Every supposed review of some creation— be it a sculpture, a book, a song, a poem— is full of positive hyperbole. There is no bad art in Botswana. Everything is beautiful. It’s as if we have been drinking from the spiked grape Kool-aid.
I’ll admit I’m part of the problem. I decided some time ago that here in this column as well as on my blog and other venues, if I didn’t like a book written by a Motswana, or for that fact an African writer, I would not mention it. I would only do reviews of books I could honestly recommend, books I liked.