I am no African. I admit, not without some guilt, being ignorant about much of the culture outside North America. This makes me feel like some kind of bigot, though I assure you I am not. At least I try not to be one. Despite their regionally unique names, I keep imagining these characters as being white. It’s due to the Chiveneko’s sparse references to skin colour, in which he, as he should, assumes it to be a given; I believe it is more to the fact that the conversations therein are very cultured, deferential yet full of sparkling wit and humour.
In fact, this book is comprised of nearly nothing but lengthy conversations which brings to mind an old Jim Jarmusch movie. Now, this is the bit that makes me feel like a bigot and I feel I am adding insult to injury by marveling that such a book came out of the Dark Continent. It also seems like some kind of a joke, because Americans are largely more illiterate than we would like to admit, and for an American to be surprised at articulate ideas coming from what are, to our skewed viewpoint, underdeveloped countries.
Verbal self-flagellation and accidental bigotry aside, this book is wonderful. As I mentioned earlier, it is a book of conversations. These are multi-layered talks, in which meanings are inferred while a more plain language is spoken. There is deep conspiracy that revolves around a certain flowering lily and the hiring of a new hangman. The reader wanders through the conversations of a huge cast of characters; it is quite like climbing a tower. I picture a cylindrical tower with oriel windows lining the spiral staircase to reveal the horizon as it currently lies. Each chapter is a single floor that you enter as you go higher. From the first floor, the landscape is straightforward within the range of your limited vision. The higher you go, the scope expands. Each floor you enter extends the big picture by a fraction. And what do you know, you’re surging forward through the narrative at a breakneck pace, desperate to discover that final bit that will snap the separate constituents into pure focus, which consolidate already in your mind as a hazy form as disturbing and annoying as a word at the tip of your tongue.
And Chiveneko does all this with simple, clear sentences which, you’ll find during many occasions, come together with a non-strenuous playfulness that exercises one’s tolerance for puns and metaphors. His strengths lie in plotting and inventive dialogue and dry humor. Although long, The Hangman’s Replacement is interesting enough to keep you engaged. Out of all the marvelous people with which Chiveneko has populated his world, I really like Earnest Chokwadi, who is responsible for the more outrageous stories coming from the sensationalist newspaper Zuva Redu Daily. Inquisitive, comedic, and always hard hitting, Earnest's articles often elicit quiet chucklefests.
Let's set aside all glowing praise and let us sally forth into spoiler territory. That being said, Taona Dumisani Chiveneko is a real bastard. Say you have a book in your hands. Things are coming to a head, escalating quite nicely. There’s a good eighth of the book left, that portion weighting nice and light in your hand, a sheaf of which has since been shrinking in inverse proportion to your level of anticipation. You turn the page to find the book has abruptly ended.
Talk about biblio interruptus!
Then Taona Dumisani Chiveneko turns the book’s end matter as long as a short story. It begins with a humorous recap of the prisoners languishing on death row, goes on to list the more important characters (which gets quite useful because I got the names a bit mixed up myself), and finishes with a shockingly indulgent series of appreciations. I guess that’s what happens when you self-publish. It also introduces a meta- element to the equation; I wouldn't too be surprised if the Chiveneko moniker turned out to be a pseudonym.
Nevertheless, I was entertained, and enjoyed how Chiveneko compared himself to the inimitable bastard Huruzda, although I suspect his now evident narcissistic nature feels more at home with comparisons to the Professor Titus Clementine Guyo. And in these end matters he also claims that this very long book is only the opening gambit of a lucrative writing career in which he plans to outline his diabolical genius by prolonging this narrative across four or five books. All of which I have to read.
See, I told you he was a real bastard.