There are three ages of South Africa that exist in my mind, the first of which was lived mostly before I was born. The first is of the post-war country, with the South African Division home fresh from a string of gallant battles in North Africa and Italy, South African Air Force Spitfires throwing the roar of supercharged Merlin engines across Table Bay, and the notes of 'Sunset' drifting across the bay at Simon's Town from the quarterdecks of taut-awninged warships. This was British South Africa; neat, well-ordered, a land of clipped lawns and social niceties.
Next comes Afrikaans South Africa, the land of Tom Sharpe's 'Riotous Assembly' and 'Indecent Exposure', of Sharpeville, of apartheid and Alan Paton. Not a nice place.
Then there is post-Mandela South Africa. A period of slow decline into tribalism and barbarism. Only one author has really captured the farce of decline; Nicholas Monserrat, in 'The tribe that lost its head' and 'Richer than all his tribe', written with real affection and a terrible sadness, both long out of print but recommended reading if you find copies.
There is little that is readable coming out of Africa now.