It is probably safe to assume that those who most need to read this book--racists of every stripe, but especially those in South Africa--will not. It is a work replete with touching reminders of the particular fate of Nelson Mandela, as the title would suggest, and of the general fate of Africa under the racist regimes. It is, therefore, very much worth reading.

But it isn't particularly good poetry. "Like Rudolph Hess, The Man Said!" is a good illustration. In this poem, Soyinka responds to Pik Botha's comparison of South Africa's reasons for imprisoning Mandela to the Allies' reasons for jailing Nazi war criminals. He uses irony to point out the absurdity of Botha's comparison. The irony works very well, but there is also a strong vein of anti-semitism present. For instance, he writes

. . .one step ahead

Those Jew-vengeance squads.

Safe on Robben Island, paratroops of Zion

Bounty hunters, frogmen, crack Z squads,

Wiesenthal fanatics--here you'll find

Robben Island is no Entebbe. . ..

Political considerations aside, this contradiction in sentiments disrupts the organic unity of the poem, and the result is a bad poem.

Despite an impressive list of poetic publications, and a Nobel Prize for Literature, Soyinka is, at best, an unrefined poet--at least in this collection. In "New York, U. S. A.," for example, and it is only one of many possible examples of artistic infelicity, he uses a play on words that is so heavy--Handed--and predictable--that one can only groan at it:

The most expensive anchorman in U. S. A.

(A million dollars plus per annum after tax)

Hardly ever reads the news but, Rather

Makes a news presentation.

The poem itself makes clear enough his views of Dan Rather and network news in general without this rather juvenile pun.

The collection does have its good points, though, several of them. "The Apotheosis of Master Sergeant Doe" is one the best in the book. Its rhymed couplets with their regular pentameter rhythms highlight the corruption of MSgt. Doe, who led a successful military coup in Liberia in 1980. Some of its metaphors and similes are almost inspired: "Skulls like cobbles;" "The squeals of humans dying like pigs;" "The pile is high on that red carpet trail/ That muffs the steps to your Inaugural Grail." "Muhammad Ali At The Ringside, 1985" is also quite nice, an interesting tribute to Ali. Particularly good is the last stanza, which, through its excellent play on Ali's birth name, simultaneously apotheosizes the boxer, applauds his principled character, and sadly acknowledges his retirement. And, despite an unfortunate second line, "Funeral Sermon, Soweto" is also an excellent poem. Especially good are the lines "Slaves do not possess their kind. Nor do/The truly free," and "The same that rose on hind legs/That brief hour in Sharpeville, reddening/The sleepy conscience of the world."

In general, Soyinka's poetic voice seems imitative, a poor cross between Sylvia Plath and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, with a little of E. E. Cummings' punctuation thrown in. The bulk of the collection is mediocre, strengthened here and there by good lines, sparkling phrases and touching subjects. Such wonderful lines as "I find no poetry in slaughter fields," and thought-provoking phrases such as "royal feet on headstool" or "tuneless thought" make the book worth reading, for they crop up throughout. Despite some good points, it is a problem-filled work and I can't help believing the 1986 Nobel Prize largely accounts for its publication. Nonetheless, it is worth reading, both for its beautiful moments and for its proof that there is still some sanity left on that turbulent continent.

Jim Vandergriff is an English Instructor at SMSU and himself a working poet.