White Men and Cheetahs
Blanket Boy.
By Peter Lanham and A. S. Mopeli-Paulus.
Thomas Y. Crowell. 309 pp. $3.50.

Blanket Boy is quite an enjoyable book to read, but it can hardly be considered a serious contribution either to the art of the novel or to the study of race relations in South Africa. At its best, it is a kind of thriller, a rather low-grade South African picaresque, an adventure story, but it is rarely more than that. For this reason there is extraordinarily little to say about it: the book does not even permit itself to become the text for a sermon, as does South Africa’s other and most famous modern novel, Cry, the Beloved Country.

It is true that the reader can pick up some information about life in South Africa today from the pages of Blanket Boy, and particularly about life as it confronts the African. But I do not think I would recommend it as a guide. There are not many Africans who have had a fight with a cheetah, helped to rescue their sons from a fall of rock in a mine, taken part in ritual murder, rescued an Indian family from death at the hands of a horde of maddened Zulus, been converted to Islam, and fled to temporary freedom across the border into Portuguese East Africa. All these things happen to Monare, the hero of the novel, within a few years. And on the way there is sex (both homo- and heterosexual in character), dagga smoking, initiation ceremonies in the mountains of Basutoland. Monare finally meets his end on the scaffold, but, regeneration having set in, does it beautifully, and becomes the national hero of the Basuto people.

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There is also race relations, for Monare is an African, one of eight million in what South Africa’s politicians hopefully call a “white man’s country.” So among Monare’s other adventures are his repeated arrests by the white man’s police, and the brutal treatment often given to him because of the color of his skin. The hearts of Mr. Lanham and Mr. Mopeli-Paulus are in the right place, but surely we do not need this book to show us yet again that a “serious” subject does not necessarily mean a serious novel.

“In the far-famed City of Gold, the seizing of the person of an African is a matter of small moment. . . .

“When the white man’s hand fell on his shoulder, Monare swung around to see who it was who had thus stopped him. When his eyes fell on the detective’s face, extreme fear bludgeoned his heart, for he recognized the face of ‘Van’ who had once before tried to have him imprisoned.

“The detective spoke. ‘Well, you black bastard, I’ve caught you at last! . . . Come, open that bundle!’

“ ‘Baas, it is but cloth for the making of trousers.’

“ ‘Open it, kaffir! I’ll guarantee it’s stolen property. Come on, quick!’

“The unfortunate black man hastened to do Van’s bidding. As the detective’s eyes fell on the bundle—several pairs of trousers, and part of a bale of cloth—he grunted with satisfaction, and spoke these terrifying words: ‘As I thought, you bloody nigger—stolen goods! A long spell in Number Four for this!’

“Without further argument he handcuffed Monare’s wrist to his own, and forced the unwilling Mosotho—with many a kick and blow—to retrace his steps southward to the Charge Office at Marshall Square.”

I suppose there are people who do not know that this kind of arrest happens fairly often all over South Africa. But those of us who do know are entitled to ask how much more we can learn about anything from that sort of writing whether it be written by a white man, a black man, or, as in this case, both of them together. How much more serious, after all, is that passage I have just quoted than this:

The animal had scented him but not as yet seen him, for the darkness of the tree hid him. But suddenly its head lifted, its body stretched.

With a wild cry, the Mosotho jumped for the lower branches of the tree, caught hold, slipped, got grip again, and pulled himself out of reach. In the same moment of time did the cheetah leap also, but its teeth snapped on empty air. The Mosotho shivered as the animal raised its head and snarled, and then leapt once more. . . .

Taking the cheetah and race relations into consideration, I would say that Blanket Boy should find its place somewhere between Tarzan and Cry, the Beloved Country: it is more improving than the first, and, happily, regards itself considerably less seriously than the second.

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