Always use the word ‘Africa’ or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in
your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’,
‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky’, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’.
Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas’, ‘Timeless’, ‘Primordial’ and
‘Tribal’. Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The
People’ means black Africans.
Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover
of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47,
prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make
sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.
In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is
hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin
people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat
primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big:
fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying
and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts,
jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t
care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and
unparticular.
Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in
their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef
and wheat; monkey-brain is an African’s cuisine of choice, along with goat,
snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you
are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to
enjoy it—because you care.
Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between
Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or
intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws
or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.
Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with
the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your
liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love
Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can’t live without her. Africa
is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man,
thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa
as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is
to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to
leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important
book, Africa is doomed.
Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants,
diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt
politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept
with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm
hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in
his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble
tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona).
He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man
who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to
qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of
development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic
and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an
Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row
suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich
witch-doctor who really runs the country.
Among your characters you must always include The Starving
African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the
benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot
bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless.
She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment.
Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue
except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm
and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your
well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These
characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero
can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen
Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international
celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).
Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet
ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about
exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the
West for Africa’s situation. But do not be too specific.
Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the
African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in
mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America
in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but
empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories,
no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.
Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative,
recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any
kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And
especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which
people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the ‘real Africa’, and
you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are
trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing
about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.
Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded,
complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and
have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions
teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified
patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an
elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people’s property, destroy their
crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have
public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern
accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed
with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or
gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).
After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists
are Africa’s most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite
you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or ‘conservation area’, and this is the
only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover
with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody
white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a
conservationist, one who is preserving Africa’s rich heritage. When
interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how
much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their
employees.
Readers will be put off if you don’t mention the light in
Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red.
There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is
the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and
fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main
character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody
short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids
and War (use caps).
You’ll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where
mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and
expats hang out.
Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something
about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.