The narrative begins in Kenya, during the twilight years of British colonial rule and ends in the decades of turbulence that followed independence. Intermittently, we switch base to Canada, as the protagonist Vikram ‘Vic’ Lall looks back over his life. In their innocent early years, he and his sister Deepa spend their afternoons playing with their friends Njoroge, Bill and Annie, one African and two British. Then an incident occurs that destroys their peaceful idyll forever. As the years roll by in the course of the story, the disturbance set in motion in the ’50s grows in size and malignancy. By the end of the book, it’s become a flame-wreathed dragon which no one, least of all the protagonist, can control.
So why isn’t ...Vikram Lall a satisfying read? Vassanji’s prose is coolly intelligent, sensitive to nuance, alive to the ironies of history, politics and culture. Born in Kenya and raised in Tanzania, he presents a view of Africa that is fresh and original, if only because it is so rare to hear an Asian voice describing that continent. But he’s possibly too close to his material. His characters and their stories lack what I’d call the spice of fiction. Tragedies and passions rock their lives, yet they retain the infuriating, deadpan stodginess that is either the genius or the curse of the Indian people, depending on who you are and how you feel about them. Despite the adventurous spirit that takes them across the seas, once they get there, they seem content to shuffle through life like cart-horses, blinkered by tradition, shackled by religion. It’s hard enough to sympathise with such people in real life without having to read about them in fiction.
