Book Review of Breasts, etc. by Nthikeng Mohlele (TK). 

Publisher: Blank Page Books 

Reviewer: Bhekisisa Mncube

I have just finished reading a book with the curious title Breasts, etc. by TK, that enigma of our literary scene—perhaps not as reclusive as his (my) idol,  J.M. Coetzee, but still a figure shrouded in intrigue. At first, the book read like an essay about breasts—women’s breasts, to be precise—though it was marketed as a novel. Midway through, the tempo quickened, and more characters emerged, fleeting yet integral participants in the narrative.

TK is incapable of writing ordinary British English or crafting a book with a straightforward plot and a neat, satisfying ending. He isn’t a master of prose in the conventional sense; instead, he is a poet, a lyricist whose carefully chosen words create music for the soul. His obsession with the apocalypse—a recurring theme in his dreams—imagines a world where femininity itself, breasts included, is obliterated. He imagines men hugging women’s scriptures, bored, lost without women, and also being the last living creatures on earth who will fall short of food and feed on rodents. Yet, paradoxically, this obsession with breasts and the apocalypse forms the foundation for a beautiful love story centred on a triangular dynamic, including his “first love”, Winnie. She is the first woman who introduced him (James) to bare breasts (no sex), which in turn gave him a fulfilling career in nude photography. 

Though not declared overtly, this love of Winnie evokes André Brink’s sentiment in Before I Forget, where he muses that sometimes, “love is greater for being unfulfilled,” a mantra I live by. Our narrator, James, is a man fascinated by the female form, specifically the breasts, which he captures as a nude photographer. His art seeks to immortalise “a fleeting moment before the ravages of decay and old age” (emphasis mine). Against his ethical instincts, James falls in love with one of his subjects, Esmeralda Abedienne, a woman whose essence transcends mere physicality. It is a love story that transcends breast worshipping, old age, death and decay, not to mention the apocalypse that never occurred. 

This is not simply a tale of breast worshipping; it is a meditation on love, mortality, and art. It is a story that defies the apocalypse, weaving themes of beauty, meaning of life, ageing and decay into a narrative of transcendence. Despite the author telling us, “Life is a voyage to the grave.” In Breasts, etc., TK has produced a feminist manifesto—replete with poetry, music, and restrained eroticism as the only appreciation of breasts, that frees the book from being fascinated with the sexual connotation of breasts. Thus, the book sidetracks criticism by the woke crowd, sex purists and literacy classification. Perhaps it is dystopian due to the recurrent dreams of the apocalypse. However, I can’t escape the cruel killing of Winnie’s husband (cause of death alcohol poisoning), whom the narrator never loved, referring to him as an “intellectual toad” and failed athlete. Notwithstanding the narrator displaying his “jealous lover” streak by taking literary liberty to kill a character who had, in his mind, outlived the usefulness of his existence, the novel is, indeed, a magnum opus.

-Mncube is an author of three acclaimed books (The Love Diary of a Zulu Boy, The Ramaphosa Chronicles and Kumnandi Emakhaya (children’s book), has contributed to five more and has submitted two children’s books for review this year alone. If he does not win awards for his columns (regular columnist at Daily Maverick, The Witness, and guest at News24 and City Press), he only talks to his two cats and drinks cold beers on weekends only.  

Author Biography  

Novelist, short story writer, playwright, Nthikeng Mohlele authored critically acclaimed novels and two short story collections. His work includes: The Scent of Bliss (2008), Small Things (2013), Rusty Bell (2014), Pleasure (2016), Michael K (2018), Illumination (2019),  Breasts, etc. (2023),  Revolutionaries House (2024). The two short-story collections, The Discovery of Love (2021) and A Little Light (2023). 

Mohlele is the winner of the University of Johannesburg Main Prize for South African Writing In English for Pleasure, the K Sello Duiker Memorial Prize and was also long listed for the Dublin International Prize. The Discovery of Love won the National Institute for the Humanities and Social Sciences Award 2022 for Best Fiction: Short Stories. Breasts, etc was recently shortlisted for both the National Institute for the Humanities and Social Sciences and University of Johannesburg Main Prize Awards (2024). He dabbles in journalistic writing and literary reviews. 

Mohlele’s theatre writing credits include and The Affairs of State and I Am A Woman, which debuted at the Market Theatre, one of South Africa’s mainstream theatre circuits during 2022. His work is taught at leading South African universities, including at his alma mater, the University of the Witwatersrand, the University of South Africa and University of Johannesburg and of Pretoria. Mohlele’s other interests include music,  photography, technology, film and design. He lives and works in Johannesburg.

A Feeling Sealed in Eternity

Homeland… This word is precious and sacred for every person. It embodies the land where we were born and raised, the memory of our ancestors, Uzbek traditions, language, and culture. The Homeland is our past, our present, and our future. Its praise is a feeling eternally sealed in every heart.

The praise of the Homeland is not only words spoken with the tongue but emotions flowing from the heart and manifested in our every action. Praising the Homeland means loyalty to one’s country, dedication to its prosperity, preserving national values, and living with a sense of Uzbek pride and honor.

Uzbekistan is our beloved Homeland. It is famous worldwide for its beautiful nature, rich history, unique culture, hardworking and hospitable people. Our ancient cities – Samarkand, Bukhara, Khiva, Shahrisabz – have for centuries been centers of science, culture, and craftsmanship. These cities have produced great scholars, thinkers, poets, and scientists whose priceless legacy remains a source of pride for us today.

During the years of independence, Uzbekistan has achieved great successes. Fundamental changes have been made in political, economic, social, and spiritual spheres. Our national values have been restored, religious freedom ensured, and our language has been granted the status of the state language. Significant achievements have been made in education, science, culture, and sports. Uzbekistan has found its place in the international arena and established friendly relations with many countries around the world.

Today, Uzbekistan is stepping into a new stage of development. Large-scale reforms are being implemented, our economy is growing, and the standard of living of our people is rising. We face great tasks ahead: to make Uzbekistan one of the most developed, prosperous, and flourishing countries in the world, and to leave a worthy legacy for future generations.

To accomplish these tasks, each of us must contribute. We must master our professions, work honestly, seek knowledge, develop ourselves, remain loyal to our country, preserve our national values, and live with a sense of Uzbek pride and honor.

The praise of the Homeland is the foundation of our unity, harmony, peace, and solidarity. We must be proud of being the children of one land, support one another, and work together for the prosperity of our country. Only then will we achieve our goals and turn Uzbekistan into one of the most developed nations in the world.

In conclusion, praising the Homeland is a feeling eternally sealed in every heart. Preserving it and showing it through our actions is our sacred duty. Uzbekistan is our beloved Homeland — may its praise forever echo in our hearts!

Ozodbek Narzullayev
Student of Grade 11, School No. 45, Koson District, Kashkadarya Region

Role of Sahabiyyat in Framing Sirah Literature

The holy life of Prophet Muhammad (S) is the central theme of Sirah literature. It is preserved through historical records and Hadith transmissions. Within this tradition, the role of the earliest female companions (Sahabiyyat) was indispensable, as they transmitted many Hadith that have a vital role in Sirah literature. Their narrations ensure how the Prophet (S) performed his life as a public leader, as a spiritual leader, as a family member, and so on.

The foremost transmitter, Aishah (R), who narrated more than 2,000 Hadith, recognized by Companions and later scholars as an authentic source about the Prophet (S). Her knowledge preserved essential details of the Prophet’s worship, character, and family life. Without her contributions, a major portion of the Prophet’s life would not have been remained in Sirah literature. Similarly, Umm Salamah (R) transmitted valuable Hadith, including her narration of the Treaty of Hudaybiyyah, which highlighted the Prophet’s political wisdom, patience, and ability to maintain unity in difficult circumstances. Another important figure, Asma bint Abi Bakr (R), narrated the event of the Prophet’s migration (Hijrah) from Makkah to Madinah, a major event in Islamic history. Likewise, Fatimah bint Qays (R) preserved the narration of the event of Tamim al-Dari and the Dajjal, which revealed the Prophet’s method of validating reports and guiding his community.

The legacy of these Sahabiyyat was carried forward by the Tabi‘iyyat (women of the next generation). Amrah bint Abd al-Rahman, one of the most trustworthy transmitters of Hadith, was a student of Aishah. Similarly, Fatimah bint al-Mundhir, granddaughter of Asma bint Abi Bakr, a notable Hadith scholar in the 1st century Hijrah, studied from Asma bint Abi Bakr.

This indicates that how Sahabiyyat shaped the foundations of Sirah literature through their narrations. Their Hadith transmission not only preserved the Prophet’s personal, political, and spiritual legacy with authenticity but also illustrates how women, often marginalized in other societies and communities, were empowered by knowledge in the Muslim community, and it served as evidence of women’s intellectual authority in early Islam. The later expansion of Sirah studies is inseparably linked to their efforts.

Muhammed Suhail T 

Relentless Beauty

On this relentless

Occasion, out

Of a white fog,

No discernible horizon

Anywhere, a ubiquitous

Bliss is this simple:

Snow falls all day,

Into dusk, into night,

Snow arrives, descends

Until it doesn’t.

Snow heaps upon,

Clings to, every branch,

Birch and pine alike,

Every brittle, abiding 

Leaf, and needle,

Curved to a burden,

A clerestory tracery,

A soaring vaulting,

A crystalline nave (This occasion, more

Rare than Rome,

The Villa Borghese,

First stanza to the left,

Bernini’s pale Daphne, 

Delicate, marble fingertips

Turning to laurel

,Leafing in her flight).

Bliss is simply this:

Snow on the apple

Limbs, easily prolific

Blossoms in May.

I long to recall

This relentless beauty

Again and again,

Return to this vision

From time to time,

A salve for absurdity

(Relentless frailty),

Assuaging the ugly

Bedlam of humanity,

This occasion for bliss.

Resilience

Remnants of the hurricane

(I forgot its given name),

Incidental Atlantic fragments,

Rent half the tree, splintered

All usual assumptions,

Filled the driveway with carnage

–I could not escape – foliage,

Abandoned nests, brittle, broken,

Misplaced arms and legs,

Sheared at the joints.

Certainly, I’m not indifferent.I didn’t hear, didn’t notice

The spectacular slaughter,

No sounds at all while

I pursued my routine.

Instead, from my recliner,

I watched the wind tug

At a spider’s web, modest

Basilica, architectural marvel,

Moored in the window niche.

I admired the resilience,

Stronger than the wooden giant,

The white, woven silk,

Easily erased, no trace,

With a flick of my broom.

I’d cut the bough in convenient

Slices, for firewood, for flame,

But my saw was getting fitted

With a new set of teeth.

The body will lie there 

Until next week, naked

Corpse in the street.

After several more storms,

The web remains steadfast,

And the tree begins its decay.

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

Classmate

Do you remember, my classmate,

That first step into the schoolyard?

When I recall those cheerful days,

Tears of longing fill my eyes.

At seven years old — pure and innocent,

I felt the joy of being a pupil.

The school stood tall before me,

And I called it my “dear sanctuary.”

Do you remember our first teacher,

Who loved us like her own children?

She was our mountain of trust,

Her heart aflame for our young souls.

I still remember clearly

That little Alphabet Day celebration,

The verses I recited back then —

I cried today, recalling them.

Do you remember our mischief?

How we leapt so high when thrown to the ground?

Those moments were full of joy,

When we knew nothing of sorrow.

The first-time snow fell for us,

Oh, the delight — I still recall it.

Today I searched for those days in vain,

But they melted away with the snow.

When my mother braided my hair finely,

I couldn’t wait to run to school.

Each time I stepped onto its threshold,

I smiled with a child’s heart.

Do you remember, at the start of recess,

We’d run and race to the door.

No one could block our way —

We’d quarrel, then make peace again.

I remember the gloomy rainy days,

When we hurried home in the rain.

Today I searched for those moments again,

But they remain locked in my heart.

Years passed — we became young men and women,

Yet our mischief never truly left us.

Before time, we are powerless —

No one can bring those days back.

 
Spring returned, though the past did not,

It reminded me of our school garden.

Once we brought an armful of roses,

Decorating every corner of the classroom.

We filled each lesson with chatter and laughter,

Even troubling our teachers at times.

True, we were mischievous —

But our hearts were pure, like children’s.

We were in one class, one family,

Always ready to stand together.

Whatever the trial or sorrow,

We faced it side by side.

Skipping the last lessons of the day —

Why don’t we value school more?

We should have known those days would end,

Yet we never looked back with care.

When I recall it, my heart overflows with memories,

Appearing one by one before my eyes.

Our playful school years are now behind us,

Ahead lies a fate full of tests.

Though we cannot be together in one class again,

Our shared memories will last forever.

The final ring of the last school bell

Brought childhood rushing back to me.

Do you remember, my classmate,

That first step into the schoolyard?

When I recall those cheerful days,

Tears of longing fill my eyes.

Xo‘jamiyorova Gulmira Abdusalom qizi was born on June 25, 2004, in the Surkhandarya region of Uzbekistan. While studying at School No. 22 in Uzun district, she actively participated in mother tongue and literature Olympiads, earning distinguished awards. In 2022, she was admitted to Termiz State Pedagogical Institute on a full state grant. She is a graduate of Shine Girls Academy and the Formula for Success program, and a member of the “Qo‘sh Qanot” Union of Poets and Writers (Creative Foundation) in Kazakhstan. Her creative portfolio includes numerous scientific and journalistic articles, as well as original poems, which have been published in international newspapers, literary journals, and anthologies. She has received multiple international certificates and was honored with a commemorative badge by Quality Publication publishing house in recognition of her literary achievements.

Christina Chin (plain) 

Jerome Berglund (italic) 

Ringtones

my universe 

in his shirt pocket 

heartbeats

consistently 

inconsistent   

phonetic bliss 

he mispronounces 

croissant

a word 

in edgewise

our favourite spot

now it’s just a word 

for love

afterhours 

club 

bonus of a playful twist 

our shared notes app

is just “honey” 

welcoming new deity

to the household 

and honey I forgot

love as digital-age 

sweetness

ripples from the 

central fountain