her sudden, meteoric success nearly destroys her as she spirals into coke-fuelled paranoia, surrounded by people who are not good for her. At some point, she's going to need to find her pole star, but doing so puts her in great danger.

Years later, failed filmmaker James washes up in Sophie's old apartment. He's lost it all, including his marriage, and he's looking at the world through the bottom of a whiskey bottle. That is, until he discovers that his ratty home was where Sophie used to stay – the notorious artist who is vanished, and presumed dead. James finds his groove again, investigating Sophie's disappearance, and his fumbling efforts to unpick the mystery serves to show us the other side of the awful people who were Sophie's 'friends'.

At its heart, this is a slowly unfolding tale where we see the world through the eyes of two very troubled, unreliable narrators. I must warn sensitive readers that there is an Awful Thing that happens to a pet, so if this sort of thing bothers you, perhaps don't read this book. Terry's writing, however, is an absolute joy. Armed with a keen perception of people and Cape Town's many (often contrasting) layers, she takes readers on a deep dive, slowly unspooling her secrets. The only thing about her writing that nearly drove me dilly was her one-word dialogue tags that feel like stage directions from a script. These happened often enough that I started gritting my teeth, but I also suspect that it's my pernickety editor side who was so dearly troubled. Normal readers probably won't even notice.

The Artist Vanishes is a cleverly told mystery that underpins why Terry Westby-Nunn remains on my 'grabby fingers' list of South African authors.

Diep Spoor deur Jeanette Stals

Suid-Afrika se geskiedenis is propvol stories waar die menigte kulture van hierdie land met mekaar bots. Op skool het ek geleer van die Voortrekkers, maar Jeanette Stals het die stryd vir oorlewing gedetailleerd uitgebeeld in haar roman Diep Spoor. En 'n baie beter moeite gedoen as die onnies op skool wie ons basies aan die slaap verveel het.

Diep Spoor is op die oog af die verhaal van drie vrouens wie deur omstandighede buite hulle kontrole bymekaar kom. Katrien is oorspronklik gelukkig getroud met haar man Gerrit op Stellenbosch, maar 'n ongeluk sien haar vroeg 'n weduwee. Maar haar getroue slavin Dina staan haar by. Die twee het saam grootgeword op Katrien se ouers se plaas, en is meer susters as eienaar en slaaf. Altwee is dromers. As her lewe anders was, so Katrien graag 'n kunstenaar wees, maar haar kosbare waterwerfkussie word meestal ver weg gepak. Dina droom van 'n lewe waar daar romantiese liefde vir haar is, maar haar opsies as 'n slavin is maar skraal op die werf. Heel aan die ander kant van die land is Thabisa, 'n amaZulu meisie wie van jonk af meegesleur word deur die geweld tussen haar mense. Sy verloor omtrent haar hele familie behalwe haar broer. Sy is kwesbaar, en die hele tyd sukkel sy om aanvaar te word. 

Ek gaan nou nie die hele storie verspil nie, behalwe om te sê dat Stals het 'n uitdagende verhaal aangepak wat goed illustreer who ingewikkeld ons land se geskiedenis is. Konsepte van grondbesit was toe heel anders, en die botsing tussen bevolkingsgroepe wat met veeboerdery doenig is, is maar 'n resep vir groot ramp. Wat Stals goed doen is om die menslikheid van haar karakters voor te bring, sodat lesers meegevoel kan hê vir Katrien, Dina, en Thabisa.

Ek het gevoel dat Thabisa se storie 'n bietjie lig om die broek was, asook Dina s'n, en daar was tye terwyl ek gelees het dat ek gevoel het dat daar beter motivering kon wees vir hulle gedrag. Maar dit het nie van die storie te veel weggeneem nie. Al het ek min of meer geweet wat gaan gebeur daar anderkant die Drakensberg. Hierdie verhaal is soms verskriklik hartverskeurend maar hy bring ook hoop vir die algemene menslikheid wat kan groei tussen die wat van verskillende agtergronde onstaan.  

Isle by Claire Robertson

Isle by Claire Robertson is one of those books that, even after much consideration, I find difficult to pigeonhole. And it's been preying on my mind awhile now, weeks after I have finished it. First off, it was the cover that got me – I admit I'm a sucker for striking covers. But also, in my mission to read more African writers, this was certainly intriguing when I cast an eye over the blurb.

It's not a novel, but rather two novellas that have been glomped together, with the only real connection being that both take place on an island and feature the lives of women – though they are centuries apart.

I – Forth from this Place takes up the bulk of the offering, and is the tale of a community of women living on the Isle of St Katharine. They are not nuns, nor have they sworn an oath of celibacy, but they do live as a community of nuns would – cloistered and independent of the world of men. Yet their Magistra Lutgard is well aware of the fragility of the equilibrium their liminal space inhabits. She is anxious not to agitate the church or nearby community too much – for in her time witch hunts are not uncommon. It doesn't help that one of her women, Mechthild, is restless, striving to be more, do more. Find her own way in the world in a manner that is unconventional for its time.

None of this is helped when a Moorish peddler is rescued from a near-drowning, and serves as a muse for Mechthild in her artistic aspirations. She makes a book of hours, but instead of following conventions, her lifelike representations of the people around her surprise and astound those who are not accustomed to seeing representations of their faces laid down on paper. This act of hers has far-reaching consequences, not only for Mechthild, but for the lives her work touches.

II – Uxo brings us to a post-WWII setting where Lily Kinsella, who is higher-ranking than her fellow officer, John Burge, are tasked to recover or destroy old ordnance. Yet from the start, it is clear that all is not well with Lily, nor her relationship with Burge. Their work takes them to remote places, and it's clear  this unbalanced relationship between the two, carries equal parts resentment and reverence on Burge's part in the face of Lily's seeming indifference to him. 

Their travels bring them to an unnamed island that serves as a penitentiary, where Lily's interactions with teenage Iris and her prison warden father stir trouble, and eventually bring the issues between Lily and Burge to a head. Part coming-of-age story, part remembering of a shrouded past, this novella offers readers a careful dance between withholding and revealing in a way that exposes the fragility of human lives in all their ugliness and beauty.

Neither of these novellas comes to a head in a way that is satisfying – but then again, it's not for an ending or great denouement that one would read, but rather the savouring of each line of prose that is so exquisitely crafted that it is liquid poetry. And that's all I'll say on the matter. See for yourself.

Three Bodies by NR Brodie

Crime novels aren't my usual fare, but I read them when I like the author, and I'm rather fond of NR Brodie. Three Bodies follows on from her occult-noir novel Knucklebone, where we meet Reshma Patel and Ian Jack, who initially work together to solve crimes related to an animal poaching ring. Both realise that there is more to reality than meets the eye, though. Then again, if you tangle with sangomas, expect things to get a bit strange.

Three Bodies is no different. At the outset, when drowned women start showing up, Ian is roped in to investigate, despite no longer having an interest in police work. Reshma finds herself drawn into an elite crime-fighting unit – with a bunch of tough cops who work against the cash-in-transit heists that are so prevalent in South Africa. It's scary, high-stakes stuff. And here Brodie has done meticulous research to offer an authentic ring to the police work. 

But then a sinister link between the drowned women, dark muti, the cash heists, and old-guard apartheid officials who were never brought to book, is formed, and Reshma and Ian find themselves racing to solve a case of a missing woman before she, too, ends up drowned.

Overall, I found the gradually unfolding pace a little on the slow side, but things picked up a lot quicker near the end. Reshma is one hell of a tough woman, and it shows, and Ian's quiet empathy with others also shows that he possesses qualities that complement Reshma's. They team up with an unlikely bunch for the finale, and then ... well. I'll leave it up to you to find out what happens. As always, the whiff of the supernatural is just a taste. Perhaps too light a touch that may have required smidge more foreshadowing, but I loved it anyway. I'm reminded of an old HP Lovecraft quote:

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.

Which will make sense for those who've read the book and understand how Ian must struggle with what he sees unfold at the satisfyingly cataclysmic ending. Gritty, dark, and somewhat weird, this novel is definitely an enjoyable read, and it's great seeing fantasy elements creep across genres.

Elevation: The Fiery Spiral (#3) by Helen Brain

 Elevation: The Fiery Spiral by Helen Brain concludes Ebba's journey as she seeks to heal her world. Book two leaves us with Ebba finding herself drawn through a portal into another world, where the challenges she faces in order to come into her own are far more fraught than before. Hampered by her stress and worry about what she's left behind her, and what her enemies are doing to her beloved Greenhaven and Table Island, Ebba must forge ahead to hand the Goddess the necklace with its amulets. But she's not alone. She's found an unlikely ally in Lucas, and together they'll be able to face their challenges head on – that's if they can work through their differences enough to not be at cross purposes. 

While books one and two had some magical elements, most of book three plays out in an alternative realm that offers a surreal environment where nothing can be taken at face value. Both Ebba and Lucas face great personal challenges akin to their own hero's journey heavily laden with symbolism. I can say with great certainty that I have not read a YA fantasy quite like this one, and I'd hazard to say that I kept thinking somewhat of Michael Ende's The NeverEnding Story, as there's a whole lot of meta going on here that can be unpacked, with each scene flowing into the other like sequences in a dream.

I appreciated the novelty offered by this story, especially for its departure from established norms, yet I did feel somewhat that I missed a sense of urgency, especially in terms of what could be lost. Now that I'm able to stand back and look at all three books as a unit, it's clear that book three is a complete departure from what has been set up in the first two. I'm not certain how readers' expectations to this will be affected by the sudden shift so late in the story. Could this have been solved with more foreshadowing at the start? 

This is a difficult book to rate. I like it because it's bold and so different from what I've seen in YA fantasy in recent years. But it has its flaws, and there's a part of me that wonders if the entire trilogy couldn't have been edited as a unit to build in the foreshadowing of events that play out in book three better, so that it is not such a shock to the system when the story shifts from earth to Celestia. The message I picked up was clear: how Ebba and Lucas both learn to look beyond themselves and their issues, to be kind to themselves for their shortcomings, and step up to the plate when they have their chance to prove themselves. So in that sense, this story provides fitting closure to the trilogy.

Sea Star Summer by Sally Partridge

Sea Star Summer by Sally Partridge is the summer vacation book I didn't realise I needed as a diversion from all the dross in my current days. Maybe it's because I grew up in a seaside town, but the ocean has special meaning for me, and Sally *gets* what this is like. Also, her love for the little South African resort town of Jeffrey's Bay, with its ephemeral summer population, shines through. Now I'd love to go visit just to see it for myself.

We meet sixteen-year-old Naomi who is awkward as all hell. I relate hard to her, because I also spent most of my my summer vacations hiding in books. So when Naomi's parents insist that they spend their summer vacation in Jeffrey's Bay, it's not exactly a dream come true for Naomi. But she has her books. So there is that.

What she doesn't expect is running into Elize, whose family is vacationing at the nearby campsite, and although Naomi and Elize are vastly different in terms of their backgrounds, the two hit it off immediately. Elize is everything Naomi isn't, and yet together the two create a special kind of magic.

But then boys. That's par for the course when you're a teenager, and the two who cross Naomi's path cause her no end of complications, but for different reasons. And of the two boys in question, we have blond surfer dude Daniel and Elize's own brother Marius, who's got a bit of a bad-boy vibe going. Honestly, Daniel is, putting it politely, a knob. Every interaction with him made me cringe. Marius was all right. I felt for him. But I'm not going to spoil the story for you.

Central to the story is Naomi's understanding of who she is, and the fact that it's okay that she may not like boys. Much of what she experiences is awkward as all hell, which I think many of us can relate to when we think back to our own first experiences in love. Naomi struggles with what is expected of her and how she thinks she should behave vs. learning to be brave to grow into who she truly is. Sea Star Summer is a sweet tale of a summer romance found when least expected, made poignant by the reminder that the time for it to play out is fleeting.

Dub Steps by Andrew Miller

Let me start by saying that Dub Steps by Andrew Miller was not quite the novel I expected when I started reading it. The premise hooked me, for sure. But what the ride was entirely unexpected in all the best ways. If you're expecting a TWD setting sans zombies, this is not your book. What you will get is a strangely reflective meandering on the meaning of life interspersed with people trying to figure out what they want while coping with a new reality where more than 99.99% of humankind simply winked out of existence in the blink of an eye. (You'll find out why, near the end, never fear, and it won't quite be what you expected.)

How the remnants cope, varies, and in the telling of their uncovering of their new world and the absurdity of the human condition, we get to know a variable cast of personalities. What I appreciated the most about Miller's writing is the way he humanised even the most unfortunate in his cast. Roy, our incredibly unreliable narrator, sets out on a journey that ends up being both inward and outward. Crippled by his sense of never fitting in, he nonetheless takes on a role within his tiny community of survivors in a South Africa transformed by its people's absence.

Miller manages to pack so much into this book. It is both poignant and pithy, and delivers so much social commentary, even if Roy's constant awkwardness and contrary nature got to me. He's exactly the kind of dude I'd love to hate, yet I couldn't help but feel fond of him. He's a sort of broken-wing, mediocre everyman, and a somewhat tragic figure who stumbles through his world. And yet Roy also displays uncommon wisdom at times, which redeems him as he compulsively attempts to chronicle the world that was – as if that will somehow help him understand what went wrong not only in his life but also preserve the story of the world that was.

While Dub Steps can be considered a work of dystopian science fiction, it's so much more than that. And much in the same way that our lives are messy, often unfinished and all over the place, this is a story that celebrates not only the ephemeral fragility of our existence, but shares the uncommon moments of unbridled joy. This is not an easy read, but it's one that I'll recommend, even if it left me feeling sad and somewhat scratchy behind the eyes by the time I was done.

The Reject by Edyth Bulbring

Edyth Bulbring brings her readers back to Juliet Seven's world in The Reject. Events in book one, The Mark, were left a little in the air, with Juliet escaped on board a stolen yacht with a price on her head while Mangeria was dumped into turmoil. There was no HEA for her and her love Nicholas.

It's going to be difficult to review The Reject without massive spoilers, so I'm not going to discuss specific plot points. At its heart, this is a quest-novel, with Juliet aiming to return to Mangeria and reunite with Nicholas. Except the Fates have other things in mind for her, and she's blown far off course with two major side-quests, as it were.

The story isn't straight-up SF, but blends in elements of fantasy as well, so be warned that occasionally there are dream-like sequences involving beasts of omen, like hadeda ibises and yes, even a great white shark. This novel reads far grittier and darker than I expected – Juliet is a hard young woman, and most certainly a product of her environment. This means that she's not particularly likeable, but her strong will to survive and yes, her bitterness, make a lot of sense. She doesn't allow folks to push her around. Or if they do push, she will find ways to push back.

I did feel that the pacing was a little off with The Reject, but then Edyth does compress a lot of time in the story – and although there are events that take place, they are almost lost in a kind of narrative summary. My suspicion is that this novel suffers a little bit of what I term as 'middle book syndrome' where there's a measure of setting up for a book three. Not that I've heard whether a book three is in the works, but it wouldn't surprise me a book were to drop at some point in the future. The first half of the novel feels like a detour, offering important back story, before it gets on the move again.

There are some pop-culture nods that made me smile, which I suspect may go a little over the head of readers who haven't watched older films. But I enjoyed the intertextuality. I will, however, suggest that folks might reread book one before dipping into book two, especially if some time has lapsed since the last read – and here the fault lies with me, the reader. I was a little overwhelmed with the cast of characters and their relationships in the last part of the story, where things really start moving. I think if I were more solidly grounded in the context, this wouldn't have been so much of a problem for me.

The Reject offers a cracker of a story, and when it really gets going, it rushes at a headlong pace, perhaps sometimes a little too fast, in my opinion. I would have liked to have seen more immersion in the world, a bit more tactile, sensory input to flesh the setting out. But these were not dealbreakers for me. I enjoyed seeing Juliet's interactions with the people around her, the way she's often in denial about her own feelings, and also how she tries (and perhaps even fails) to do better than the people in her past who let her down.

Green Lion by Henrietta Rose-Innes

Green Lion by Henrietta Rose-Innes is one of those books that languished for far too long on my TBR pile, and I'm so glad I've taken the time to rectify this unfortunate state of affairs. This story is told entirely from the point of view of Con, recently returned from working as a security guard in UK museums and trying to find employment.

The novel fluidly leaps between past to present as we learn of Con's troubled friendship with Mark, and the dysfunctional relationship Con shares with his late mother. His situation with his girlfriend Elyse is on shaky ground too, and their unequal relationship becomes more of an issue as the story unfolds. Con himself is remote, passive – he tends to immersion in his outsider status, incapable of ever truly connecting with the people around him, despite his desire to do so. His absent father haunts the periphery of his life, while Con himself gives the appearance of envying his friend Mark, who has it all when it comes to family and wealth. I'd hazard to say that Con's fascination with Mark may even have deeper roots – that he isn't willing to admit even to himself. Mark is everything that Con isn't, to the point where he feels that association with that which he desires most may create a form of sympathetic magic to enrich his own life.

Green Lion is richly textured, flavoured with evocative alchemical imagery, and it's also a story that is hard to pin down – providing one hallucinatory, dreamlike scene after the other in a Cape Town that exists as a might-have-been. It is also a tale as unreliable as its narrator, who throughout the chapters is stalked by the idea of the predator rather than a flesh-and-blood lion that we can see and trap. And in the end it's the lion that exists as placeholder, a menacing, inescapable fate that awaits Con that he projects his fears and desires onto Sekhmet, the lion in the zoo where he works.

This is also a story about identity – seen in how Con to a degree is a parasite who attempts to assume aspects of self that don't belong to him in an effort to establish an authentic identity. In the end, he is mired in the very illusions he seeks, settling for the facsimile than the real, that is forever outside of his grasp.

I suspect also that this is the kind of story that is so laden with metaphor that you can pick it apart on every read-through and find further nuances. I need to go back and give this one another shot at some point. In the meantime, I remain in awe of Henrietta's writing.

Elevation 2: The Rising Tide by Helen Brain

The Rising Tide, which is part two of Helen Brain's Elevation series, continues the tale of Ebba den Eeden, the mistress of Greenhaven. The setting is a post-apocalyptic future where the rising sea levels have turned the Table Mountain range into a series of islands cut off from the African mainland. If we'd hoped that things would be simpler for Ebba after she defeated the High Priest, we're sorely mistaken. Her actions have inadvertently ushered in an era where her region suffers military control. Everyone wants Greenhaven – it has the most fertile land – and Ebba is hard pressed to meet the demands placed on her.

What follows is what I'll affectionately term as "Ebba makes one bad decision after the other." In fact, I wanted to slap her upside the head to knock some sense into her. I agree with Aunty Figgy that boyfriend Micah is Bad News, but of course Ebba is so hopelessly in love with the chap that she's willing to let him distract her from her true goal: that of uniting the mysterious missing amulets and saving the world from catastrophe. (Then again, if I consider how boy-mad I was at 16, I forgive Ebba to a degree.)

That bloody Micah has it in his head that he's going to lead a rebellion, even if it means placing everyone on Greenhaven in danger. And I'm pretty sure Ebba has all the right of it to worry about Micah hanging out with the luscious and conniving Samantha Lee. Poor Ebba doesn't stand a chance – it's in this instalment that her sheltered upbringing in the Colony truly hamstrings her as she flounders about trying to do the right thing. (And making more of a mess while she does.)

There's a smidge of "middle book" syndrome at play here – with plenty of foreshadowing for things to come in book three, I'm certain. I spent a lot of my time saying, "Ag no, Ebba, don't." Her limited vision in terms of how she's manipulated by other people and how hard she tries to please other people to the detriment of her own goals grated on me after a while, and I'm not sure if she redeems herself in my eyes by the end. Here's hoping for book three.

What I love about the Elevation trilogy is the fact that the story is unconventional in terms with what I'm accustomed to when it comes to YA. Helen's characterisation, especially in dialogue and the way people are constantly at cross purpose with each other feels authentic. I'm also so pleased for her that she's also signed a lovely big contract that will see this trilogy hit overseas markets. Her voice and her world building is fresh and the story is engaging. I'm looking forward to the next instalment.

A not-so-grim reaping with Sergio Pereira

Nerine Dorman: Welcome, my dearly beloveds. Today we’ve got Sergio Pereira, whom I’ve been stalking following on assorted social media platforms for a few years now. Which means we’re kinda buds and have each other’s backs when there’s a dogpile on Twitter. Anyhoo, so Sergio’s written this book, which I then edited, and here we are. If I have to describe The Not-So-Grim Reaper, I’d say it’s when Bill & Ted had a bastard lovechild with Terry Pratchett. So, let’s hear what Sergio has to say…

Sergio Pereira: If I'd known this was a party to discuss the pitfalls of Twitter, I would've brought chips and grape juice. In all seriousness, thanks for the intro and the editing of The Not-So-Grim Reaper. You've pretty much nailed the exact angle I was going for with your description of it. In fact, the first time you mentioned Bill & Ted, I punched the air and said, "Yes! Someone got it!" Sometimes, I fear the world has forgotten about Keanu Reeves's greatest role in lieu of The Matrix and John Wick…

ND: I’ve seen a pile of grim reapers show up in slush during my travels, but you’ve breathed life into the trope with your humour. I’ll admit it’s not *quite* my usual genre, but I did find myself chuckling most inappropriately while I was working through your manuscript. What do you reckon makes humour tick in fiction, considering you don’t have the visuals to go with the routines…

SP: Good question. Much like comedy in any other medium, it needs to be relatable. People love to laugh at themselves, so you need to make the punchline about something they understand. We might be playing in an odd world where grim reapers, magic, and hellhounds exist, but you’ll still identify with the key concepts of bureaucracy, working a job you hate, and disliking your neighbour. That’s where the humour is found; in what we regard as the usual. Watch any good comedian and see that the strongest laughs come from the ordinary.

ND: What I quite enjoyed about your story was that even though it was often quite absurd at times, there is an underlying sincerity to your main characters – and perhaps a key theme I feel is that of friendship and loyalty. This I found quite refreshing, to be quite honest. Care to add a little more about this?

SP: When I was a child, my grandmother told me that you'll have many acquaintances in life but few friends. I never understood what she meant until I was much older. It might sound cynical, but there aren't that many people who'll be there for you when the going gets tough. Most of them will be around when things are good, but as soon as the stormy weather hits they'll hightail it. In The Not-So-Grim Reaper, the main characters experience how friendship isn't always easy and they do stumble; however, by remaining true to themselves and others, they realise how rare and precious it is to have something so special in their lives.

ND: Oh, I totally relate to this. But now, to change tack – let’s talk about chihuahuas. What makes them truly evil?

SP: Absolutely nothing! My girlfriend had a chihuahua, and he was the most protective dog I've ever seen. He might've been the size of a shoe, but he'd protect her. Much like a cat sees itself as a lion, I think chihuahuas view themselves as wolves (or hellhounds). I love animals and will try to make them a huge part of my stories in a big way. In fact, the one thing that’ll make me turn off a movie or TV show or throw down a book is if an animal dies. Kill off all humanity if you want to, but don’t you dare hurt the fluffs.

ND: My experiences with chihuahuas have not been as positive. My mother had two ankle-snappers that terrorised me when I was a child. In hindsight I realise they were just trying to protect her from the thumping, clumsy idiot sprog of hers running through the house. But gosh, darnit, they drew blood. Chihuahuas may be small, but when you’re three, they’re bloody terrifying. But let’s chat about your cover art quickly – you’ve employed the talents of the wonderful Cristy Zinn, and I think she’s really outdone herself.

SP: I know, right? I’d seen Cristy’s work on Skolion’s books, as well as her mock-ups on Looma Design’s Facebook page. When I saw the Coraline one - which is one of my favourite books, by the way – I knew that she could create something apt and special. I reached out and she was available. So, I gave her a brief idea of what I had in mind and she came back with this incredible cover. If I had an unlimited budget, I would’ve asked her to do illustrations for the book, too. Alas, I still needed to eat this month. Two-minute noodles aren’t so cheap anymore.

SP: Thanks for hosting me!

ND: And I wish you well with this tale, Sergio. Here’s hoping for many five-star reviews.

Follow Sergio on social media at: www.twitter.com/sergiowrites; www.facebook.com/sergiopereira27; www.instagram.com/sergiowrites 

You can purchase your copy of the Not-So-Grim Reaper at Amazon and Google Play. 

About Sergio:
SERGIO PEREIRA is a speculative fiction author and journalist from Johannesburg, South Africa. He has a strong interest in comic books, film, music, and comedy. His short stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, such as Devolution Z, Sirens Call Publications's Monster Brawl!, Centum Press's 100 Voices, and Tales from the Lake: Vol. 3 from Crystal Lake Publishing. He is his dog’s favourite author.

The Dreamer's Tears by Cristy Zinn

My only complaint with The Dreamer’s Tears by Cristy Zinn is that it’s clearly a book one in a series that still needs to be written, and I immediately needed to know more once I’d reached the end.

In this story, we meet Ivy Bauble, who lives in the little village of Newton. She’s accident prone and incurably curious. The last thing she expects is that she will become apprenticed to the Master Borinvere, who maintains the magical tower that protects the village from marauding Knightmares.

Zinn’s writing is highly imaginative, heartfelt and whimsical, and this is the kind of story I could well imagine a parent reading to a child for bedtime … or perhaps just enjoying for themselves. Zinn’s language flows musically, and would be a delight on the ears.

She has created a tactile, believable world filled with fascinating characters and a history, that feels as if it has a mythic resonance. I’d have loved for book one to go on a bit longer, to offer a little more resolution, as the ending rushed up quite abruptly, but there’s enough here to have me hooked and wanting more.

Hap by Lesley Beake

I'm going to start by saying that Hap by Lesley Beake absolutely deserves gold for the 2017 Sanlam Youth literature Prize. In this tale, we discover the world according to Lucy, 16, who's been packed off by her mum in NYC to go spend a few weeks with her father, Peter, in South Africa.

Peter is busy on a dig on the West Coast, somewhere near Lambert's Bay (that's about all I can find out about the location of Barclay Bay). It's quite a change from the air-conditioned apartment in the city, but Lucy needs her space. She's recently had something awful happen to her, and needs time and space to remember and deal with the event.

The entire novel seems to exist in a dream-like state – and there's not much that happens beyond Lucy reconciling with her (relatively) absent father, working through her own dark teatime (being rejected by your mother is a terrible thing) and then the events that happen on the dig. We have a large-ish cast of wonderfully eccentric secondary characters who add interest and some conflict to the narrative. There's a storm. The descriptions of the environment are absolutely gorgeous. And then there are the sort-of visions that Lucy has about the enigmatic Hap, her counterpart who lived here many thousands of years ago. I loved the fact that it's left open-ended as to whether Lucy merely had an active imagination or whether she in fact did tap into a distant past.

This is a story about life, and about the connections made between people, and how even though thousands of years separate us from our ancestors, we still have the same needs – to be loved and to endure. And it's also about connecting to that sense of belonging and being part of the land that has formed our bones.

I enjoyed seeing Lucy gradually unfold – and this very much is a novel about coming to terms with hurt and moving beyond it – a story containing subject matter that is often difficult to write about sensitively. (A hint: Beake nails this, BTW. Much better than many authors I've seen over the past while.)

Hap will stay with me for a long, long time. It might be because I already have a massive interest in archaeology – so having a novel immersed in the day-to-day (and rather unglamorous) doings of archaeologists most certainly worked for me. Lucy herself may be at times be self-absorbed (but it's understandable why), but her perceptions of the world around her and the people with whom she interacts make for a fully immersive story. Beake's writing is lyrical and evocative, and I cannot recommend this book enough – whether you are a teen or a teen-at-heart.

Goodbye, Chocolate Charlie by Marga Jonker

This is the second Marga Jonker book I've reviewed – from the pile of titles that occasionally arrive unannounced at my front gate. Goodbye, Chocolate Charlie tells the story of Nicky, who is recovering from a terrible riding accident where her horse, Charlie, plunged to his death down a mountain.

While Nicky's physical scars have healed, her mental scars haven't – much to the despair of her horsey family who live on their big farm in the Cederberg.

But the first steps of Nicky's healing being when her grandfather buys a mysterious palomino pony at an auction, and she slowly comes to terms with the events that happened that fateful day.

Firstly, I'd say this is a book that will chiefly appeal to younger middle grade readers who're completely horsey. As before, Jonker shows that she's a keen observer of everything equine, so from that perspective, this is a lovely little book.

I did find the subplot with the girls coming to stay on the farm to finish their training for a big sporting event a bit tacked on, but the banter between the kids was mildly entertaining. Jonker touches on the work being done by the Cape Leopard Trust, which brings in a nice environmental angle, and also gives a nod to the TV documentary series 50/50.

The invariable big climax happens, but I kinda saw that one coming a mile away, and felt almost as if it was a bit too conveniently set up. There was a bit of misdirection in terms of the plot with regard to the way Nicky overcomes her fear of riding, which I felt was a nice touch.

There isn't much depth to this story, and its parts felt a bit too loosely stranded together for me to be doing backflips in frabjous delight. I'd peg this as *very* light reading, and happily pass this book on to younger readers who might feel differently.