User:Evangelia324/Evangelia324/Mandla Langa

Mandla Langa From Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia

Mandla Langa (born in 1950) is a published South African poet, short story writer and novelist. He was born in Stanger, Durban and grew up in KwaMashu township. Langa studied at the University of Fort Hare where he graduated in 1972 with a B.A. in English and Philosophy.

Early Life & Education
Mandla Langa was born in Stanger, Durban in 1950 and grew up in KwaMashu township twenty miles north of Durban. Growing up during the implementation of the apartheid system, Langa is one of nine children, and not alone in accomplishing great feats. He joins brothers Judge Pius Langa and South Africa’s ambassador to Russia, Bheki Langa as notable African citizens. As a child, Langa showed interest in art and story telling as a child as he combined his two interests by drawing cartoons. Langa attended Gardner Memorial School, Sibonelo High School in Durban, and then Fort Hare University. Given the substantial amount of political strikes during his college career, he was able to complete his BA in English and Philosophy in 1972. In 1974, Langa became actively involved as a director of the South African Student’s Organization (SASO) and maintained his position until his arrest in 1976. He was arrested for attempting to leave the country without a permit and

served 101 days in jail. According to Charles Larson’s (editor of Under African Skies) introduction of Langa, Langa himself said that his arrest was due to sedition.

Works
2008 The Lost Colours of the Chameleon, Picador, Africa.

2000 The Memory of Stories – a collection of stories exploring the nature of South African society after the end of apartheid, with themes including the redistribution of land, the role of memory in the rethinking of the nature of South African society, the role of women, and the task of the truth and reconciliation committee

1996 The Naked Song and Other Stories,

1989 A Rainbow on the Paper Sky

1987 Tenderness of Blood

Collaborative Works
2007 Youth2Youth: 30 Years after Soweto ’76; Edited by George Hallet and Introduction by Mandla Langa

2004 Moving in Time: Images of Life in a Democratic South Africa; Edited by George Hallet and Mandla Langa; Introduction by Mandla Langa

Collections
2007 African Pasts: Memory and History in African Literatures compilation by Tim Woods

2004: South Africa's Nobel laureates: Peace, Literature and Science by Jonathan Ball; Introduction by Mandla Langa

1997 Under African Skies: Modern African Stories edited by Charles R. Larson

1990 Junky's Christmas, and other Yuletide Stories by Elisa Segrave

1990 Colours of a New Day: Writing for South Africa: Volume 1990, Part 2 by Lawrence & Wishart

OPERA

“Milestones” – a musical opera in which Langa collaborated with the jazz musician Hugh Masekela

MAGAZINES/NEWSPAPERS/JOURNALS

2002 Research in African Literatures: Volume 33

2002 World Literature Today: Volume 75

SELECTED WORK

From "Zizi" in The Naked Song and Other Stories (1996) On this wet Monday morning, we queued at the bus rank. By the time we were inside, we were soaked to the skin. The interior of the bus was overwhelmed by Jackson's cigar smoke. He was a thin Malawian, as black as tar. It seemed that he smoked the evil-smelling cigars to irritate the women who were on their way to the madams' kitchens. They were discouraged from opening the windows because the cold air carrying icy raindrops was more unbearable than Jackson's fumigation. 'These MaNyasa,' the women would hiss, 'coming here with their strange ways!' MaNyasa was a derogatory term used for people who came from Malawi. If Jackson heard this, he did not let on. He puffed on, his ebony face as serene as a river. We certainly couldn't say

anything to him because Jackson was our key to the shipyard construction company to which we were going. The bus roared on, picking up passengers at every stop until it was so packed that breathing was difficult; an auntie dared slide the window open to let in respirable air. We passed the brace of industrial buildings near The Point; a few feet to the left rose the grim greyness of The Point prison, its walls as sturdy as a fortress. We followed Jackson out two stops farther up. He led us to a clearing where a barracks-style prefabricated building stood forlornly. He knocked on the door, took off his hat and went in. 'What do you think will happen?' I asked. 'We'll see,' Siza said. 'Just don't get nervous. Jackson knows what he's doing.' 'Water is seeping in through my shoes,' I complained. 'Bugger the water,' Siza said. He was nervous despite the show of bravado. A few minutes later, Jackson came out, followed by two white men in hard hats. One was big with a beer belly; his companion was as thin as a rake, but there was something about them, the way they regarded each other, which made them seem like brothers. The thin one cleared his throat. My father always cleared his throat before making a long speech. 'My boys,' he said, 'I don't know what Jackson has been telling you. Be that as it may, we are here to work. I'm taking you to the docks, we are going to sweat there, make no mistake. You'll be paid hourly. If you work hard, we'll get along fine. If you don't, you'll soon know why men have given me a certain nickname.' A white van with the company name stencilled on the side panels pulled up. We were waved into the back. Jackson sat in the cab with the thin white man and an African driver in bluedenim overalls. We could see traffic along Congella, the brownstone building of the Electricity Supply Commission, the smoke billowing from the twin towers of the Hulletts sugar company. To the right, people were already queuing up to enter the King Edward VIII Hospital. We were headed for Mobeni. 'What is his nickname?' I asked. 'People call him Mlom'wengwenya - the mouth of the crocodile.' Zizi seemed to know everything. 'I wonder why he's got a name like that.' 'You'll have enough time to find out,' Siza said. 'In the meantime why don't you all shut up, maybe we can hear what they're cooking up in front.' We pricked up our ears but could hear little above the roar of the traffic and the bone-rattling bumps as the wheels hit the pot-holes. Soon enough we were passing through Clairwood, the gum- trees and wattles paving the road, bougainvillaea and jasmine drooping in the rain. Indian and Coloured people milled about, some ducking the downpour, throwing themselves under bus shelters. Some schoolchildren in uniform emerged from the houses, satchels knocking against young, bobby- soxed legs and Bata shoes. The settlements were waking up. We reached the industrial site at 6.45 a.m. Men were already preparing themselves for work, stripping off their ragged street clothes to put on even more ragged overalls. Sandblasting equipment began to whirr; then a powerfully built man, whose torso glistened with perspiration and rain, started the siren. It was one of the loudest sounds I had ever heard.