Niq Mhlongo was born in Soweto, Johannesburg in 1973 and grew up under apartheid, South Africa’s institutionalised racial segregation under white minority rule. He graduated in political studies and African literature in 1996 and then studied law, but dropped out in his final year to become a writer instead.
Mhlongo entered the South African literary scene with his novel Dog Eat Dog (2004). He’s since published three more novels and three short story collections, and has edited three volumes of writing. Critics have called him “one of the most high-spirited and irreverent new voices of South Africa’s post-apartheid literary scene”.
Mhlongo’s new novel, The City Is Mine, tells the story of Mangi, who seems to live a happy life with his fiancée, Aza, in Linden, a comfortable Johannesburg suburb. One day he discovers that Aza owns the house he’s been financing for eight years, a fact she has conveniently hidden from him. What follows is a messy break-up, made worse by Mangi losing his job. Thrown out of their home, he finds himself roaming Johannesburg’s streets, living from hand to mouth. That’s when he is forced to reinvent himself.
I’ve conducted interviews with Mhlongo over the years that have informed my research on contemporary South African fiction. I spoke with him about his new book.
Olivier Moreillon: What were some sources of inspiration for This City is Mine?
Niq Mhlongo: I’m fascinated by cities. I’m also a travel writer and have written essays and journalistic pieces about Johannesburg. I wanted to do it in the form of a novel. I now live in Berlin. To look at and write about my home city from afar, to pay homage to it, was sort of a healing thing for me. It has brought us back together. In This City Is Mine, I look at Johannesburg’s underbelly and some of the changes it has undergone.
My early work and this new novel juxtapose Johannesburg in two different times. This allowed me to reflect on the city. Dog Eat Dog was set in 1994. The city was still looked after. Now it’s all falling to pieces. It is sad to see public inner-city spaces such as the Johannesburg Art Gallery or the Johannesburg Public Library close and be taken over by homeless people, drug pushers and street hustlers.
Johannesburg is the city of gold, both literally and metaphorically. There are illegal gold miners, for example, but also people who are simply seeking a better life. But Johannesburg has always been “the city of broken dreams”. Most end up disappointed. But now I think there’s also a deliberate neglect of the city.
Olivier Moreillon: The novel reminded me of your fellow writers and compatriots Mongane Wally Serote’s and Lesego Rampolokeng’s famous poems – published in 1972 and 1990 respectively – that explore Johannesburg’s complex and troublesome past as a magnet for labourers seeking work on gold mines. Were these texts formative?
Niq Mhlongo: Not directly, but writers like them have doubtlessly had a huge influence on my writing. I remember in 1990, we used to listen to Rampolokeng’s poetry on a cassette. Writers like Mbulelo Mzamane, mama Miriam Tlali and Sandile Memela have written about Johannesburg. My reference is not deliberate, but their work has found its way into my writing in some way.
I also rely a lot on physical research. I always walk the areas I write about, those areas that people think are not walkable. My walks and mental notes are also influenced by my readings.
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Olivier Moreillon: One major theme of your new novel is love. To what extent is it a love letter to Johannesburg, a city known for its crime?
Niq Mhlongo: That’s a nice way of putting it. Yes, it is a love letter. Johannesburg is not a one-sided city, and that’s the main thing I love about it. It’s continuously changing. While some parts of the inner-city may be decaying, there are other places that are very much up-and-coming, new cultural hubs, student hubs…
Having lived in Johannesburg, I find it easier to negotiate other spaces. Living in a dangerous city gives you that courage of being elsewhere, and with that comes a level of maturity. If you don’t develop eyes in the back of your head, you won’t survive in Joburg. It’s a university without a professor.
Olivier Moreillon: Aza is Mangi’s fiancée. He leaves their home and later grows attached to a sex worker called Boni. What were you hoping to achieve with two such opposite characters?
Niq Mhlongo: If we look at sex workers, we’re talking about people who have always been stigmatised, and instead of being seen, they are often minimised and even dehumanised. People don’t care what their names are. People don’t care about anything they do.
Meanwhile, there is this idea of home being linked to love, but there are homes that are terrible, and then one has to find solace, sometimes in the most unexpected places. Love doesn’t always come from the people that you think love you. Linden is supposed to be home for Mangi. It’s beautiful, but there’s no love.
And home is often forced on people. For a long time, apartheid and its legislation demarcated where a person’s home is. Linden becomes a home that is forced on Mangi because of his relationship with Aza, only to find out that she has been lying. Later on, he lives inside his car, which becomes his new home. Then he lives under a bridge. It becomes a home, too. So, home becomes a state of mind, really.
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Olivier Moreillon: Even though the novel broaches many serious issues, it is also full of humorous moments. What part did humour play?
Niq Mhlongo: It’s not something that I do deliberately, but I’ve learned that it’s important to include lighter elements when you write about difficult topics. If there was no humour in me writing about Mangi living under the bridge, reading that story would not be easy to stomach and it might have become less accessible.
Olivier Moreillon: What’s next from Niq Mhlongo?
Niq Mhlongo: You know me, there’s always more than one story bustling around my head. My next book is called Doppelgänger, which I’ve been putting on hold for a long time. The book is set in present-day South Africa and its story unravels backwards towards the apartheid past.
Olivier Moreillon does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
