B. Kojo Laing (1946–2017)

This strange and beautiful book, full of amazing imagery, is like nothing else I've ever read (except, of course, Major Gentl and the Achimota Wars, another novel by the same author with similar properties). There's no real plot, but there are several interwoven tales. The characters are memorable and differentiated, but the setting -- Accra in 1975 -- is the central figure of the book.

The prose is overwhelmed by a kaleidoscopic series of metaphor, anthropomorphism, proslepsis, hyperbole, synecdoche, and every other figure of speech one can think of, which makes for a difficult first impression. Once you grasp that these images are the story, you can relax and enjoy the ride. This is a great, unique novel.… (altro)

Laing's book is an ambitious attempt to describe the city of Accra (c.1980) through the interacting stories of its inhabitants. The central narrative deals with the aftermath of an event at the city's airport, in which some horses escape from their containers. The horses are supposed to be agricultural animals, destined for a politicians farm, but it is obvious to all that they are high quality race horses, and that something fishy is afoot. The horses' owner tries to silence the witnesses, while their handler (Kojo Pol) starts to lose faith in his country, which is frequently cited (inside and outside the book) as being Africa's 'first modern democracy'. The ripples spread in motion by the airport event touch many corners of Accran society, forcing the city's inhabitants to examine themes of modernisation and tradition, and to ponder the meaning of 'Ghana'.
Laing is foremost a poet, and it shows in the almost startling beauty that he brings to the prose. The novel is told using a lyrical, almost abstract, turn of phrase that occasionally conjures the most fantastic imagery. Bits of this novel are truly lovely. However, I ultimately struggled to like the book. Laing's substitution of poetry for narrative lead to a meandering, unfocused, picaresque piece of magical realism that floated for 350 pages on its own whimsy. I, as a reader, couldn't maintain interest, or even retain a clear pattern of the characters, as I became lost in the shower of (admittedly beautiful) words. It reminded me of The Mulatta and Mr Fly by Miguel Angel Asturias, or Flann O'Brian's At-Swim-Two-Birds, both of which are widely admired, but both of which did nothing for me. The word 'picaresque' is the kiss of death as far as I am concerned, and Laing's book flirted with it too often for my tastes.… (altro)