My Africa

This was supposed to be a review of Paula Leyden’s book, The Butterfly Heart, but in doing the research for it, I realized I needed to write about my own tentative connection to Africa first.

I read a ton of books as a kid, but I could not tell you a single title of an African-set story now, other than the Tarzan of the Apes’ adventures. I was rather fond of Cheetah, but I don’t think I fell in love with the idea of Africa until later.

When I was a bit older, I read The Flame Trees of Thika: Memories of an African Childhood by Elspeth Huxley. My brother would argue that my “obsession with Hayley Mills”, as he calls it, is what got me interested in the TV series, which led me to the book.

By the time I was a teen and then a young adult, I loved the romance of colonial Europeans living in mysterious, wild Africa – young Elspeth made friends with local Kikuyus, Karen Blixen ran a farm, Beryl Markham flew her bi-plane into the bush to rescue stranded men, and life seemed one great adventure.

My impression of Africa was woefully out of date and unrealistic, to say the least.

So then I listened to the radio, read the news online, and had discussions with people about all the bad stuff going on. I read The Constant Gardener and watched the film. I read countless other books and watched movies and TV shows set in various contemporary African countries, some dark and doomed, some lighter.

To tell you the truth, I’m a bit scared of the “real” Africa, the one with poisonous snakes, dangerous men, genital mutilation of women, warlords and despots, pirates, drought, starvation, and HIV/AIDS. There is no adventure to be found here, no romance, no joy.

You’ll probably kill me for admitting that I like Alexander McCall Smith’s series, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I was at a writing event a number of years ago, which featured African authors writing about life in each of their countries, and the very serious author of something very heavy and depressing BUT LITERARY (apparently) sneered at my chirpy admission.

I am well aware that McCall Smith’s books are not a realistic portrayal of Botswana, and they are being written by a white guy from Scotland. But, while they are lightweight and ultimately upbeat mysteries, they  also feature African women with heart, character, and humour.

McCall Smith on his website says: “I thought…that it was a great pity that there are so many negative books and articles about Africa. I wanted to show readers in the rest of the world that there are many great and remarkable people living in southern Africa – people who lead good lives, with honour and integrity…This is not to say that there are not many problems in that part of the world – there are. But the problems are only one side of the story – there is another, more positive side.”

I think that’s what I’m looking for, that other positive Africa, that shows real people living real lives and dealing with real issues, but written as a celebration, that embraces the joy of life. That’s why I read Paula Leyden’s book, The Butterfly Heart, which is set in Zambia. I’ll review it in a follow-up blog.

Eventually, I will travel to Africa and experience it for myself. For now, I rely on the authors of good books to gently enlighten me.