by Alexandra Fuller
When Alexandra Fuller wrote her much acclaimed Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight in 2002 she stirred up a hornet’s nest among her own family, and, as could be expected, her mother was the family member who objected the most, referring afterwards to “that awful book!”
It was a frank and unadorned narrative of a child growing up in different parts of Africa – a life fraught with hardship, loss and danger, but at the same time it was heart-breakingly funny.
Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness returns to Africa and Fuller’s eccentric mother, who delights in referring to herself as “Nicola Fuller of Central Africa”. She is a larger-than-life individual who deserves to be remembered in her own right along with Karen Blixen, and in the opening chapters even learns to fly with the help of a dashing Sri Lankan pilot.
Someone wrote about her that “she held values about loyalty to blood and possession of soil that is likely to get one killed in Africa”. She also holds a passionate belief in the healing powers of animals.
She objected to the fact that her daughter’s earlier book made no secret of her bigotry and the white racism in old Rhodesia. Perhaps Cocktail Hour is a mixture of an apology and a song of praise to this intrepid woman.
Nicola Fuller was capable of remarkable friendships: mostly with animals, but also with people. She grew up in a rented bungalow on the estate of Zoe Foster, widow of a white hunter, and her first friend was Stephen Foster, a young chimpanzee. “Stephen and I used to take turns on his tricycle. We wore matching romper suits. We had tea parties and we went everywhere together hand in hand.”
When her parents thought that she was old enough, she was sent to a convent school run by Irish nuns, riding there on the back of Suk, a donkey with “a devious and wilful nature”. This gave her good grounding for eventually becoming an excellent horsewoman. By the time she and and her most adored horse, Violet, teamed up, nothing could hold them back and they won every event they entered.
At the time that this book is written, nearly half a century later, Fuller’s mother and father have survived the death of three children, three wars and many moves from farm to farm from Kenya to Zimbabwe to Zambia, with a horde of dogs, cats, a bronze statue of Wellington and a diminishing number of Le Creuset pots.
The incremental baggage of all those losses led to a spell in a Zimbabwean mental hospital for Nicola. But as she countered: “Not insane – highly strung, I think you mean; there is nothing wrong with that kind of bonkers… It has everything to do with being so well bred that it leads to chemical imbalance. We’re like difficult horses or snappy dogs; it’s not our fault. It’s in the blood!”
Between all the jocularity there is a serious side and Fuller gives full attention to the political awakening in Africa.
This is a witty and valuable description of an era, of a part of Africa, and of a unique, flawed individual: Nicola Fuller of Central Africa. You will not quickly forget it.