Trevor Noah’s memoir Born a Crime is a funny and insightful account of growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa as a biracial boy and doubles as a paean to his mother, Patricia, whose significant presence in the book marks her undeniable influence over the comedian’s life.

The memoir opens with a copy of the Immorality Act criminalising sexual relations between Europeans and natives, essentially showing Noah—a product of a Swiss/German father and Xhosa mother—was “born a crime”. Brief explainers offer glimpses into the inner workings of apartheid, spotlighting how the colonialists’ tactic of their divide and rule was designed to keep whites and non-whites apart.

Not even South Africa’s indigenous tribes were spared from this insidious scheme, with Zulus and Xhosa—the country’s two largest groups—condemning each other’s approach to white rule. While Zulus had chosen to fight the invaders, Xhosa’s considered the enemy’s might and favoured negotiations. Both, however, would fail in their mission.

“As the apartheid regime fell… instead of uniting for peace, they turned on each other, committing acts of unbelievable savagery,” Noah writes. “Massive riots broke out. Thousands of people were killed.”  

It’s in this context Noah begins his story as a nine-year old being thrown out of a moving minibus by his mother following a verbal altercation with the Zulu driver.

“That’s the problem with you Xhosa women,” the driver rages at the sight of a single woman with two children, including a mixed race one. “You’re all sluts, and tonight you’re going to learn your lesson.”

When he refuses to stop the bus, Patricia hurls Trevor out before jumping out with his younger brother. Noah and his mother are left bruised and bleeding from the harrowing incident but the baby is unscathed. And after Patricia thanks God for saving them, Noah wisecracks that had she not insisted on attending church that Sunday, despite her car breaking down, they wouldn’t have encountered the driver.

Noah’s antics take centre stage in his memoir, often resulting in hilarious consequences. In one instance, at the behest of unsuspecting family members, he offers a lenient prayer against the demon (himself) who had dumped faeces in the trashcan. In another chapter, he realises on prom night that his date doesn’t speak English or any of the other national languages he does, even though he’d visited her several times prior.

“Tim had promised he’d get me a beautiful date for a dance, but he hadn’t made any promises about any of her qualities,” he notes in hindsight. “I’d been mesmerised by her beauty… and didn’t know I was supposed to talk to her.”

There’s also an infamous episode where, working as a DJ at a Jewish function, Noah hypes his dancer-friend with chants of Go Hitler. Looks of shock and disgust greet the pair before they are summarily booted out.

But Noah wasn’t being obnoxious. Hitler was the dancer’s birth name.

“If black South Africans could go back in time and kill one person, Cecil Rhodes would come up before Hitler,” writes the comedian, describing Cecil Rhodes as their own monster. He further explains the Bantu education that blacks received, which only prepared them for a life of servility, deprived them of a full understanding of world affairs and led some like his grandfather to think “a hitler” was an “army tank.”   

Although Born a Crime affords large chunks of humour, sobering moments filter through Noah and his mother’s abusive relationship with his stepfather, demonstrating the many ways South African society conspires against women.

Every bit of a page turner, Born a Crime combines farcical anecdotes, history and personal observations in the right proportion, ensuring readers get the giggles while learning a thing or two about South Africa and its ugly apartheid past.

A version of this review appeared in the 2018 Sept.-Nov. edition of Inzozi, Rwandair’s in-flight magazine.

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