Whatshot
The Nicotine Gospel According to Durban
The Nicotine Gospel According to Durban
Date: 2025-06-25
It's not every day you find yourself packed into a little treasure chest of a bookshop in Durban, shoulder to shoulder with a symphony of bibliophiles, wannabe writers, genuine eccentrics, dangerous thinkers, charming philosophers, and people who still think "lit" means literature.
But that's exactly what happened last night at the iconic Ike's Books and Collectables on Florida Road. The occasion? The launch of The Nicotine Gospel - a sharp, strange, smoke-scented little miracle written by the inimitable Sven Axelrad, whose name might be new to your lips now, but won't be for long.
Now, if you've never been to Ike's, you must know it's the kind of place where books breathe and the past sits perched on every shelf, winking at you through dusty covers. Jo Rushby, the high priestess of this literary temple, opened her doors and heart to what can only be described as a holy gathering of the word-obsessed. And bless her - she managed to host an evening that felt like the afterparty of the Great Library of Alexandria. Only with better lighting. And gin.
The crowd? Fabulous. Overdressed, underdressed, and one man who looked like he may have wandered in from a French arthouse film. I spotted at least three pairs of Birkenstocks and a woman in a full-length velvet cape - so you know it was serious.
And then came Professor Ashwin Desai - ever the disarming assassin with a microphone - delivering a foreword that was equal parts roast and benediction. "If nicotine is the devil," he said, "then this book is the devil's gospel. And you'll love it, because we all secretly want to sin a little more intelligently." I clapped so hard I nearly spilled my Sauvignon Blanc.
And what of the book itself?
The Nicotine Gospel opens with a line you won't forget:
"My dad believed that you could tell everything worth knowing about a person by what cigarettes they smoked."
That's how it begins - in 1987, with a bolt of lightning, a pack of Lucky Strikes, and the death of Nate and Danny's mother. Their eccentric, distant father responds not with therapy or grief counseling but by inventing a bizarre new theology: the Nicotine Gospel. A gospel where a cardboard box of twenty cigarettes is the only scripture you'll ever need.
By the end of the night, I'd made three new friends, promised to read six new books, and nearly left with a rare first edition of something I can't afford. (I blame the lighting - Jo makes everything look irresistible.)
In a world that scrolls instead of listens, and skims instead of sits still, last night was a reminder that books - and the people who love them - still matter. That Durban still shows up - messy, magnificent, loud, loving - for its artists, its thinkers, and its oddballs.
Long live the bookshop.
Long live the cigarette break.
And long live Durban, that strange, smoky, soulful little city by the sea.