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Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

“The indications are that she was hanged” – read an excerpt from Martin Steyn’s Dark Traces

Dark Traces

Dark Traces is the English translation of Martin Steyn’s first suspense novel, Donker spoor. When a child is murdered, it always seems as if a light has been extinguished in a parent’s eyes.

They find her decomposing body in the veld. A teenager. She was raped and tortured for days. She was hanged.

She wasn’t the first.

The South African Police Service’s Warrant Officer Jan Magson, estranged from his son and still grieving for his wife, is assigned to the case. He has to look the mothers and fathers in the eye. He has to answer their questions. And he can’t.

Headlines question the police’s ability to protect the community from this evil. A newspaper prints a mother’s heart-wrenching letter to the killer. A father offers a substantial reward.
And every time another lead reaches a dead end, Magson finds himself looking down at another dead girl.

Winner of the 2015 ATKV Prize for Suspense Fiction, Martin Steyn’s Dark Traces deals with two sides of homicide: sadistic murder and euthanasia: killing for pleasure and killing for love.

March 9, 2014. Sunday.

“Yet another Sunday lunch with the family interrupted by blood and maggots,” remarked Warrant Officer Colin Menck beside him. “What a great job we have, hey, Mags?”

Behind the wheel Warrant Officer Jan Magson did not respond. He simply continued along the meandering Vissershok Road out of Durbanville, looking for the murder scene.

“Casey has embarked on a grand campaign to get a horse for her birthday. Next year, when she turns ten. Because it’s a special birthday.”

Magson glanced at the horses looking out over the white wooden fence. Further on, on the opposite side of the road, a sign indicated the turn-off to the Meerendal Wine Estate. The rest was just vineyards, the green much too vivid. He didn’t want a new docket.

“So I’m talking to myself again today.”

Sometimes Menck was like a child whose mouth had to be in constant motion, opening and closing, emitting sound. “I didn’t sleep well,” said Magson.

“I don’t ask a lot. ‘Yes’. ‘Oh’. Even a grunt will do.”

The vineyards petered out, leaving only faded brown grass. Magson glanced in the rear-view mirror. The road was empty, but his eyes lingered. The Corolla’s dust-specked mirror turned his irises an even grayer green. There were lines etched in his forehead and cracks around his eyes. At his temples, the hair was receding. His moustache was edging away from brown towards gray.

He looked away.

There were two klagtebakkies at the side of the road, white pickups bearing the South African Police Service’s logo and emergency number, blue lights on the roof and a holding area in the back. A few unmarked vehicles as well. No houses in the light brown surrounds. Magson parked the Corolla and turned off the ignition. As they got out, a uniformed officer came to meet them. They showed their identification cards.

The uniform nodded. “Warrant Officers. She’s lying some distance in.” He pointed with all five fingers extended.

“Were you first on the scene?” asked Menck.

“Yes, Warrant.”

“Who found her?”

“A birdwatcher.”

“Is he still here?” asked Magson.

“It was a woman, Warrant,” said the uniform, now looking at him. “I kept her here until the first detective took her statement. He let her go when he was done. I have her details.”

“That’s good. Is Captain Kritzinger at the body?”

“Yes, Warrant.” He removed his blue cap and scratched his black hair with the fingers of the same hand. It was glistening with sweat.

“All right. Take us to him.”

“Wait,” said Menck, “let me just fetch your bib.”

“As long as you realize you’ll have to carry it around the whole time,” grumbled Magson. “Because I’m not putting it on in this heat.”

The temperature was only part of the reason — as Menck knew perfectly well. Magson loathed the stupid crime-scene vests. Besides, it said crime scene investigator on the ones meant for the detectives.

“The blue brings out your eyes, man,” said Menck with a smile revealing his teeth.

“My eyes are green.”

They walked up to the barbed-wire fence running all along the shoulder of the road. Magson noticed no signs of rust or disrepair, but here where most of the vehicles were parked, four of the posts had been overturned.

“I take it, it was like this?”

“Yes,” said the uniform.

They followed him through the opening. No tire treads. And the gap was too small for a vehicle to fit through. Had the victim walked? Or had she been carried?

Everything in the hilly environment looked the same — brown and dead, like the tall grass brushing against the legs of his trousers. Except for the snake of reeds, most likely following a small stream. In the distance was a clump of blue gum trees. The air was dry and the smell reminded him of chili, the flakes Menck was always shoving under his nose. Sweat trickled down his neck and he wondered how much further it was to the body.

Reaching the top of a hill, Magson saw the people. Members of the Local Criminal Record Center had begun to document the scene. Captain Henz Kritzinger was in conversation with a small group of people, one of whom was the forensic pathologist — she stood out like a beacon in her white overalls and the bright orange vest with the words forensic pathology services on it.

Captain Kritzinger grimaced. “Well, do what you can.”

The LCRC member nodded and walked off.

“Captain,” greeted Magson.

“The doctor thinks we have a problem.”

“She has already begun decomposing in this heat,” said Doctor Sinette Killian, brushing an errant brown lock from her forehead, “but the indications are that she was hanged.”

“Hanged?” asked Menck. “I can’t remember us ever having a murder by hanging.”

“I can.”

“That is the problem,” said Kritzinger.

“There was a girl, around September, October last year, I think, perhaps November,” explained Doctor Killian. “There were signs of sexual assault. She was also dressed, but her panties were gone.”

“But she wasn’t one of ours,” said Menck.

“I can’t remember who the investigating officer was, but as far as I know, the docket is still open.”

Two for the price of one, Magson thought. Fantastic.

The body looked like that of a teenage girl. She was clothed in a pair of shorts and a white top with spaghetti straps, but her feet were bare. Her abdomen was severely distended with gas and the exposed skin was a brownish yellow with dark green blotches. There was a lively presence of maggots, some quite large. Thick, dark fluid had seeped from her nostrils and mouth. The smell — something resembling rotten eggs and decaying meat coupled with that sweet smell unique to humans — was so strong that Magson could taste it at the back of his throat, and he knew it would be clinging to his clothes all the way home.

Doctor Killian knelt next to the body and gently turned the girl’s head away from them. Her swollen face did not look good — the first wave of blowfly females had targeted her eyes, nose, mouth and ears to lay their eggs. But it was evident from the lush dark brown ponytail that she’d had beautiful hair. A discolored furrow was visible in areas around her throat and neck, despite the attentions of the maggots.

“The furrow is high here against the throat,” indicated the pathologist. “Then it slants upward around the sides of the neck to the back.” She looked up at Magson and squinted against the sun. “This is where the knot would’ve been.”

He walked around the body and crouched on the other side. Blowflies buzzed around the girl, touching down, lifting off. The frenzied maggots were eating as if they knew their time was running out. The girl’s clothes were not torn. Everything was where it should be. “And you say it looks like the previous one, Doc?”

“I’d like to do the post mortem first and have a look at my report on last year’s case, but murder victims who were hanged are extremely rare, as you’re well aware. Death by hanging is pretty much always suicide. So it would be quite a coincidence if we’re looking at two different killers.”

“Coincidence,” said Magson. “Not likely. How long do you think she’s been lying here?”

“Five to eight days maybe.”

He placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself erect. All his hinges were in need of a few squirts of Q20. The left knee could do with some new parts.

Menck was looking around, rubbing his short dark brown hair, then stroking his moustache and goatee. “It’s far to those bloekomtrees. If she was hanged there, why drag her all the way over here?”

Doctor Killian rose as well. “There are indications that she had been bound.”

“But he untied her,” said Magson. “Probably after. No rope left with the body.”

“Feels more like a dump site,” said Menck.

“What’s the birdwatcher’s story?”

“She saw some or other bird and told her husband to stop,” said Captain Kritzinger. “Got out and followed the thing to hell and gone, binoculars in one hand, bird guide in the other. Her husband says it’s the story of his life.”

“And then she found the girl.”

“Hmm. I don’t think the husband will be stopping for a bird again any time soon.”

Menck chuckled.

Magson looked back towards the road, despite the hills hiding it from view. “I’m wondering about the fence.”

“Did he break it,” asked Menck, “or find it that way?”

“LCRC will have a look in any case,” said Kritzinger.

“Hanging.” Magson turned his attention back to the ugly furrow in the girl’s neck.

“It’s not just a way to kill someone. It’s also a form of execution.”

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“The sound of gunshots shattered the stillness of the night” – read an excerpt from Chanette Paul’s Sacrificed

Caz Colijn receives a phone call from Belgium that tears her out of her reclusive life. In Belgium, where she tries to trace her and her daughter’s family origins, it becomes clear that that country’s colonial past has had as much impact on her life as the apartheid years in South Africa did.


Read an excerpt from Chanette Paul’s riveting Sacrificed here:

17 January 1961
Katanga, Congo

The night air reeked of savanna dust, sweat and fear. Of betrayal, greed and the thirst for power. A stench Ammie knew well.

César’s left hand gripped her arm. The right hand was clenched around her jaw.

“Watch, bitch,” he hissed in her ear. “Watch!”

Elijah stood under an acacia, a hare in the headlights. It was new moon. At the fringes of the pale smudge between somewhere and nowhere loomed the vague shapes of more trees. Somewhere to the left something rustled in the tall grass. A jackal howled in the distance, its mate echoing the mournful cry.

A command rang out, followed by the distinct sound of four rifles being cocked. She wanted to close her eyes but she kept staring as if her eyelids were starched.

Elijah coughed and spat out a gob of bloody mucus. His vest, once white, was smeared with soil, sweat, saliva, blood. One shoe was missing. He wasn’t looking at the soldiers with their rifles. From behind the lopsided spectacles on his battered face his eyes searched out her own. The glare on the lenses made it impossible to read the expression in his eyes.
Another command. Rifles raised to shoulders.

Sweat rolled down Elijah’s temples. He strained against the ropes, tried to find some slack around his wrists and ankles but finally gave up. His knees twitched. His calves trembled. His lips were fixed in a stiff grimace.

Everything seemed surreal — what she was witnessing now, as well as the events of earlier that evening.

On her way to Elijah’s house to warn him, she had seen the column of smoke from a distance. When she arrived at what had been his house it was clear that nothing had escaped the inferno. Not his desk, with all his documents, nor the shelves with the books he valued so highly. Not the photograph, taken in better days, of Elijah and Patrice Lumumba laughing together. Not even his Immatriculation certificate, the one piece of paper that, only a year ago, had been worth more than gold to every évolué: the passport to a better life.

When a vehicle had pulled up beside her and she was dragged inside, none of the spectators feasting their eyes on the mayhem had lifted a finger to help her.

Now, in these moments before the inevitable took place, Elijah stopped being the eternal student, the teacher, the philosopher. He was no longer Patrice Lumumba’s friend, mentor and critic. Or the man who had helped feed, clothe and educate so many orphaned children. No longer the optimist who would simply face the odds and keep going.

He was just a man in a soiled vest, his spectacles tilted at an odd angle.

A man who knew too much. Who had too much influence on Lumumba.

Who had become a complication.

But more than anything, he was the man who loved her.

Another command. The words failed to get through to her, but the intention behind them was unmistakable.

The vice-like grip around her arm and chin tightened.

Did Elijah, at that moment, still believe in God’s will? The will of a God who had saved Abraham when he had been on the point of offering his son, but had not granted his own Son the same salvation? Nor Elijah today.

The sound of gunshots shattered the stillness of the night. Ammie screamed as if it were unexpected. And maybe it had been. Maybe she didn’t really believe that these white savages, that César, could be so debased.

Elijah’s body jerked, spun to the right, fell against a tree trunk and collapsed in a heap in the shallow grave he’d probably had to dig himself earlier that day. Flesh, sinew and bone serving no further purpose. Blood pumping through the heart one last time colored the vest crimson, hiding the smears of dust and saliva.

César shoved her aside. Pain shot through her knee and elbow as she fell on the gravelly earth, grass blades scratching her arms. César wiped his hands on his trousers as if they were contaminated. For a moment his pale blue eyes met hers before a stream of saliva shot from his mouth and splattered against her cheek.

Dimly she became aware of the sounds of Elijah’s body being covered with clods and rocks and gravel.

For a brief moment her world tilted.

“Elijah!” More than a scream, it was a raw sound from a place she hadn’t known existed.

The first boot struck her side. The second, her shoulder.


Somewhere an owl was calling its mate.

The next kick exploded against her temple.

The pool of light grew dim, giving way to the mysterious sounds of nocturnal Africa.

Monday, September 1, Present day
Overberg, South Africa

Tieneke’s voice was as clear as if she were calling from the neighboring smallholding, instead of six thousand kilometers away. The words got stuck somewhere in Caz’s ear, their meaning distorted by some tube or bone or anvil. Tieneke? After so many years?

“I said: Mother is at her last gasp,” her sister repeated when Caz failed to react. Tieneke was impatient, even in this situation.

Caz remembered that about her. Though she had actually forgotten.

“I didn’t know Mother was still alive,” she finally found her voice. “She must be well into her nineties.”

“Ninety-eight. She’s been relatively healthy and quite lucid for her age until just a few days ago, when she suddenly went downhill. But she won’t hear of a nursing home. Not that I’d consider it. I’ve been taking care of her for most of her life, after all. Why not see it through to the end?” Reproach lay like thick sediment in Tieneke’s tone.

With unseeing eyes Caz stared at the splotch the Cape robin had left on the corner of the desk. Bloody cheek, eating Catya’s pellets, and then shitting all over the house.
What could she say to Tieneke? I’m sorry to hear Moth¬er is dying at the ripe old age of ninety-eight? I’m sorry you never got married—at sixty-five you’re probably too old now? I’m sorry I didn’t try to make contact again after being chased away like a mangy dog when I needed you most thirty-one years ago?

“Why are you telling me this, Tieneke?” The question sounded heartless. Would have been heartless in any other circumstances. Probably still was.

“Mother wants to see you before she dies.”

Everything fell silent—the sound of the wind in the wild olive tree, the din of birds, the soft hum of the computer—as if she had been robbed of her hearing in one fell swoop.
“What?” The word flew from her mouth.

“We don’t have much time. You’ll have to get a Schengen. Go to the Belgian Consulate. I presume you have a passport. You have to buy your plane ticket before applying for the visa. You probably don’t want to waste your time in Dubai or Istanbul, so forget about Emirates or the Turkish airline, even if they do fly to Brussels. KLM has a direct flight to Amsterdam and from there you can take the train to Ghent-Dampoort. It takes about three hours. You’ll have to change trains at Antwerp Central. From Ghent-Dampoort you take bus number three. Get off at . . .”

“Tieneke!” The sharpness in her voice stemmed the flood. Caz drew a deep breath, tried to calm down. “Why does Ma Fien want to see me?”

A deep sigh came down the line. It began in Ghent, trav¬eled through Belgium, across half of Europe, down the length of Northern Africa, Central Africa, Southern Africa, and found its way to the cottage at the foot of the Kleineberg in the Over¬berg district.

“I don’t know. She won’t say. She gets terribly upset if I mention the possibility that you might not come. Is that how you want Mother to meet her Maker? So unfulfilled?”

Why should I give a damn about Josefien Colijn’s lack of fulfilment, Caz was tempted to ask. After all, Fien didn’t give a damn three decades ago when she turned her back on her month-old granddaughter along with Caz and sent them out into the world to face scorn and humiliation. But this Tieneke knew. She had been there.

The jacarandas had been blossoming in Pretoria. Also the one in front of her childhood home, where she turned for one last beseeching look at the two women on the porch. Stunned that her mother and sister could send her away like that, refusing even to hear her side of the story. Not allowing her to cross the threshold of the house where she had grown up.

The two of them just stood there. Floral dresses stretched tight over plump figures. Tieneke with the first signs of gray in her wispy blonde hair. Fien’s hair snowy white, stiffly permed. Longish faces, pale blue eyes, lips pursed over yellow teeth sprouting haphazardly from both sets of gums—a legacy of cruel genes.

Lilah had whimpered in her arms. And just then a jacaranda blossom had floated down and settled on the dark hair. That was how she got her new name: Lila, which later became Lilah when her modeling career took off. Hentie had wanted to call his daughter Johanna Jacomina, after his paternal grandmother, but Hentie’s father had forbidden him to have the baby registered. Just as well.
“Cassie, please.” These were possibly the hardest two words Tieneke had ever spoken in her life. The image of the women on the porch faded.

“Please what? Why now? Not once in the eleven years before you returned to Belgium did either of you call me or try to find out how I was doing. I had to learn from an at¬torney that you had gone back to Belgium and were living in Ghent. Not a single word after that either. And now you expect me to drop everything and fly over there?”

“I followed Lilah’s career.”

Anger robbed Caz of breath. For a moment everything grew dim. “Is that what this is about? Lilah’s success? Are you after her money?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We live comfortably. You know we believe in sobriety.”

Sobriety? Make that bloody stinginess. Caz had been eighteen before she could choose her own dress for the first time, a dress that wasn’t a Tieneke hand-me-down. One that didn’t have to be taken in and the hem let out to cater for the difference in weight and height. Caz had been a gangly giant in a family of chubby short-arses.

She took a deep breath. “Sorry, Tieneke, no go. Give Ma Fien my best, but I can’t travel halfway around the world just because she’s dying. I may be many things, but I’m not a hypocrite.”

Silence hummed across thousands of kilometers before Tieneke cleared her throat. “I think she wants to tell you the truth.”

“Truth?” The computer’s screensaver began its little dance. Multicolored bubbles rolling across the freshly translated text added to the out-of-body feeling that took hold of her. “What do you mean?”

“Come over here and find out, Cassie. Before it’s too late. I was only eleven when you were born. Only Mother can tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Who your biological parents are.”

“My what?”

“Your birth mother didn’t want you, so Mother and Father took pity on you and offered to raise you. That’s all Mother said at the time. It’s all I know. You can contact us through the attorney to tell us when you’ll be arriving. Mr. Moerdyk, in case you’ve forgotten. In Pretoria. Good day, Cassie.”

The line went dead. The silence was pitch black. Like the spots dancing in front of Caz’s eyes.

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Vier Lapa-romanza’s om jou in te verlustig

Dans met ’n maangodin
Rosita Oberholster

Lilly is oortuig dat haar buurman Matt ook gevoelens vir haar het. Maar dan trek sy eks-vrou oornag by hom in en boonop praat hy gereeld van die nimlike “Selene” wie sy nog nooit met die oog gesien het nie.

Lank en gelukkig
Magdaleen Walters

Om skielik jou huis met ’n vreemdeling te deel, is moeilik. Veral as dié vreemdeling jou eks-verloofde se broer en onmeetlik aantreklik is – en jou boonop gekoester en beskermd laat voel. Dit is die dilemma waarmee Larita sit.

Ridder van die branders

Rika Du Plessis

Duart red Dineke van die diepsee se branders. ’n Ridder, dink sy. Maar vanaf sy eerste woorde vryf hy Dineke verkeerd op. Duart dink sy is bedorwe en sy dink hy is ongemanierd. Waarom vind hulle mekaar dan onweerstaanbaar?

My hart se keuse

Ria Richards

Ná haar eks-man se verraad glo Saskia nie haar hart kan weer herstel nie, totdat sy die sproetgesigseuntjie in haar speelgroep se aantreklike pa, Quintin, ontmoet. Hy maak teenstrydige emosies in haar wakker: een oomblik laat hy haar hart bokspring, die volgende wil sy hom vermoor.





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Ontembare Bruid propvol intrige en romanse

Vir die pragtige en sprankelende Jacqueline de Péronne is die lewe aan die Kaap ’n lied.

Nie eens haar gereëlde huwelik met haar uiters onaantreklike stiefneef, kaptein don Miguel Cortés, ’n groot, vet en onaantreklike slawehandelaar, kry haar onder nie.

Miguel is vort met sy vrag slawe en Jaqueline hervat haar ongebonde lewe van pret en partytjies.

Christoban Hernández, ’n uiters aantreklike reisiger en gas aan haar tante se huis, het egter ander idees oor die huwelik, soos hoe ’n getroude vrou haar behoort te gedra. Hy onderneem om haar vryhede in te perk. In te staan vir haar man.

Niemand regeer oor Jacqueline nie. Allermins ’n vreemdeling. Sy tart hom. Treiter hom. Maak haar rokke se halslyne nog laer. Jaag sy bloeddruk doelbewus op. Keer op keer beland sy in Christoban se arms, maar swig kan sy nie. Sy is en bly ’n getroude vrou.

Miguel se terugkeer verander alles.

Christoban het ’n ou appeltjie met Miguel te skil. Christoban was ’n roeier op Miguel se galeiskip en dra die letsels oor sy lyf. Miguel moet sterf. Nie eens Jacqueline kan Christoban keer nie.

Maar vir wie se lewe moet sy vrees?

Haar man s’n of die man wat sy liefhet?


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Helende Liefde bewys dat ’n moeilike pad na ’n lieflike bestemming kan lei

Andrea Basson se lewe verander onomkeerbaar toe sy met die ondenkbare gekonfronteer word. Ná dertien jaar van getroude lewe met Dewald, die liefde van haar lewe, ontdek sy hy is ’n rondloper.

Sy maak kennis met die slinksheid van ’n Jesebel en gaan deur al die fases van ’n vrou wat owerspel eerstehands beleef – ontkenning, verwerping, woede, wraak en intense hartseer.

Die pad na herstel is lank, uitdagend en vol slaggate, maar die storm staan nie stil nie en sy kom ook nie dieselfde mens anderkant uit nie. In die proses ontdek sy ook heling lê daarin om na ander in nood uit te reik. Egskeiding verwoes, maar die liefde maak heel.

Anna Penzhorn is die skrywersnaam van Anni Niewenhuis. Helende liefde is haar 44ste boek.

Chanette Paul, LAPA se manuskripontwikkelaar, sê: “Wat ʼn heerlike, deurleefde manuskrip! En boonop so vlot geskryf en goed versorg. Anni lewer hier werk van uitstekende gehalte. My hart wou breek vir Andrea. Ek het saam met haar swaar gekry. Haar seerkry het in my geëggo, haar verwarring en die ontreddering wat sy voel, het my diep ontroer.”

Jeanette Ferreira, teksredakteur sê: “Hierdie is knap hantering van ʼn sensitiewe tema deur ʼn ervare skrywer van romanses en liefdesromans. Die leser lag en huil saam met die hoofkarakter, word op ʼn reis geneem wat emosionele geweld in sy rouste vorm uitspel. Maar Andrea kies die pad wat na heelheid en uiteindelik ook ’n nuwe liefde lei.

Anna Penzhorn het ’n fyn aanvoeling vir die psige van die vrou en die verwikkeldheid van verhoudings.”


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Die Mense Langsaan pak Afrikaanse domestic noir aan

Christine wil van Frikkie, haar man, ontslae raak. Moord maak meer sin as egskeiding, veral nadat hy baie geld op die Lotto wen wat hy nie met haar deel nie, maar dan trek daar ’n geskeide man met ’n volwasse dogter langs haar in.

Wanneer Frikkie op ’n onverklaarbare wyse by die trap in die huis afval, is die speurders en Christine suspisieus oor haar nuwe buurman.

Christine, nou die ryk weduwee, trou gou weer en trek saam met haar nuwe man na ’n veiligheidslandgoed.

’n Eertydse kollega van Christine, Zebith, is haar nuwe buurvrou. Mettertyd kom Christine agter dat die huis waarin sy en haar nuwe man bly, ’n bloedige geskiedenis het.

Zebith ken die geskiedenis en was betrokke by die inwoners. Sy ly aan postraumatiese stres en wroeg omdat sy skuldig voel oor wat in die huis langs hare gebeur het.

Saam met die skuldgevoel moet sy ook die pyn van haar gebroke hart hanteer.

Die twee buurvroue het albei die mans saam met wie hulle gewoon het, verloor en albei het skouers geskuur met gewelddadige dood. Daar kan tog nie nog onvoorsiene tragedies vir hulle voorlê nie?

Domestic noir: Elders het boeke soos The girl on the train, wat as domestic noir bekendstaan, opslae gemaak. Hamersma val ook in die kategorie. Die versmorende effek van die huishoudelike alledaagse is die hoofbron van konflik. Hamersma se boek het egter ’n unieke storie, reg vir die Suid-Afrikaanse mark.

Chanette Paul, LAPA Uitgewers se manuskripontwikkelaar, sê: “Dis altyd verblydend wanneer skrywers nuwe genres in Afrikaans aanpak. Die noir-genres, en spesifiek domestic noir, is deesdae baie gewild. Ek is dus bly Elsa het hierdie tendens op die proef gestel.”

Die Mense Langsaan


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Skryf nou in vir Lapa Uitgewers se Jeugromankompetisie 2017!

Is jy ‘n jeugroman-liefhebber? Droom jy al sedert jy 13 getref het daarvan om jou eie jeugroman te skryf?

Nou’s jou kans!

Inskrywings vir Lapa Uitgewers se Jeugromankompetisie is tans oop en daar’s prysgeld ter waarde van R50 000 op die spel.

Jeuk jou vingers reeds? Klik hier vir verdere besonderhede.

Die sluitingsdatum vir inskrywings is 30 September 2017.


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Pleisters vir die dooies


As ek val

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Kompetisie! Drie gelukkige lesers kan ’n kopie van Jeanette Stals se Vermis wen


Vermis is die tweede boek in ’n reeks oor Luna, ’n jong speursersant van Stellenbosch.

In hierdie verhaal word sy betrek by die ondersoek na ’n tienermeisie, Elodie, wat spoorloos uit ’n plaaslike gastehuis verdwyn het.

Die meisie se ouers het as jong getroudes na Engeland geëmigreer en nou is die pa weer hier vir werk. Die ma en dogter het met vakansie saamgekom en Elodie kry ook geleentheid om spesiale vioollesse by die universiteit by te woon.

Luna se bekommernis oor wat met die meisie gebeur het, laat haar dieper betrokke raak by die gesin en noop haar eindelik om meer te waag as wat haar bevelvoerders van haar sou verwag. Sy volg ’n verdagte motor, word oorrompel en self ontvoer.

In die bak van die motor vind sy die meisie, maar nou is albei gevangenes van ’n kartel wat handel dryf in jong vroue.

Luna moet elke greintjie inisiatief inspan en al haar kennis betreffende selfverdediging bymekaarskraap om van die ontvoerders af weg te kom en om vir Elodie uit die gemors te kry.

Wil jy graag ‘n kopie van Jeanette Stals se nuutste roman wen? Besoek ons Facebook-blad en gee vir ons een goeie rede waarom jy graag Vermis wil besit. Inskrywings sluit Woensdag 19 April.

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Kompetisie! Drie gelukkige lesers kan ’n kopie van Rika Cloete se spanningsroman Doodsroeper wen


Dit is Februarie, 1861.

’n Groepie trekboere maak hulle gereed vir die jaarlikse migrasie van die springbokke – een van die merkwaardigste en bekendste tonele in die Suid-Afrikaanse geskiedenis. Hulle staning is naby die Gamagararivier in die Kalahari. Die spanning bou op, want hulle verkenners vertel dat die bokke op pad is.

Dan is daar ’n lyk.

Die man is wreed vermoor en die lyk is daarna verder vermink. Die dooie lê in Stilbos – ’n misterieuse plek sonder voëls en die skuilplek van die Doodsroeper, ’n onaardse wese wat uitroep voordat iemand sterf. Soois Bruwer, ’n verloopte wetsman, word versoek om ondersoek in te stel. Soois het rede gehad om homself eenkant te hou, nou moet hy meer spraaksaam wees en só besef hy: Dié groepe mense met wie hy saamtrek, het byna almal iets om weg te steek.

Net toe Soois dink hy is op die regte spoor, roep die Doodsroeper weer en sit hy met ’n tweede lyk op hande. Nou moet hy alles inspan om die moordenaar vas te trek, want dit wil voorkom asof daar binnekort nog dooies sal wees.
Rika Cloete se obsessie is misdaadfiksie, as dit boonop teen ’n geskiedkundige agtergrond afspeel, soveel te beter. Reeksmoordenaars, passiemoorde, gifmoorde, geestesversteurings – dit is alles al van toentertyd af deel van die mens se bestaan, so ook die vraag om geregtigheid, die drang na die uitlewering van die skuldige en die onwrikbare geloof dat die goeie uiteindelik die bose sal oorwin; dit is alles gewortel in ons menswees. Juis dít gee ons hoop vir die toekoms; daarom is dit noodsaaklik om daaroor te skryf. In 2002 is Cloete se debuutbundel eensaamigheid gepubliseer en in 2004 die avontuurromanse Die Oog van Isis. ’n Hele klompie tydskrifverhale het ook al uit haar pen verskyn. Doodsroeper is Rika se eerste spanningsroman.

Wil jy graag ‘n kopie van dié besonderse roman wen? Besoek ons Facebook-blad en gee vir ons een goeie rede waarom jy graag Doodsroeper wil besit. Inskrywings sluit Woensdag 19 April.

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Internasionale regte van Jaco Jacobs se ’n Goeie dag vir boomklim pas verkoop

LAPA Uitgewers is trots om aan te kondig dat wêreldwye regte vir die Engelse vertaling van Jaco Jacobs se jeugboek ’n Goeie dag vir boomklim pas verkoop is.

Die Londense uitgewery Oneworld Publications het ’n aanbod gemaak om die vertaalregte te bekom nadat ’n gedeeltelike proefvertaling van Jacobs se boek as deel van die internasionale In Other Words-projek aan uitgewers beskikbaar gestel is.

Die bekroonde vertaler Kobus Geldenhuys was vir die Engelse vertaling verantwoordelik.

Uitgewers van regoor die wêreld is genooi om kinder- en jeugboeke wat in ander tale as Engels verskyn het, vir die In Other Words-projek voor te lê.

’n Goeie dag vir boomklim is een van slegs vier boeke wat uiteindelik as eretitels aangewys is.

Die keuring en beoordeling is deur ’n paneel Britse kinderboekvertalers en kenners in die kinderboekbedryf gedoen, en die vier wenboeke is op 4 April tydens ’n spoggeleentheid by die Bologna-kinderboekskou in Italië bekend gestel.

Miemie du Plessis, bestuurder van die kinder-en-jeugboekafdeling by LAPA Uitgewers, sê:

Ons is ongelooflik trots dat Oneworld – ’n uitgewery met ’n uitstekende reputasie en bekend vir sy passie – hul vertroue in LAPA en ons topverkoper-outeur Jaco Jacobs geplaas het. Ongeveer ’n miljoen kopieë van sy boeke is verkoop sedert hy as 21-jarige by LAPA begin publiseer het en hy is geliefd en gerespekteerd onder lesers sowel as die boekgemeenskap in sy geheel. Hy is ’n meesterlike storieverteller en verdien dat sy werk aan ’n groter gehoor bekend gestel word.

Jacobs sê hy is opgewonde oor die vooruitsig om sy boek aan oorsese lesers bekend te stel.

Dit is lekker om te sien hoe ’n storie waaraan jy maande lank alleen by jou lessenaar gesit en timmer het, vlerke kry. Hoewel die boek op universele temas fokus, het dit ’n baie spesifieke Suid-Afrikaanse agtergrond. Dit sal interessant wees om te sien hoe jong lesers oorsee daarop reageer.

Oneworld Publications is ’n onafhanklike uitgewery wie se boeke in 2015 sowel as in 2016 die gesogte Man Booker Prize opgeraap het. Dit is in 2016 as die British Book Awards Independent Publisher of the Year en die IPG Trade Publisher of the Year aangewys, en vanjaar het dit die IPG Diversity Award ontvang. Oneworld fokus sterk op die publikasie van diverse en oorspronklike stories van skrywers van regoor die wêreld.

Geldenhuys sal ook die vertaling van die res van die boek doen.

’n Goeie dag vir boomklim


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