by Sibabalwe Oscar Masinyana
In my second year at university, I came back home for my twenty-first birthday. My mother had made a cake and my father had paid to have it decoratively iced in the shape of an open book with a bookmark down the middle. Printed across the cake, like print on the open pages, was the name of my college: Corpus Christi. It had the look of a shrine or totem, which in some sense it was, an expression of the mysterious and vast symbolic power of books. This mystery, needless to say, was enhanced by the fact that my father never actually read one. My uncle Peter took a photograph of that cake and it seems the proudest thing in the world—and the saddest. -- Geoff Dyer, ‘On Being an Only Child’
No matter how I try to justify it, the truth is clear: I have a problem and its proper name is addiction. I cannot pass a bookshop without going in, I cannot be in one without browsing, and if no one drags me out immediately there is a 99.9% chance that I will buy a book or tow a ton or two on my way out. The cheaper the bookshop the taller and heavier the load. Even if I don't have time, I'll make time. Second hand bookshops are my weakness, but I am not at all averse to buying many brand new ones as well. I wish I were exaggerating when I tell you I have left a bookshop with no less than 50 books from half a day’s browsing from one end of the store to another, upstairs and down. But I'm not. Financially, of course, this spells suicide for me. I can leave my flat well aware that I should do groceries and pay electricity, yet once inside the safe and goading comfort of a bookshop's wall I have an inexplicable courage to spend all – yes, all – of my money buying books. Then I go home, spend many happy hours going through the new pile, start to wonder what I am going to have for that day’s supper, and then, suddenly, remember it’s only the beginning of the month, and then, responsibly, begin to wonder what am I going to eat the next 25 days whilst I wait for my ship to come in (not that I am ever sure from whence or if it shall come to begin with).
At this point, I usually start praying, often silently, sending out vibrations of hope and trust in the universe’s ability to provide – a slightly harmless exercise in self-delusion, the unreligious-minded might say, but one that I nonetheless submerge myself into wholly. Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar; verses from or inspired by the Holy Qur’an and all other holy scriptures about God providing for all creation and especially humanity begin to fill my mind with such assurance that I walk to the kitchen, and Lo! there is a packet of sugar beans long forgotten at the back of the cupboard. Of course, it is terribly inconveniencing that I now have to wait for what feels like ages to have a meal, but self-made beggars (or any other variety for that matter) do not have the luxury of choice. (Regan in King Lear: O, sir, to willful men/The injuries that they themselves procure/Must be their schoolmasters. Wise words from an unwise mouth; nonetheless, we must take wisdom wherever we find it.) My friend, Tanya, always jokes that it is a pity one cannot eat books, and I always joke back saying one of these days I will invent a book curry. I do not mean this, of course; it is just for jest – even if there were such a thing as book curry I would never eat my books. While the beans are cooking and I am comforted by the discovery of even more long-stocked but never used foods in my cupboards, I grow secure in the dialogue now full swing in my head. The Gospel of Matthew 6:25-34 teaches us not to worry about having the necessities of life, and in times of reckless spending I take these verses rather too literally:
For this reason I say to you, stop worrying for your life – what you should eat, or what you should drink, not even for your body, what you should wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the sky; they do not sow nor reap nor gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth more than they? And who of you by worrying is able to add one hour to his time of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Observe well how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin. Yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. Therefore, if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is cast into a furnace, will he not much more clothe you, You of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or, ‘What shall we drink?’ or, ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans seek after all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you have need of all these things. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Sufficient for each day is its own trouble.
Indeed. But it’s the lilies of the field that really win me over. Ah well. Anyway, despite this assurance, like a virtuous character just rescued from sin, I begin acknowledge the stupidity and irresponsibility of my actions, I promise myself (not anybody else; myself) that I will not do this again, that it is most vile and inconsiderate, that it brings on unnecessary stress, that it smacks of materialism – even if of the bookish kind – and is therefore not conducive to mature and adult, let alone spiritual, behaviour. Besides, I don't actually have the time to read all these books now, I just don't. I tell myself all of these things, and Lord knows I truly mean business. Then the next pay cheque comes in and I outdo myself in the type of business I can negotiate in a bookshop.
So, because I cannot seem to cure myself of this malady, I have decided to fully embrace it. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” Or – to continue – “I can resist everything except temptation,” says my namesake Wilde trying to sound like the doyen he never was. I shall take counsel on this matter nonetheless. (We must take convenient phrases from wherever we find them, regardless of how much wisdom they contain.) When I have a budget to work with, I set aside some dough for books and it usually supersedes all other items on the budget, save the monthly rent for the flat. I have thought and thought and very hard and concluded that I could have been addicted to worse things, and thank God I am not. No offence to anybody that loves buying clothes or make-up or stuff like that, but that stuff is just so ephemeral; I just cannot sympathise even though I concede that each man has their own brand of vice. Books, however, are potentially for life, and even if they are not, they contain immeasurable and life-altering value. But most importantly, I have convinced myself that I am building a home library that will be invaluable to my research for my novel/s and other books I am to write when I finally retire to my rural village. (Yes, I am already thinking of early retirement.)
I also want to build a library there; kids in my village go to school for 12 years or more or less – and you will see just now why – and never know what it is to go to a library and borrow a book and read it and like it or hate it. To begin with, they don’t even have textbooks. My brother – who attended and then dropped out of one such school – told me that their English teacher read Romeo and Juliet to them from the only available copy in the entire school, and then narrated the story to the class in the local dialect. I laughed so hard when I first heard this, along with stories of the Geography teacher who came to school and sat outside all day all year and every now and then sent in a learner to write notes on the blackboard for the class to memorise. It was nervous laughter; the laughter of disbelief, of helplessness, perhaps; there was never anything funny about it at all. It’s no surprise then that my brother does not know what Shakespeare’s play is about, nor who the bard was, nor is it surprising that overall his spoken and written English is not of the level that it could be for one as intelligent as he. And he is not the only one. Many in my community, thousands in the province, and millions in the country are in the same boat. Ah well. Therefore, these books of mine will be the basis for that one-day-is-one-day grand vision. In this way, I have shelved the feelings of guilt awhile, and can buy as many books without worrying that I am indulging in money-guzzling pursuits that benefit no one but me and me. This is why philanthropy can sometimes be so complicated – there is always more to it than meets the eye. But then again not always. I suppose this is now subject for another day.
PHOTO: Richard Jones (2008) http://www.flickr.com/photos/richard_jones/2258717973/
