A conversation with Siphiwe Gloria Ndlovu on the Quality of Mercy
Listen to this interview with Siphiwe Gloria Ndlovu, where we talk about her new book, inherited histories, and African literature.
I read the prologue of The Quality of Mercy on a summer afternoon in the beautiful city of Gothenburg, sat under a shade that offered the perfect balance of warmth and chill—and it was one of the best pieces of writing I have read for a while. It had me laughing in many places and then pausing and pondering in others.
I have since spoken with Siphiwe about her book and related topics and now invite you to listen to our long-form conversation on the podcast—and to buy and read the book.
To be fair, while reading the book, Siphiwe had me at the first paragraph of the prologue:
Based on a story my grandmother told me.
Spokes M. Moloi, recently returned from the war, stood at the corner of Lobengula Street and Selborne Avenue and waited on a promise. In 1941, the British had pledged that if he went to fight against the Germans, they would give him many acres of farming land that he could call his own. What man did not want a piece of viable land that belonged to him?
How many of us have not “waited on a promise”—and what has that wait driven us to? In Spokes’s case, he found himself on a bus with the lovely Loveness, reciting lines from Pride and Prejudice, solving a missing person mystery, and choosing a path for the rest of his life. And it is this path that gives us the beautiful story that is the Quality of Mercy.
“What man did not want a piece of viable land that belonged to him?” This profound question in the book’s first paragraph brings to the fore what the book is centred around—colonialism and everything it carries with it. When I asked Siphiwe why she wrote the book, she said: “For me, the Quality of Mercy is about what to do with particularly violent histories—when you inherit them.”
Colonialism as inherited violence is not a concept I have thought about, but it makes sense. Most of Africa and perhaps beyond still struggle with the inherited effects of colonisation. The question is: “What do we do with this inherited state? An eye for an eye or forgiveness?” —and what does that forgiveness (or mercy) even look like?
Of Spokes, the father of the lovely Loveness, said:
I know that a young man—even one who has fought for the British in a war that was none of his business—can always build himself up.
And this was after they had both established that their fathers fought against the British. Is this what mercy looks like? In any case, I wonder how much of our current battles are of a “war that was none of our business”—and I think that is what makes the Quality of Mercy familiar.
But the book is not really about violence or the politics of colonialism, nor a history lesson. Siphiwe’s brilliance is in building a story set in a period of transition with the love, conflict, and mundane realities of everyday life. Her brilliance is in discussing serious themes in a captivating way, a way that allows you to pause and take it all in.
And this has just been the prologue.
Spokes’s wait on a promise that drove him to the lovely Loveness and the BSAP in the prologue is the beginning of an intricate story of mystery, pain, kinship, love and mercy.
The Quality of Mercy is one of the finest books from Africa, and with it, Siphiwe has positioned herself as an important [African] writer.
You can buy the quality of mercy from Catalyst Press, Amazon and every good bookshop.
