Ondjaki. Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secret. Translated by Stephen Henighan. Biblioasis International Translation Series. Windsor: Biblioasis, 2014. 192 pp. $15.95 (paper), ISBN 978-1-927428-65-8.
This latest novel to appear in English bears similarities with Ondjaki’s Good
Morning Comrades (2008), also translated by Stephen Henighan, in that its
major protagonists and instigators of change are a group of children. The
novel revolves around the lives of the residents of Bishop’s Beach, an area of
Luanda, and their relations with a group of Soviet service personnel who are
responsible for the building of a mausoleum and monument nearby to the founding
president of Angola. The rumour begins to circulate that the inhabitants of the
area are going to be moved away to a new housing development far out of town
and their homes dynamited as part of the mausoleum project. Three children–the
narrator; Pinduca, known as Pi or more commonly 3.14; and Charlita, the
daughter of the local bar owner–prepare to save their area from destruction by
entering the building site under cover of darkness and blowing up the monument
before the explosives are used on their own homes. As in Ondjaki’s other
novels, there is a panoply of picturesque and comic characters, but the two
adults who engage the reader’s interest in particular, because of the potential
for romantic entanglement, are the narrator’s grandmother, Agnette, the Granma
Nineteen of the novel’s title, and her lovelorn admirer, Comrade Bilhardov, the
Soviet of the title, who is in charge of the construction site.
David Brookshaw is an Emeritus Professor at Bristol University. He has an interest in literary translation. His most recent translations are Confession of the Lioness and Pensativities, both by Mia Couto. His translation of Paulina Chiziane’s novel, Niketche, is forthcoming with Archipelago Books, NYC.
Review by David Brookshaw (Bristol University)
This latest novel to appear in English bears similarities with Ondjaki’s Good
Morning Comrades (2008), also translated by Stephen Henighan, in that its
major protagonists and instigators of change are a group of children. The
novel revolves around the lives of the residents of Bishop’s Beach, an area of
Luanda, and their relations with a group of Soviet service personnel who are
responsible for the building of a mausoleum and monument nearby to the founding
president of Angola. The rumour begins to circulate that the inhabitants of the
area are going to be moved away to a new housing development far out of town
and their homes dynamited as part of the mausoleum project. Three children–the
narrator; Pinduca, known as Pi or more commonly 3.14; and Charlita, the
daughter of the local bar owner–prepare to save their area from destruction by
entering the building site under cover of darkness and blowing up the monument
before the explosives are used on their own homes. As in Ondjaki’s other
novels, there is a panoply of picturesque and comic characters, but the two
adults who engage the reader’s interest in particular, because of the potential
for romantic entanglement, are the narrator’s grandmother, Agnette, the Granma
Nineteen of the novel’s title, and her lovelorn admirer, Comrade Bilhardov, the
Soviet of the title, who is in charge of the construction site.
The novel falls well within a genre of comic, satirical fiction rooted in
Luanda that harks back to the stories and novels of Luandino Vieira, and more
recently to the work of Manuel Rui, in particular this author’s prize-winning
novella of the early 1980s, Quem Me Dera Ser Onda, which, like
Ondjaki’s later novel, pokes fun, through the comments and actions of its
heroic child protagonists, at some of the institutions of the one-party state,
among these its blinkered press and radio. Not surprisingly, the older author
makes a cameo appearance in Granma Nineteen in the form of Uncle Rui,
the writer, seen riding past on his bicycle. The fundamental
difference between Ondjaki and his older contemporaries is that while Vieira
and Rui participated in the struggle for independence against Portugal, and
were active in the MPLA government when Angola became independent in 1975,
Ondjaki was only born in 1977, and therefore belongs to a generation that has
no tangible memory of colonial rule or of the nationalist struggle, and that
went through school during the so-called revolutionary years of the 1980s. The
Russians and Cubans who appear in his stories are seen through the eyes of
children, those of Ondjaki’s generation. The Western media during those years
tended to focus on the political motives behind the presence of the Eastern
Bloc and its citizens in countries like Angola, and almost never on the human
face of their involvement. Ondjaki, on the other hand, invests his characters
with a humanity based on their personal strengths and vulnerabilities. These
include all the issues associated with exile. Bilhardov feels the absence of
family and talks nostalgically of the snow in his home country, as he and his
colleagues sweat in uniforms unsuited to Luanda’s heat and humidity. He is
alienated, in part, by his imperfect knowledge of Portuguese, which the
children soon notice, giving him the nickname of Gudafterov because of the way
he pronounces "good afternoon" in Portuguese. There is also the Cuban
doctor, Rafael KnockKnock, a nickname given him by his patients because of the
way he knocks on doors when carrying out home visits. It is the doctor who puts
Granma Nineteen at ease by dancing a tango with her at the hospital prior to
amputating her gangrenous toe.
Luanda that harks back to the stories and novels of Luandino Vieira, and more
recently to the work of Manuel Rui, in particular this author’s prize-winning
novella of the early 1980s, Quem Me Dera Ser Onda, which, like
Ondjaki’s later novel, pokes fun, through the comments and actions of its
heroic child protagonists, at some of the institutions of the one-party state,
among these its blinkered press and radio. Not surprisingly, the older author
makes a cameo appearance in Granma Nineteen in the form of Uncle Rui,
the writer, seen riding past on his bicycle. The fundamental
difference between Ondjaki and his older contemporaries is that while Vieira
and Rui participated in the struggle for independence against Portugal, and
were active in the MPLA government when Angola became independent in 1975,
Ondjaki was only born in 1977, and therefore belongs to a generation that has
no tangible memory of colonial rule or of the nationalist struggle, and that
went through school during the so-called revolutionary years of the 1980s. The
Russians and Cubans who appear in his stories are seen through the eyes of
children, those of Ondjaki’s generation. The Western media during those years
tended to focus on the political motives behind the presence of the Eastern
Bloc and its citizens in countries like Angola, and almost never on the human
face of their involvement. Ondjaki, on the other hand, invests his characters
with a humanity based on their personal strengths and vulnerabilities. These
include all the issues associated with exile. Bilhardov feels the absence of
family and talks nostalgically of the snow in his home country, as he and his
colleagues sweat in uniforms unsuited to Luanda’s heat and humidity. He is
alienated, in part, by his imperfect knowledge of Portuguese, which the
children soon notice, giving him the nickname of Gudafterov because of the way
he pronounces "good afternoon" in Portuguese. There is also the Cuban
doctor, Rafael KnockKnock, a nickname given him by his patients because of the
way he knocks on doors when carrying out home visits. It is the doctor who puts
Granma Nineteen at ease by dancing a tango with her at the hospital prior to
amputating her gangrenous toe.
In this novel, Ondjaki gives us a fascinating glimpse into a brief but
seemingly forgotten period of Angola’s recent history, namely the fifteen years
when the country’s regime was bolstered by the Soviet Union and its allies
against Western and South African-backed insurgents. The Bishop’s Beach of
Ondjaki’s child heroes is a place where the locals devise simple ways of
keeping their place in the perennial bread queue, where there are electricity
shortages, where the local gas station has long ago run out of petrol, and
where the term "comrade" is the default mode of address. Since the
eventual end of that war in 2002, the country, with the exception of its
governing party, which still rules, has changed beyond all recognition, thanks
to ever increasing disparities in wealth fueled by the boom in oil and
diamonds, and by widescale corruption among its political and social elite, not
to mention the exponential growth of its capital into a vast, sprawling,
traffic-choked megacity. Russian and Cuban personnel have been replaced by
American, western European, Brazilian, and Chinese business executives,
technicians, and workers in the petroleum industry. Angola has been fully
incorporated into the global economy. Neto’s Mausoleum now dominates Luanda’s
coastline. It never was blown up in a blaze of color by a group of children, as
happened in Ondjaki’s novel. Whether the final scene of Granma Nineteen is
an act of destruction or nothing more than a magnificent firework display, it
is, nevertheless, an expression of public defiance against an authoritarian
state. The author’s childhood city is a lost paradise, in which the coherence
of a community, with help from its children and a lovesick Russian, might well
have overcome the arrogant aims of a beleaguered regime seeking to consolidate
its influence on the minds and lives of ordinary Angolans by erecting a symbol
of its prepotency in their midst.
seemingly forgotten period of Angola’s recent history, namely the fifteen years
when the country’s regime was bolstered by the Soviet Union and its allies
against Western and South African-backed insurgents. The Bishop’s Beach of
Ondjaki’s child heroes is a place where the locals devise simple ways of
keeping their place in the perennial bread queue, where there are electricity
shortages, where the local gas station has long ago run out of petrol, and
where the term "comrade" is the default mode of address. Since the
eventual end of that war in 2002, the country, with the exception of its
governing party, which still rules, has changed beyond all recognition, thanks
to ever increasing disparities in wealth fueled by the boom in oil and
diamonds, and by widescale corruption among its political and social elite, not
to mention the exponential growth of its capital into a vast, sprawling,
traffic-choked megacity. Russian and Cuban personnel have been replaced by
American, western European, Brazilian, and Chinese business executives,
technicians, and workers in the petroleum industry. Angola has been fully
incorporated into the global economy. Neto’s Mausoleum now dominates Luanda’s
coastline. It never was blown up in a blaze of color by a group of children, as
happened in Ondjaki’s novel. Whether the final scene of Granma Nineteen is
an act of destruction or nothing more than a magnificent firework display, it
is, nevertheless, an expression of public defiance against an authoritarian
state. The author’s childhood city is a lost paradise, in which the coherence
of a community, with help from its children and a lovesick Russian, might well
have overcome the arrogant aims of a beleaguered regime seeking to consolidate
its influence on the minds and lives of ordinary Angolans by erecting a symbol
of its prepotency in their midst.
Translating Ondjaki is not an easy task. The narrative in this novel is
fast-moving and colloquial, though peppered with some lyrical evocations of the
ever-present sea and the changing colors cast upon it by the tropical light.
The dialogues are sparky and witty. In addition to the conversations between
the child protagonists, there are occasional interventions in Spanish from the
Cuban doctor and the beach-coming Angolan, Sea Foam, who studied in Cuba and
who happily speaks a brand of "portunhol" (Portuguese mixed with
Spanish). Finally, there is of course, the picturesque Portuguese of the
Russians. Stephen Henighan has done an excellent job of conveying the narrative
qualities and wit of the original in his English translation.
fast-moving and colloquial, though peppered with some lyrical evocations of the
ever-present sea and the changing colors cast upon it by the tropical light.
The dialogues are sparky and witty. In addition to the conversations between
the child protagonists, there are occasional interventions in Spanish from the
Cuban doctor and the beach-coming Angolan, Sea Foam, who studied in Cuba and
who happily speaks a brand of "portunhol" (Portuguese mixed with
Spanish). Finally, there is of course, the picturesque Portuguese of the
Russians. Stephen Henighan has done an excellent job of conveying the narrative
qualities and wit of the original in his English translation.
David Brookshaw is an Emeritus Professor at Bristol University. He has an interest in literary translation. His most recent translations are Confession of the Lioness and Pensativities, both by Mia Couto. His translation of Paulina Chiziane’s novel, Niketche, is forthcoming with Archipelago Books, NYC.
Permission has been given by the author for the publication of this review in Comunidades.
