Cover image for The old drift : a novel / Namwali Serpell.
The old drift : a novel / Namwali Serpell.

First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Hogarth, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, [2019]

Physical Description:
566 pages : genealogical table ; 25 cm
On the banks of the Zambezi River, a few miles from the majestic Victoria Falls, there was once a colonial settlement called The Old Drift. Here begins the epic story of a small African nation, told by a mysterious swarm-like chorus that calls itself man's greatest nemesis. The tale? A playful panorama of history, fairytale, romance and science fiction. The moral? To err is human.
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"A dazzling debut, establishing Namwali Serpell as a writer on the world stage."--Salman Rushdie, The New York Times Book Review

"Clear-eyed, energetic and richly entertaining."-- The Washington Post

1904. On the banks of the Zambezi River, a few miles from the majestic Victoria Falls, there is a colonial settlement called The Old Drift. In a smoky room at the hotel across the river, an Old Drifter named Percy M. Clark, foggy with fever, makes a mistake that entangles the fates of an Italian hotelier and an African busboy. This sets off a cycle of unwitting retribution between three Zambian families (black, white, brown) as they collide and converge over the course of the century, into the present and beyond. As the generations pass, their lives--their triumphs, errors, losses and hopes--emerge through a panorama of history, fairytale, romance and science fiction.

From a woman covered with hair and another plagued with endless tears, to forbidden love affairs and fiery political ones, to homegrown technological marvels like Afronauts, microdrones and viral vaccines, this gripping, unforgettable novel is a testament to our yearning to create and cross borders, and a meditation on the slow, grand passage of time.

Praise for The Old Drift

"An intimate, brainy, gleaming epic . . . This is a dazzling book, as ambitious as any first novel published this decade." --Dwight Garner, The New York Times

" A founding epic in the vein of Virgil's Aeneid . . . though in its sprawling size, its flavor of picaresque comedy and its fusion of family lore with national politics it more resembles Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children ." --The Wall Street Journal

"A story that intertwines strangers into families, which we'll follow for a century, magic into everyday moments, and the story of a nation, Zambia." --NPR

Author Notes

Namwali Serpell has won the 2015 Caine Prize for African Writing for her short story 'The Sack'. Published in the collection Africa39: New Writing from Africa South of the Sahara.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 3

Publisher's Weekly Review

Serpell's debut is a rich, complex saga of three intertwined families over the course of more than a century. The epic stretches out from a single violent encounter: in the early 20th century, a British colonialist adopts North-western Rhodesia (now Zambia) as his home, settling in the Old Drift, a settlement near Victoria Falls, where the colonist gets into a fateful skirmish with a local hotelier. After this, readers first meet Sibilla, the hotelier's granddaughter, a woman born with hair covering her body, who runs away to Africa with a man who frequents the wealthy Italian estate at which her mother is a servant; then, in England, there's Agnes, the colonialist's granddaughter, a rich white girl and talented tennis player who goes blind and falls in love with a student who, unbeknownst to her, is black; and Matha, the servant's granddaughter, a spirited prodigy who joins a local radical's avant-garde activism. In part two, Agnes's son, Lionel, has an affair with Matha's daughter, which leads to a confrontation that also involves Naila, Sibilla's granddaughter. Serpell expertly weaves in a preponderance of themes, issues, and history, including Zambia's independence, the AIDS epidemic, white supremacy, patriarchy, familial legacy, and the infinite variations of lust and love. Recalling the work of Toni Morrison and Gabriel GarcA-a MA¡rquez as a sometimes magical, sometimes horrifically real portrait of a place, Serpell's novel goes into the future of the 2020s, when the various plot threads come together in a startling conclusion. Intricately imagined, brilliantly constructed, and staggering in its scope, this is an astonishing novel. Agent: PJ Mark, Janklow & Nesbit Associates. (Mar.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

New York Review of Books Review

Something is happening in African literature: The women are coming. For decades now, a river of original and important writing by female authors has been flowing out of that continent - books by writers such as Marlene van Niekerk, of whose second novel Liesl Schillinger wrote in these pages, "books like 'Agaat ... are the reason people read novels"; Tsitsi Dangarembga ("Nervous Conditions"); and, of course, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Now that river has burst its banks and become a flood. Namwali Serpell's extraordinary, ambitious, evocative first novel, "The Old Drift," contributes powerfully to this new wave. Interestingly, many of the contemporary books overlap with and even echo one another. Petina Gappah's forthcoming novel, "Out of Darkness, Shining Light," takes on the subject of the explorer David Livingstone and his African companions; "The Old Drift" also begins with Livingstone (but then moves on). Serpell's novel is a multigenerational exploration of Zambia's past, present and even its near future; another recent debut, "Harmattan Rain," by Ayesha Harruna Attah, looks at the story of Ghana through the lives of three generations of women. And in September Maaza Mengiste's "The Shadow King" will take on the subject of the Italian invasion of Ethiopia, moving beyond history to a kind of modern mythmaking, and looking at history primarily through the eyes of its female characters. "The Old Drift," too, incorporates elements of fabulism into the history of Zambia, and, again, sees that history mostly through women's eyes. Novuyo Rosa Tshuma's "House of Stone," published in the United States in January, has already been highly praised in The Guardian for summing up "not only ... Zimbabwean history, but also all of African colonial history" - a large claim on behalf of any novel. Equally large claims have already been made for "The Old Drift," which early reviewers have garlanded with comparisons to Toni Morrison and Gabriel Garcia Márquez. Meanwhile, another recent novel, Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi's "Kintu," has been called a Ugandan "One Hundred Years of Solitude." Trailing clouds of glory do they come. "The Old Drift" is a strong and confident enough piece of writing to stand on its own two feet and is perhaps not well served by being placed on the shoulders of giants. Its structure is formal, three parts containing three sections each - "The Grandmothers," "The Mothers" and "The Children." Each of the nine sections is centered on one dominant character, all women in the first two parts, and, in the final section, two young men and one young woman. In between are to be found short, italicized sections narrated by an unnamed "we," which work as a sort of Greek-chorus commentary on the action. The novel tells the intertwined stories of three families - one white, one black and one the product of an interracial marriage - making jumps in time to tell the various dynastic tales until the three clans merge into one near the end. At first glance this may strike the reader as overly schematic. That it doesn't read that way is a tribute to the energy with which the stories are told, and the vivid detail in which the world of the book is created. Historical figures mingle with fictional ones in these family sagas. Two years ago, in The New Yorker, Serpeli wrote a lengthy nonfictional account of one of these figures, Edward Mukuka Nkoloso, a schoolteacher, revolutionary and "Afronaut," the head of the absurd Zambian Space Program, which trained young people to go to the moon "by spinning them around a tree in an oil drum and teaching them to walk on their hands." Nkoloso and the Afronauts play important parts in "The Old Drift." In addition, two of the patriarchs of her fictional dynasties are real people: the hotelier Pierre or Pietro Gavuzzi, who ran the Victoria Falls Hotel at the early settlement near the waterfall known as the Old Drift, and the colonial-era traveler Percy M. Clark, the author of a guidebook to the Falls written circa 1910. Percy is allowed to tell his story and the story of the Old Drift's founding in the first person; after that, the third person, and fiction, take over. The novel's greatest strength lies in its creation of three unforgettable female characters. Agnes, the white upper-class English girl (and granddaughter of Percy Clark), loses her sight and falls in love with a black man without knowing he's black, and, expelled from her family, follows him to Africa to become a gentle, grand presence throughout the book. Matha, one of Nkoloso's Afronauts who, following a heartbreak, is afflicted by endless, unstoppable tears for the rest of her life, becomes known as the "crying woman." Most striking of all is Sibilla, an illegitimate offshoot of the Gavuzzi family, who suffers from extreme hirsutism, every part of her body sprouting luxuriant hair (if one wanted to be unkind, one might think of Cousin Itt). Sibilla and her hair - weaving, dancing, whirling, whitening into old age - dominate the novel and give it its defining imagery, its infinitely variable leitmotif. Hair is everywhere: Trails of hair are left so that lovers can find each other, hair salons are opened and form the backdrop to crucial scenes, hair is shaven off the heads of women mourners. "What are you made of?" one character demands, and the answer is one that the novel itself might give: "Hair." Around these three iconic characters is woven a complex narrative of the founding and growth of Zambia, and, in the book's second half, of the arrival of and battle against what is referred to only as "The Virus" - the H.I.V./AIDS pandemic, which, by the year 2000, affected more than 15 percent of the Zambian population, more than half of the afflicted being women. The book's three dynasties are not spared, and the emotional devastation wrought by illness is keenly felt in these pages. Which leads me back to the Greek chorus, the anonymous "we." It transpires that "we" are mosquitoes, commenting on what the human beings are getting up to. For much of the book I wasn't sure about these buzzy passages, especially in the Virus sections, when the bloodsucking Anopheles gambiae sing "Blood, blood, glorious blood!" Parodying the old Hippopotamus Song about glorious mud, they run the risk of confusing the reader (since mosquitoes are unable to carry The Virus or transmit it to human beings). However, in the final section of the book, when Serpeli daringly pushes past the present day to take us into a technologically advanced future and a climax that combines revolution and catastrophe, the mosquito trope is cleverly transformed and begins to make sense. "The Old Drift" is an impressive book, ranging skillfully between historical and science fiction, shifting gears between political argument, psychological realism and rich fabulism. It isn't perfect. It's long, and there are longueurs. Not all of the nine leading characters are as interesting as Agnes, Matha and Sibilla. Sometimes the history, the medical information and the science are laid on with too heavy a hand. But these imperfections should not detract from what is, by any standard, a dazzling debut, establishing Namwali Serpeli as a writer on the world stage. salman rushdie is the author of 13 novels, most recently "The Golden House."

Library Journal Review

DEBUT In 1904, across the Zambezi River from the Old Drift colonial settlement, one Percy M. Clark, plagued with fever, pulls the hat-and a large amount of hair-off of Italian hotelier Pietro Gavuzzi. Pietro's daughter Lina then hits young native N'gulube. Thus starts a generational story of three families that cannot escape one another. Chapters unfold through the eyes of the grandmothers, including one with hair all over her body; the mothers; then the children; with the accounts of the grandchildren-Joseph, Jacob, and Naila-leading readers into the future of Zambia. Three multicultural families' pasts and presents, told by a swarming chorus of voices, culminate in a tale as mysterious as it is timeless. VERDICT This stunning cross-genre debut draws on Zambian history and is twisted with inverted stereotypes and explicit racist language that only reinforces the far-flung exploration of humanity. [See Prepub Alert, 9/24/18.]-Kristi Chadwick, -Massachusetts Lib. Syst., Northampton © Copyright 2019. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2018 Namwali Serpell Prologue Zt. Zzt. ZZZzzzZZZzzzzZZZzzzzzzo'ona. And so. A dead white man grows bearded and lost in the blinding heart of Africa. With his rooting and roving, his stops and starts, he becomes accidental father of this land, our pater muzungu . This is the story of a nation - not a kingdom or a people - so it begins, of course, with a white man. Once upon a time, a goodly Scottish doctor caught a notion to locate the source of the Nile. He found instead a gash in the ground full of massed, tum- bling water. His bearers called it Mosi-o-Tunya, The Smoke That Thunders, but he gave it the name of his queen instead. In his journal, he described the Falls with a stately awe, comparing the far-flung water to British things: to fleece and snow and the sparks from burning steel, to myriads of small comets rushing on in one direction, each of which left behind its nucleus rays of foam. He speculated that angels had gazed upon it and said, 'How lovely.' He opined, like a set designer, that there really ought to be mountains in the backdrop. Years passed. Adventure. Disaster. Fame. Commerce. Christianity. Civilisation. He was mauled by a lion that shook him in its jaws, he said, as a dog shakes a rat. His wife died of fever; his beloved dog drowned. He voyaged over land and through swamps and along endless waterways. He freed slaves along the way, broke their chains with his very hands and took them on as his bearers. Late in his life, he witnessed a massacre - slave traders shooting at men and women in a lake, so many the carcasses choked it and the canoes could not pass. He despaired. He was broken, broke; his queen had forgot him; the Royal Geographers had declared him dead. Then a mercenary Welsh bastard named Stanley found him, presumed, shook his hand, and sent word to London. And in an instant he was famous again, as if risen from the dead. Yet he refused to return to Merrie England. Doddering, he drove deeper into the continent instead, still seeking his beloved Nile. Oh, father muzungu! The word means white man, but it describes not a skin colour but a tendency. A muzungu is one who will zunguluka - wander, aimless - until they zungusha , go in circles. And so our dizzy, movious muzungu pitched up here again, half-drowned in mud, dragging his black bearers with him. His medicine box went missing - who took it? They never found out - and with it, his precious quinine. Fever hunted him and finally caught him. He died in a hut, in the night, kneeling on his bed, his head in his hands. His men disembowelled him, planted his heart under an mpundu tree, and bore his corpse to the coast. The HMS Vulture took his body home - what was left without the living was buried under stone at Westminster Abbey. His people recognized him by the scrapes of the lion's teeth on his humerus bone. There was great wonder at the resolve of his bearers. To travel with a corpse for months on end, suffering loss and injury, sickness and battle? To forge on in blistering heat and blundering rain, beating off the superstition that to carry death is to beckon it? To come all the way to England, to answer to interrogation, to build a model of the hut that he died in? What faith! What love! No, no - what fear! That corpse, that body was proof. Without it, who would have trusted them? Who would have taken their word that a white man, among savages, had died of bad luck - a mere fever? Men never believe that chance can wreak such consequence. Yet the story of this place is full of such slips and skids. Error, n., from the Latin errare: to stray or to veer or to wander. For instance, the bazungu who later carved this territory into a colony, then a protectorate, then a federation, then a country came here only because Livingstone did. They drifted in and settled the land, drew their arbitrary lines in the sand, stole treaties from the chiefs using a devious ruse: a Royal Charter that wasn't truly royal at all. Waving flags and guns and beads to trade with, they scrambled rabid for Africa, and claimed it was Dr Livingstone's legacy. But would you believe our godly Scotch doc was in fact searching for the source of the Nile in the wrong place? As it turns out, there are two Niles - one Blue, one White - which means two sources, and they are neither of them anywhere near here. This sort of thing happens with nations, and tales, and humans, and signs. You go hunting for a source, some ur-word or symbol and suddenly the path will split, cleaved by apostrophe or dash. The tongue forks, speaks in two ways, which in turn fork and fork into a chaos of capillarity. Where you sought an origin, you find a vast babble which is also a silence: a chasm of smoke, thundering. Oh, blind mouth!     The Falls It sounds like a sentence: Victoria Falls. Or a prophecy. At any rate, that's the joke I used to make until Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria actually died in 1901, just before I landed on the continent. Two years later, I set eyes on that African wonder named for an English queen and became as beguiled as the next man. I came for the Falls, and I stayed for them, too. What they say is true - the spray can indeed be seen from thirty miles off, the roar heard from twenty. The last part of our trek from Wankie was hard going and it was eleven at night by the time we made camp about a mile from the Falls, under a gargantuan baobab tree. Tired as I was, I could not let the need of sleep come between me and my first sight of that vast tumble. I left the others and made my way alone to look over the Falls from above, from the so-called 'Devil's Cataract'. I shall never forget it. The night was luminous with moonlight. In the foreground was the bluff of Barouka island. Beyond it, veiled in spray, the main falls leapt roaring into the chasm four hundreds feet below. The spray was so powerful it was hard to say whither direction the Falls flowed. The shadowy black forest writhed its branches before them. The lunar rainbow, pale and shimmering, gave the whole scene a touch of faery. Awed beyond words, as if standing in the presence of a majestic Power quite ineffable, my hat came off. For an hour I stood bare-headed, lost in rapture. No. I shall never forget that nocturnal view of the Victoria Falls, full in flood and drenched in moonlight. I spent thirty-two years within a mile of that spot, and I'll be damned if that isn't still the best lookout. The next morning, I marked the occasion of my first encounter by carving my name and the date into the baobab tree: Percy M. Clark. 8 May 1903. This was unlike me but excusable under the circumstances. I set out for the drift five miles above the Falls, the port of entry into North-western Rhodesia. The Zambesi is at its deepest and narrowest here for hundreds of miles, so it's the handiest spot for 'drifting' a body across. At first it was called Sekute's Drift after a chief of the Leya. Then it was Clarke's Drift, after the first white settler, whom I soon met. No one knows when it became The Old Drift. For two hours I sat alone on the southern bank, popping off a rifle at intervals. At long last, I saw a speck - a dugout coming from the other side. It seemed so far up river, I wasn't quite sure it was coming for me; the river was so swift that a long slant was needed to bring the boat precisely to the spot where I waited. A dugout is a ticklish thing to handle in a strong current - a single crossways cough is enough to tip it over - but the Barotse are excellent river-boys. Standing to their work, they use ten-foot paddles to steer their primitive craft. They brought me back across and then my goods. The Old Drift was then a small settlement of a half-dozen men - there were only about a hundred white men in all of the territory of North-western Rhodesia at the time. I stopped at a mud and pole store that served as the local 'hotel'. It belonged to a man who bore my surname, except his had the aristocratic 'e' attached. This would have been coincidence enough, but it turned out that he grew up in Chatteris in Cambridgeshire, practically next door to the university city I thought I'd long left behind. It seemed I couldn't get away from the old country, or its airs. Fred 'Mopane' Clarke - a native moniker, for he was 'tall and straight and has a heart like a mopane tree' - was the original white settler here. He came around 1898 and became a forwarding agent, then started a transport service across the Zambesi. He later went on to great fortune building hotels and selling them off. But when I met him, we were simply two men making the best of it. Mopane was amused that I had tossed a coin to choose my new vocation - photography was a relatively new field in those days. I didn't bother to explain my ousting from the Trinity chemistry lab.  'The bollocks on you!' he said. 'Did you journey to Rhodesia on such a whim, too?' 'Yes,' I lied. 'Took up a post at a studio in Bulawayo. But toning and fixing is rather a chancy business in Africa, with the dust, not to mention the dust-devils. So I quit.' Another lie. 'But you've stayed on, it seems. Does life here in the bush suit you?' 'The settlers are a good sort. Honest, spirited. Don't turn their nose up at people. The Kaffirs are bewildering, of course, but seem pliable enough. The insects are rather an abomination.' We exchanged bug stories. Tam-Pam beetles tugging at the hair, rhino beetles blundering into the knob, the putrid stink beetle and whistling Christmas bug. Scorpions, spiders, centipedes. Beasties all. I won the debate by telling him about the day I arrived in Bulawayo two years earlier. The blinding sun plumb vanished behind a black cloud: not a dust storm but a plague of biblical locusts! Then came the clamour: the frantic beating of pots and trays to scare them off. A hellish din, but effective. 'You shall face far worse here,' said old Mopane cryptically. 'Do you intend to pioneer?' 'To wander. Pa always said, "My boy, never settle till you have to and never work for another man." Time to play my own hand, do a touch of exploring. I believe I shall be the first to follow the Zambesi from the Falls all the way to the coast,' I boasted. 'Like the good Dr Livingstone.' 'Oh. Yes, I suppose.' I shook off my frown. 'But without the religion.' Mopane Clarke gripped my hand with a devilish grin. Excerpted from The Old Drift: A Novel by Namwali Serpell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.