It is incredible to think this is Alistair’s third book since 2022, when ‘It Doesn’t Have to be This Way’ was published, one of the finest speculative fiction novels from Africa, and certainly one of the best cli-fi dystopias in that cluttered sub-genre.
What made Alistair’s book stand out was how he centred queer, non-white experiences, still a rarity in the genre, let alone South African fiction. That such stories continue to be told by white writers is indicative not only of the racial and economic disparities of the publishing industry, but of the postcolonial fractures that run through our country like fault lines.
And then there is the nature writing. Alistair has a poetic sensibility in homing in on specific details that allow readers into the heart of the landscapes he loves so much. Kim Stanley Robinson, the great speculative fiction writer and social activist, whose ‘The Ministry for the Future’ (2020) made it onto Obama’s yearly reading list, has written a non-fiction book simply called ‘The High Sierra: A Love Story’. I wish Alistair would do the same for the Western Cape fynbos region, one of the natural wonders of the living world.
‘The Child’ (2024) was a pared back, intensely emotional story of a white gay couple negotiating race, class, and politics in the shadow of Day Zero in Cape Town, when South Africa became a ‘test case’ for climate change after one of its biggest cities literally ran dry.
It sounds like one of those dusty ‘struggle novels’ we were required to read at university, but Alistair has a surgical finesse in laying bare the intersectionality of his characters’ emotional lives. This comes through in his latest book, ‘The Lucky Ones’ (2025), a collection of short stories (some old, some new, as he says.)
The short format is widely used by African speculative fiction writers to break through and make their voice heard. Alistair mentions Brittle Paper as having published one of his early stories, which continues to do sterling work in promoting unknown writers on the continent.
It is therefore extremely frustrating for me that short stories get such short shrift from readers. Surely it should be the exact opposite. People are constantly decrying a lack of time, multi-tasking families and partners and gig jobs, while constantly alarming news filters in from the implosion of globalisation. Surely short stories are ideal literary palette cleansers in this regard. Poetry faces a similar discrimination and lack of understanding as to its power, purity, and truth.
I told the young woman at the bookshop where I got Alistair’s latest book it was such a pleasure to find a well-stocked local section. Do you read local fiction? I asked her. Oh no, she does not want to be reminded of our local problems, she told me brightly (she reads romantasy.)
I smiled equally brightly and left. We increasingly have well-educated (and employed, if they are lucky) young people, post-democracy, who proudly declare they do not vote, have no interest in politics, and are totally disconnected from the world at large, focused instead on their peer groups and family and social circles. Which, of course, is simply another type of coping mechanism.
Alistair takes a lot of these issues and turns them on their head, as in the chilling ‘Young People Problems’, where carbon credit calculations and emissions controls become a new form of green apartheid. The opening ‘Fever Tree’ is also about the dismissiveness of the youth, which can (and often does) harden into a kind of arrogance about ignorance:
Jeremy hated the way Kyle used ‘octogenarian’ to denote anything boring and old-fashioned. The first time he’d said it had been to refer to Jeremy’s monogamous relationship with David, but he used it for all kinds of behaviour he disliked. Sleeping the recommended eight hours. Reading books. Caring about the people around you. As if old people weren’t more impressive than all of them put together. Any actual octogenarians had survived things Jeremy couldn’t bear…
The passage of time is relentless, as we are reminded in the hilarious opening line of ‘The Lucky Ones’: “The first thing Andile did when he discovered the grey pube was pour himself a whiskey.” So, this collection is a slice of everyday life; like the rings in a tree’s cross-section, its parts are separate but conjoined. That’s an apt metaphor, especially as ‘Fever Tree’ laments the natural heritage that is shrinking daily:
Trees are no match for us. Even the ancient, sturdy ones, even the ones we haven’t trapped in tiny bonsai dishes, they can’t survive us. They can’t survive our clearings and our emissions. We’ll burn the planet to the ground for bigger houses, faster cars, faster AI, ideologies that don’t work.
It’s also about community, and the sociopolitical gulf that continues to divide South Africans. In ‘You Can’t Stay Here’, about an enforced eviction in a Cape Town informal settlement, Malusi wonders: “Is it their capacity for reason that has failed, or their hearts?”
South Africans are masters at cognitive dissonance, and many of these stories lean into that duality. It is also a psychic fracturing and scarring that we have just come to accept as normal. The vulnerability of Alistair’s characters, and the tenderness with which he tells their disparate stories, is something we seldom allow each other in real life.
In ‘Why Don’t South Africans Read Fiction?’, a character remarks: “We have bigger problems than novels…” In ‘Three Readings’, we are told: “It takes bravery to commit a story to writing.” This is a remarkably cohesive collection that gives a rare insight into contemporary South Africa and its dysmorphia. From ‘The Lucky Ones’:
All for the tourists, Andile knew, to make the atmosphere festive and loud, to match the Africa they expected: carefree and happy, a land of grinning musicians and sunshine and a wholesome, hearty attitude that triumphs over all adversity.
Is it a cliché to say that despite the disparity, there is still hope? Alistair is realistic about the existential and psychological challenges faced by his characters, some who are not very likeable, narcissistic, and make terrible choices. Many stories focus on queer experiences, but this is by no means a ‘gay collection’. There is an unexpected bolt of white-hot sex in one, simmering violence and beauty and calm in others.
It is a bunch of vignettes culled from everyday South African experience. Everyone who reads this will find something of themselves or their friends or even family in these pages. You may not like what you see, but fiction is the magic mirror that tells us: Look and see. And change. There is still time.
Of Alistair’s three books to date, this is perhaps my favourite. The range of subject matter, his powers of observation, analysis, and ability to convey nuance and empathy, are all on magnificent display here. Many of these stories surprised me with the turns they took, which shows a wordsmith in total control of his craft. And remarkably attuned to our current zeitgeist.