Metafiction in Mpe's Welcome to our Hillbrow - African Literature ...

Explorations of Reality: Metafiction in Mpe’s Welcome to Our
Hillbrow
Recently, much of the scholarship on Phaswne Mpe’s post-apartheid,
South African novel Welcome to Our Hillbrow focuses around the epigraph by
W E B DuBois, “Reader, be assured this narrative is no fiction,” and examines
the reality behind Mpe’s representation of Hillbrow. In her exploration of the
idea of borders in the novel, for example, Meg Samuelson explains, “I attend
also to epistemic borders between what we would call, following Ben Okri,
the seen and the unseen, as well as those between fact and fiction: “Reader, be
assured, this narrative is no fiction’, states the epigraph with which Phaswane
Mpe opens his novel of the city” (248). Carrol Clarkson examines the engaging
effect of Mpe’s second person narrative as it pulls his audience into the story
and makes his fiction their reality. Jane Poyner adds, “Indeed, contemporary
South African novelists are usefully unsettling the boundaries between private
and public to refigure the nations’ recent past and to debunk the myth of South
African exceptionalism” (103). Gugu Hlongwane traces Mpe’s depiction of
destitute Hillbrowans and explains, “there is actually very little that is fictional
about them in a country where the poor live in desperate poverty” (73).
Although many of these scholars explore the reality of Mpe’s novel,
a close examination focusing on the connection between his form and the
reality of his novel has not been made. Mpe’s form continues to call attention
to the literary nature of his novel. His narrator(s) directly refers to writing and
literature, his characters write and publish, and literary allusions abound. In
this essay, I argue that Mpe’s use of metafiction in the novel causes the reader to
question the line between what is real and what is fiction, especially in postapartheid
South Africa; this, in turn, make Dubois’ words, “Reader, be assured,
this narrative is no fiction, “even more haunting and forces readers to see that
what they are offered is an exemplary case of metafiction. But when is fiction a
metafiction? Patricia Waugh defines metafiction, a term originated by American
critic William H. Gass in 1970 (Waugh 2):
Metafiction is a term given to fictional writing which selfconsciously
and systematically draw attention to its status as
an artifact in order to pose questions about the relationship
between fiction and reality. In providing a critique of their own
methods of construction, such writings not only examine the
fundamental structures of narrative fiction, they also explore
the possible fictionality of the world outside the literary fictional
text. (2)
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Thus, metafiction brings awareness to its own fictionality and explores
the nature of fiction while also exploring the reality within fiction and the fiction
within reality. It is important, however, to use caution when applying Western
aesthetical terms to African texts. In fact, despite some examination of Mpe’s
self-referential literary technique, hardly any critics apply the term metafiction in
order to describe it. Evan Maina Mwangi explains that this hesitation is present
because critics see that “the post realist fiction in African languages derives
from indigenous oral literature rather than from Western postmodern aesthetics”
(5). Welcome to Our Hillbrow, for example “is informed by an oral tradition
particular to the communal life of the South African pastoral area of Limpopo”
(Negash 1). Therefore, to employ the term metafiction has the potential to leave
out this reference to the African oral tradition.
Even so, metafiction does not necessarily have to be devoid of
connotations to African tradition.
According to Mwangi’s definition of metafiction in Africa Writes Back to Self:
Metafiction, Gender, Sexuality (2009), the notion has African aesthetic roots.
In my application of the term metafiction to Welcome to Our Hillbrow, therefore,
I will use the term as a textual practice not to be distinguished from the African
literary practice nor as a purely Western postmodern invention. Mwangi
explains, “I view metafiction not as an exclusively Western phenomenon but
as an aesthetic practice that has grown simultaneously in different parts of the
world” (6). In fact, an exploration of indigenous African languages supports
the growth of metafiction outside of the West. In the Kishwahili (or Swahili)
language of Africa, for example, the term bunilizipuku means “imaginative
creation that extends beyond the conventions of fiction, fiction beyond fiction,
fiction that outdoes fiction in its fictionality.” The term is connected to bunilizi
rejelevu, meaning “fiction that refers back to itself, self-reflexive fiction”
(Mwangi 6). Mwangi’s exploration of the ideas behind metafiction available in
African languages supports the idea that the term metafiction can be used in a
context extending beyond Western aesthetics. To apply the term metafiction to
African literature, specifically Welcome to Our Hillbrow, a definition established
by Mwangi is appropriate: “I use the term metafiction to describe that form of
African literature that is self-conscious, self-reflexive, and self-referential” (6).
Mpe’s use of metafiction in Welcome to Our Hillbrow comes through
when his first protagonist, Refentše, begins his initial walk through Hillbrow.
Michael Green describes Hillbrow in his study of South African literature:
By the 1990s, Hillbrow was considered either a sophisticated
melting pot of culture, class, and ethnicity or a decaying
cityscape of violent crime, drugs, prostitution and AIDS”
(334). Refentše’s depiction of Hillbrow focuses on the second
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half of Green’s description when he thinks of Hillbrow as “a
menacing monster, so threatening to its neighbors like Berea
and downtown Johannesburg, that big, forward-looking companies
were beginning to desert the inner city, heading for the
northern suburbs such as Sandton (Mpe, Welcome 3).
This “monster” may cause companies to leave, but it draws in
foreigners from other parts of the country and continent. They are referred
to as Makwerekwere, “ a word derived from kwere kwere, a sound that their
unintelligible foreign languages were supposed to make, according to the locals”
(Mpe, Welcome 20). As Clarkson explains, “Hillbrow finds definition not as a
place of belonging, but as a place of non-belonging, a disparate conglomerate
of all the Makwerekwere of the continent” (452). The xenophobia present
in Hillbrow (and throughout the locations in Mpe’s novel), along with the
overpopulation of the neighborhood, has created a setting of violence and crime,
as well as a setting for the ever-present AIDS disease. Mpe does not hesitate
to depict this dark reality of Hillbrow. When asked why he decided to bring
an issue like AIDS into his novel, Mpe explains that he was using his fiction to
explore the truth: “I think if there is a purpose I would say it is embedded in
just my desire to map Hillbrow, contemporary Hillbrow” (“Healing” 141).Mpe
immediately pulls his readers into his map of Hillbrow, making it their reality
through the use of a distinct second person narrator: “Your first entry into
Hillbrow, Refentše, was the culmination of many converging routes” (2). As
readers, this “you” pulls us into Refentše’s journey, and we enter Hillbrow with
him. Hlongwane explains this effect: “we the readers also take that walk with
[Refentše].
It is on these walks that we come to a better understanding of the
people who live here” (72-3). It is also on these walks that we gain an insight
into the violence and corruption of Hillbrow. Not only does Mpe’s “you”
address the reader, but it also seems as if he was addressing himself. In the
last interview before his sudden death, Mpe explains, “As it would turn out,
I had had Refentše commit suicide in that short story and in my moment of
depression, when I started doing the Hillbrow map, I actually thought back to
that character and thought I’m actually beginning to feel like my character”
(139). Mpe’s Hillbrow pulls characters, readers, and author in alike. We are all
welcomed to Hillbrow with Refentše and, therefore, become a part of his dark
reality.
Mpe avoids placing direct blame for the corrupt state of Hillbrow,
but the problems of a postcolonial, post-apartheid city are present in his
narrative. Departing from the first wave of postcolonial African novels that
immediately “write back” to colonialism, recent fiction out of Africa tends to
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avoid direct reference to the Western forces at play in postcolonial nations.
Mwangi explains, “the texts resist the West by erasing it from local discourses
on postcolonial culture, aesthetics, and politics of identity” (1). Erasing
the West from direct discourse, however, does not mean its presence has
vanished. Although often indirectly, the remnants of apartheid and colonialism,
nonetheless, come through in Mpe’ use of metafiction. As Refentše walks
through Hillbrow, he briefly thinks about the horrors that came with apartheid:
You would be reminded of . . . the endless string of South
Africans hanging and jumping from their ninth floor prison
cells because the agents of the Apartheid government wanted
them to do so . . . [and of] testimonies of the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission hearings, of South African policemen
enjoying their beer and braai while black dissenters roasted
alongside their roasted meat in the heat of a summer day. (19)
Here, Mpe calls attention to the use of metafiction as a
framework for reality by describing all of these horrors as “stuff that
would be called surrealism or magic realism or some other strange
realism were it simply told or written as a piece of fiction” (19). If Mpe
had not pointed out the surreal nature of these apartheid images, readers
may be inclined to think they are fabricated, unreal. By explaining how
surreal they felt even to the witnesses, however, readers are forced to
understand and recognize their reality.
Illustrating the blur between fiction and reality creates an
uncanny feeling for both the characters and the readers. In Nadine
Gordimer’s July’s People (1981), for example, she presents her fictional
prediction as to how the apartheid regime would end. Although
Gordimer writes mainly in the tradition of realism, she employs small
acts of metafictive strategy in such a way that seems more real than the
realist elements of the novel. As her protagonist, Maureen, stays in
July’s village for protection from riots, Gordimer brings in elements of
metafiction to emphasize the cultural distance between Maureen and
July. Maureen’s experience of the uncanny reoccurs when she thinks
about how she would have seen the village depicted in her past. When
Maureen seems beads on a table, for example, she imagines them as an
educational display: “the dioramas of primitive civilizations in a natural
history museum contrive to produce tableaux like that” (24). Similarly,
an indigenous building Maureen sees reminds her of one “about which
Bam had once presented a paper” (108). She even finds herself unable
to enjoy reading a book because she already “was in another time, place,
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consciousness” (29). Elements of July’s village are surreal to her, and
she can only place them in the context of her previous life. Like Mpe,
Gordimer focuses on surrealism to add to the reality of Maureen’s
experience. Like a museum tableaux or academic paper, Gordimer’s
novel acts to represent July’s culture in much the same way. In these
self-reflective moments, therefore, Gordimer calls attention to her own
production, and Maureen’s uncanny feelings ad to the realism of the
novel.
Gordimer explains, “nothing I write in such factual pieces will be
as true as my fiction” (Living 14), and her moments of metafiction add to this
truth. This idea becomes much stronger for Mpe because of his heavier use of
metafiction. One way in which Mpe depicts the post-colonial state of South
Africa is by calling attention to the contradictions within the country. Mpe
opens his novel with a troubling depiction of joy that is directly followed by
horror:
You would remember the last occasion in 1995, when Bafana
Bafana won against Ivory Coast and, in their jubilation, people
in Hillbrow hurled bottles of all sorts from their flat balconies.
A few bold souls, boasting a range of driving skills, swung
and spun their cares in the streets, making U-turns and circles
all over the road. You would recall the child, possibly seven
years old or so, who got hit by a car. Her mid-air screams still
ring in your memory. When she hit the concrete pavements of
Hillbrow, her screens died with her. (1-2).
I quote such a lengthy passage because this is an extremely
telling opening for the novel. The joy paired with immediate horror
leads itself as a metaphor for the postcolonial and post-apartheid state.
The joy of freedom is followed immediately by the disillusionment
of the violent decolonization process. As Fanon explains,
“Decolonization, which sets out to change the order of the world, is
clearly an agenda for total disorder” (2). Not only is disorder present
during decolonization, but violence is necessary: “The violence which
governed the ordering of the colonial world. . . this same violence will
be vindicated and appropriated when, taking history into their own
hands, the colonized swarm into the forbidden cities” (Fanon 5-6).
There cannot be a more haunting metaphor than impassioned drivers
speeding out of control, leading to the death of an innocent child.
Mpe also establishes the negative effects of zealous nationalist ideals
with his sports metaphor. Green describes this opening as “damning
an image of the destructiveness of effusive nationalism as one could
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wish to find” (335). He adds, “The one location to which we are never
welcomed in the novel, it should be noted, is South Africa” (336). Like
decolonization, zealous nationalism can only lead to violence for Mpe.
His depiction of this one act of violence stemming from a national
victory invokes images of decolonization and nationalism, calling
attention to South Africa’s colonialist past without direct reference to
the West.
The violence of Mpe’s Hillbrow, and all of South Africa, stems from
the ever-present xenophobia of the people. Although Mpe does not explicitly
connect xenophobia to the nature of the postcolonial state, the connection is
there implicitly. Hlongwane explains: “in a country where the black majority is
severely poor and where unemployment rates are high, the welcome that these
outside Africans receive is a very cold one. This xenophobia. . . is undoubtedly
tied to apartheid’s racial hierarchies” (76). In Mpe’s South Africa, fear of
the “Other” is mainly directed toward non-South African blacks but also the
urban and suburban poor South Africans. Xenophobia comes through in the
beginning of the novel when Refentše criticizes Cousin of “being a hypocrite
because his vocal support for black non-South African teams, whenever they
played against European clubs, contrasted so glaringly with his prejudice
towards black foreigners the rest of the time” (17). As a police officer, Cousin
is allotted the opportunity to act on his xenophobia in a way other South
Africans are not. After describing how Cousin tortures the suspects he arrests,
the narrator informs us, “Together, with his colleagues, [Cousin] would arrest
Makwerekwere. Drive them around Hillbrow for infinite periods of time” (21).
Mpe leaves it up to the reader’s imagination to picture what the police do to
Makwerekwere suspects during these long rides. Cousin’s hypocrisy, however,
is learned honestly through the attitudes of the community of Tiragalong. The
emergence of AIDS has only added to the community’s xenophobia: “This
AIDS, according to popular understanding, was caused by foreign germs that
travelled down the central and western parts of Africa. . . There were others
who went even further, saying that AIDS was caused by the bizarre sexual
behavior of the Hillbrowans” (3-4). Such a mysterious and unexplainable
disease needed to be attributed to a cause, and Tiragalong attributes it to the
Other. Even when Refilwe, one of their own, develops AIDS, she becomes
separate from the community: “Now she herself was, by association, one of the
hated Makwerekwere. Convenient scapegoat for everything that goes wrong in
people’s lives” (118).
The string of personal deaths in the novel is also a result, in a way, of
xenophobia. After Refentše caught Lerato cheating on him, he falls into a deep
depression and has no one to comfort or help him. Even his own mother is
not there to console him because of her xenophobia: “She hated the Hillbrow
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women with unmatchable venom—a human venom so fatal it would have put
the black mamba’s to shame” (39). Her intense hatred causes her to disown her
son after he refuses to stop seeing Lerato, and Refentše knows he cannot turn
to her in his time of grief. Overburdened with depression, Refentše commits
suicide, and his suicide then leads to string of death like his mother’s burning
and Lerato’s own suicide. Xenophobia does not end with Refentše’s death,
however. Mpe, again calling attention to the act of writing, displays the harsh
realities of xenophobia in South Africa as Refliwe plays into the Tiragalong
people’s fear of the Other:
Refilwe could not rewrite the death of your mother; but she
rewrote the version of your suicide. In this version of things,
you had been bewitched indeed—but not by your mother; by
a loose-thighed Hillbrowan called Lerato. . . And your suicide
was taken for the hard evidence of the dangerous power of
Makwerekwere women. (44).
Although she has not technically written down a word, Refilwe rewrites
Refentše’s reality, mixing in fiction. Mpe highlights the irony surrounding
Refentše’s situation through metafiction as well: “Love. Betrayal. Seduction.
Suicide. It was such things as these that you might have written about” (38).
And, in fact, Mpe is writing about such things. By drawing our focus to the
surrealism and fictionality inherent in the violence of the postcolony, Mpe
makes this violence all the more real. Also, by not explicitly pointing a finger
at the colonizers and writing about the xenophobic South Africans, Mpe avoids
creating over-simplified binaries and placing blame solely on the West but also
looks inward to show the South Africans their part in the violent system as well.
As remnants of colonialism are present in Mpe’s metafictive novel,
apartheid remains a reality in post-apartheid South Africa. One cannot imagine
the “post” without remembering what came before, and referring to the apartheid
condition in terms of fiction makes us, as readers, question the difference
between fiction and reality. As Hlongwane explains, the lines become blurred:
“in a novel that troubles the line between fact and fiction. . . we are encouraged
to be suspicious of both fact and fiction” (81). The ultimate act of metafiction
in Welcome to Our Hillbrow deals with the reality of apartheid present in
post-apartheid South Africa. In order to relieve his “heart’s load of love and
guilt and grief,” Refentše decides to write a short story about Hillbrow (54).
Refentše then has the protagonist of his short story write a novel. Even further,
he has his character “write a novel about Hillbrow, xenophobia and AIDS and
the prejudices of rural lives” (55). Basically, Refentše’s character is writing
Welcome to Our Hillbrow. Samuelson explains how this act of metafiction
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distorts the border between reality and fiction for Mpe’s readers: “Comprised
of stories within stories and unstable, shifting narratorial viewpoint, the novel
presents competing version and vision of the city” (251). These “competing
visions” come together, allowing reader gets a fuller and more realistic image
of Hillbrow. The main difference between Mpe and Refentše’s protagonist,
however, is that she has chosen to write in Sepedi because “[s]he did not know
that writing in an African language in South Africa could be such a curse”
(Hillbrow 56). Here, Mpe addresses the language problem of African literature
and calls indirect attention to the remnants of colonialism in South Africa. Mpe,
although he is multi-lingual and writes in English, explains that he would prefer
to have his work translated into Sepedi because “there’s a big big big audience
that I’m not reaching and probably I’m never going to reach” (Healing” 143).
South African publishers, however, would not allow it to be translated. When
Mpe wanted to translate Welcome to Our Hillbrow, he explains: “I felt at some
point I was being censored, which I objected to. Nevertheless they said they
would publish it [into Sepedi], and at the end of the day it was published”
(“Healing” 142). Publishing a translated version of Welcome to Our Hillbrow
would make it seem too “vulgar,” and publishers want to censor this vulgarity.
Mpe explains that he does not take it upon himself to translate his own work
into Sepedi because “you don’t really want to waste time writing things that you
know for sure you’ll not get published” (“Healing” 143).
South African publishers censor literature in indigenous languages
because it becomes much more real and much less euphemistic. Corruption and
truth can be masked when it is written in English, but this mask is removed if it
is published in native tongues. Mpe and Monica Seeber explain:
Freedom of thought might not be problematic if the writer is an expert
at using euphemism, but whether freedom of expression—or more narrowly
choice of diction—is an easily granted in African language publishing remains a
sensitive issue. Readers’ reviews of manuscripts have been known to summarily
dismiss the writers’ choice of diction as ‘vulgar’ even when the ‘vulgar terms’
are carefully contextualized. If the manuscripts were in, say English, such terms
would not even have raised an eyebrow. (33-4)
Refentše’s protagonist, writing in Sepedi, does not utilize the
euphemism designed to hide the truth of corruption in a colonial/post-colonial
society. Therefore, “Calling shit and genitalia by their correct names in Sepedi
was apparently regarded as vulgar by these reviewers. . .who were determined
to ensure that such works did not offend the systems that they served” (Mpe,
Hillbrow 56). These “systems,” are still in place from the apartheid regime.
As Poyner explains, “Both the form and content of literature have been
regulated not only by the apartheid regime but also—of course to a much lesser
degree—by the oppositional movement for committed literature” (104-05).
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The reviewers in the novel represent the regulation of the apartheid regime,
and Refentše’s protagonist represents the oppositional movement trying to
make her voice heard by breaking through the system. Mpe, though the use
of metafiction, is also a voice in opposition to the regulations of the apartheid
regime. At the same time, however, Mpe is writing in English and, therefore,
maintaining the euphemistic tradition. Unlike the regime, however, Mpe uses
metafiction to bring attention to euphemism, asking his readers to read between
the lines to find the truth. As with the corruption of South Africa, however,
Mpe does not place complete blame on apartheid but points to those who are
compliant with the system as well. Ghirmai Negash explains, “[The characters’]
stories acknowledge that the ideological marginalization and practical neglect of
indigenous African languages and literatures were/are not apartheid’ fault alone”
(5). Rather, all those involved in the system lead to this marginalization.
In a similar manner, Mpe uses Refilwe’s work to express disgust with
the publishing system. Nicholas Evans and Monica Seeber, editors of The
Politics of Publishing in South Africa, explain, “South Africa’s social history
has been sustained, even delineated, by what was and was not able to be
published. Colonialism, followed by apartheid, circumscribed the exchange of
ideas, stunted the development of identities and nurtured the artificial growth
of ideologies concerned with exclusion” (4). The history of censorship carries
into the current state of publishing. Mpe reflects this through both Refentše’s
career. Refilwe sees how censorship and euphemism play such a dictating
role in publishing and thinks, “What frustrated her so much was the extent to
which publishing was in many ways out of touch with the language and events
of everyday life” (94). In other words, Refilwe is disgusted by the use of
euphemism to disguise reality. Mpe supports his own novel in a self-reflective
act when he writes about what Refilwe thinks should be published. He intimates
that people “enjoyed works” like Welcome to Our Hillbrow, works that blur the
line between fiction and reality:
People enjoyed works which shocked them. Which made
them think and reminded them that life was not a long night
of cosiness. Works which were not simply pleasing arrangements
of text or tune, but which commented on the hard
realities of life drawn from and finding support in personal and
social experiences. (95)
Mpe’s metafiction does not only depict the corruption and dark side of
post-apartheid South Africa, but it also works as a call to action. Rob Gaylard
argues that the novel “can also be seen as a (somewhat despairing) plea for the
acknowledgment of a shared humanity: without this, it is difficult to see how we
(as South Africans or Africans or global citizens) can work together to construct
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a common society and a common future” (278). The idea behind global
citizenship emerges as the narrator follows Refilwe in her travels. Mpe makes
it clear, for example, that it is not only in South Africa, or even Africa as a
whole, in which xenophobia plays a driving force but also throughout the world.
In England, Refilwe soon learns what international xenophobia is like. The
narrator explains, “Our Heathrow strongly reminded Refilwe of our Hillbrow
and the xenophobia is engendered. She learnt there, at our Heathrow, that there
was another word for foreigners that was not very different in connotation from
Makwerekwere or Mapolantane. Except that it was a much more widely used
term: Africans” (102). As Tiragalong treats those from Hillbrow, so England
treats those from Africa. Ironically, xenophobia is a universal fear.
In spite of global xenophobia, Mpe illustrates how it is still possible for
people to amek connections on a global level. Of course, he does so by calling
attention to the literariness of his novel and creating characters who make
connections with each other while discussing literature. Refilwe’s favorite bar
in Oxford is called Jude the Obscure. In the bar, there seems to be a universal
bond over literature:
There were many fellow students. . . mixing easily and happily
with non-students, many people who discussed books while
simultaneously indulging in beer. . . Posters and cartoons of
James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, Seamus
Deane and others lined the walls. . . The owner of the pub. . .
was willing to listen and be informed on literatures from other
parts of the world. He bought Zakes Mda’s Ways of Dying
after Refilwe had recommended it very strongly. (107)
It is in this literary environment, created in a work of
literature, that people from around the world connect over literature.
From Refilwe’s first walk into Jude the Obscure, Mpe establishes
a setting that is open to outsiders. The posters on the wall are all
Irishmen, as opposed to Englishmen, and include a man put on trial
for sodomy and a socialist. Then in a great literary allusion, including
to South Africa’s Zakes Mda and England’s Thomas Hardy, Mpe
writes, “Here was Refilwe herself, bringing our Ways of Dying, ways
of mourning, and ways of wondering to our Jude the Obscure” (108).
Like the posters on the wall, these selections are not incidental, but both
works play into themes running throughout Welcome to Our Hillbrow.
In Mda’s novel Ways of Dying, his protagonist, Toloki becomes a
professional mourner in order to grieve for those who have been taken
by AIDS. In Jude the Obscure, Hardy writes about a working class
man, Jude, who strives to become a scholar, in addition to themes
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of adultery and suicide. All of these themes—AIDS, education,
adultery, and suicide—run through Welcome to Our Hillbrow. This
intertextuality works to define a global literature and, therefore, a
global humanity that extends beyond the world of fiction. By alluding
to novels from two different cultures with such similar themes as his
own, Mpe reflects on the kind of universality, reality, and truth present
in the world of fiction.
The narrator is aware of this universality and uses the
characters’ locations to make it clear that the fears, suspicious,
and lives of one place are not much different from anywhere else.
Refentše becomes “child of Tiragalong and Hillbrow” because
“Tiragalong was in Hillbrow” (49). As new characters are introduced
to the novel, this extension of “home” and similarities continues to
grow: “Welcome to our Hillbrow. . . Welcome to our Alexandra.
. . Welcome to our Tiragalong in Johannesburg. . . “(79). It grows
past Africa: “Hillbrow in Hillbrow. Hillbrow in Cape Town. Cape
Town in Hillbrow. Oxford in both. Both in Oxford. Welcome to
our All. . .” (104). Finally, the ultimate recognition of universality
among place is recognized when the narrator concludes by saying,
“Welcome to our Heaven. . . “ (124). Shane Graham terms Mpe’s
form of globalization “grassroots globalization, “ and he explains,
“What makes Mpe’s novel so important is precisely its efforts to map
a ‘grassroots globalization’—that is, to register the ways that ordinary
people navigate the complexity of the contemporary urban landscape”
(118). Mpe examines the globalization on a personal-as-political scale
as opposed to a politic one.
When all the characters met in Heaven, the ultimate global connection
between human beings is made. As Graham explains, “Indeed, a fixed,
final, totalizing memory of the past might not be possible until one reaches
Heaven” (119). In Mpe’s Heaven, xenophobia is removed. Refentše’s
mother greets Lerato, and Refilwe finally comes to understand the nature
of the Makwerekwere: “You do not blame them [the Makwerekwere] for the
troubles in your life, as you once did. You have come to understand that you
too are a Hillbrowan. An Alexandran. A Johannesburger. An Oxfordian. A
Makwerekwere, just like those you once held in such contempt” (122-23). There
is also an emotional distance from death in Mpe’s Heaven that has come with
complete knowledge and retrospect.
The narrator explains: “Heaven affords you the benefit of
retrospect and omniscience. Heaven, you know, is not some far-off
place where God sits in judgment without waiting to read out his
endless, cruel list of offenders on Earth. This Heaven that is your
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present abode is a very different thing. It carries within it its own Hell”
(47). At the end of the novel, Heaven is not necessarily positive or
negative, but, rather, Heaven is memory. In the final act of metafiction,
Mpe writes, “You would share with each other your understanding
of what the reality of Heaven is; that what makes it accessible, is that
it exists in the imagination of those who commemorate our worldly
life” (124). Therefore, through his writing, Mpe has added to the
imagination that is Heaven.
Mpe’s metafiction works not only to explore the reality of
post-apartheid South Africa but also as an exploration of identities—
Hillbrowan, South African, individual, community, and global
identities. In a critical essay, Mpe writes:
For better or worse, societies themselves are always changing.
These changes complicate their already complex identities. .
. For the mere reason that there are always social changes, no
matter how seemingly small and subtle, I feel that literature
has a responsibility to remain sensitive to the importance of
details—of psychological, emotional, social, cultural, political
and other natures—and to continually reflect on and articulate
these subtleties. (“Our Missing” 197).
Welcome to Our Hillbrow does just this. Mpe traces the identities
of his characters and the subtlety of their shifts from local to global persons.
In the end, we see all the characters come to terms with their own identities,
even if they must die to achieve this understanding. By calling attention to
the nature of literary production, Mpe is capable of diving into his characters’
emotions and thoughts both as individuals and as representatives of a larger
community. As Graham explains, “Mpe is thus able to explore vexed questions
of identity, subjectively, and representation through several degrees of remove”
(120) Mpe’s exploration of these identities and representations extends beyond
individuals, however, to one that encompasses the global community.
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Elise Auvil
University of Maryland
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