Sunday Times Literary Awards shortlist: Siphiwe Gloria Ndlovu on ‘The Creation of Half-Broken People’

FICTION COVERAGE

Criteria: The winner should be a novel of rare imagination and style, evocative, textured and a tale so compelling as to become an enduring landmark of contemporary fiction.

The Creation of Half-Broken People by Siphiwe Gloria Ndlovu (Picador Africa) is shortlisted for the Sunday Times fiction prize, in partnership with Exclusive Books. Ndlovu discusses the genesis of her novel:

How I Stopped Fearing and Learned to Love Gagool

My journey towards writing The Creation of Half-Broken People began many years ago. I was a student at Hillside Junior School in Bulawayo and, as was the practice in those days, I borrowed — like every other student at the school — a book from the well-stocked school library. I would like to pretend otherwise, but I think it was the cover that made me reach for H Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines.

It depicted a rather violent battle between Europeans and Africans. At 11, I obviously felt old enough to venture into such literary territory. Between the covers of the book I met Gagool — a witch, a creature, the essence of evil. As Haggard had intended, I was terrified of her. My reading journey continued. Gagool — like a haunting — journeyed along with me. She beckoned towards me, pointing me to another road, wanting me to head in a different direction. But, could I trust her? Should I trust her? She was black like me. She was female like me. But, she was also a witch and witches, as we all know, are never to be trusted.

I continued on my journey and somewhere along the way discovered that Haggard’s crazed Kukuanas were based on the Matabele — my people; that the history of depraved violence that he depicted was my history; that Gagool, in all her atavistic wickedness, was my ancestor. Haggard had successfully made me fear myself, my people and my history. Why would he do such a thing and why would he use a woman to do it? Why would he make her ancient and decrepit? Why would he depict her in the most dehumanising ways possible? Why would he render her maddened by irrational rage? What was he afraid of?

It was time to explore the road not taken — that very road that Gagool had been trying to have me venture onto all along. I studied literature and encountered Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre, the unnamed narrator in Rebecca, the maddened narrator in The Yellow Wallpaper, Antoinette Cosway in Wide Sargasso Sea and Sethe in Beloved. Through reading these women’s stories, I learned that they were systems of power — colonialism, capitalism, patriarchy — that colluded to trap women in particular gender roles, to silence their voices, to make invisible their contributions, to render them mad when they refused to be controlled.

I studied history and in the archives came across the violence of that collusion yet again… But, there were also women escaping their entrapment, women voicing their silence, women making visible their contributions, women rendering themselves uncontrollable, and, in so doing, exposing the madness of the oppressive systems of power. These women were sometimes unnamed and remain anonymous. These women were often written off as mad and remain misremembered. These women were hardly handled with care and remain misbegotten. These women were mostly seen as inconvenient truths and remain forgotten.

The Creation of Half-Broken People is about these women, or, rather, it is about my journey towards discovering these women. It is about learning how to love instead of fear the one who began and begat it all: Gagool. The genesis.

EXTRACT

Bad news arrives the morning after. Stevens comes carrying it on a silver tray. He bangs on the door until I open it. He looks over my shoulder and sees Daisy getting dressed. His eyes are cold and calculating above the surgical mask.

‘The bosses will not be liking this,’ he says to Daisy, ignoring me.

‘Let them not like it,’ she says.

‘No fraternising with the guests. Strict policy.’

‘That’s never stopped you before,’ Daisy says, coming to stand next to me.

Stevens, still not looking at me, his eyes still cold and calculating, offers Daisy the piece of paper on the tray.

‘What’s this?’ she says, taking it.

‘Read it,’ Stevens says.

Daisy starts reading. Stevens looks at me then. He looks triumphant. I know from his look what that piece of paper is: my plane ticket.

Daisy has stopped reading, but she still holds the paper in her hands. She looks at me, and then hands me the paper. I cannot read her look.

‘Alfred has called a meeting for all the staff,’ Stevens says.

Daisy nods. She attempts a smile and then leaves with Stevens, closing the door behind her.

I look at what I hold in my hands. It is not a plane ticket. It is a letter. The letter reads:

To Whom It May Concern:

I regret to inform you that my daughter, a guest at the castle, is not altogether well. She has a history of mental illness and has, on occasion, been violent. She has caused great harm to herself and others. I am worried for her safety and yours. She suffers from visual, aural and olfactory hallucinations. Not so long ago, while under psychiatric care, she told her doctor that she had befriended a woman named Isabella Van Wagenen. Isabella Van Wagenen (also archived as Isabella Van Wagener) was born Isabella Baumfree (also archived as Isabella Bomfree and Isabella Bomefree). Later, after she claimed to have heard the Spirit of God tell her to preach the Truth, she renamed herself Sojourner Truth. Sojourner Truth was an abolitionist and a champion of civil, human and women’s rights. She died in 1883.

I love my daughter and only want her health and happiness. But unfortunately she can no longer be trusted to do what is best. She has three wonderful children who need her. The Good Family only wants her to get better and stronger. We have repeatedly encouraged her to come back home. This has been in vain. She has not used the plane ticket the Good Foundation sent her. We now need your help. Borders will close soon. Flights will be cancelled. She needs to be put on the next available flight. You may need to use force. You have my permission to do so.

Sincerely.

The happiness that was recently felt will from now on be a thing of the past. A memory. But I will not allow this letter to break me. I will not fall, not this time. I will not crouch. I will not creep. I will not crawl. I will not become a half-broken thing. I will continue to stand.

Voices climb walls and make their way into my room.

‘What kind of mother leaves her children behind?’

‘I always knew she was not normal.’

‘She needs to go.’

‘We cannot find ourselves on the bad side of the Good Foundation or the Good Family.’

‘We can always call the Organisation. They will be happy to handle this.’

‘I am happy to throw her out.’

‘I always knew she was not normal.’

I must do something.

I look around the Great Chamber. My eyes rest on the replica of Simone Martini and Lippo Memmi’s ‘The Annunciation and Two Saints’. I look at the olive branch that the Archangel Gabriel offers to the Madonna. I look at the way the Madonna shrinks away from him, recoiling with both distrust and disgust, not wanting what he has to offer, not wanting that olive branch and what it symbolises. If that olive branch is removed, then the Madonna can go back to reading her book and carry on with her life.

It takes a lot of effort to move the four-poster canopied bed, but I do. My fingernails start chipping away at the olive branch. I know it would be more comfortable if I was in a crouching position, but I will do this standing. I will not crouch. I will not creep. I will not crawl. Not this time.

When they come to take me away, they will find me with my fingers aching and bleeding, but the olive branch will be gone. I am victorious. I sit on the bed and wait for the footsteps I hear on the stairs to enter the room.