Call me Piet

Petrus Jacobus Christoffel van Tonder, owner and farmer of a thousand hectares of trophy land west of Johannesburg, known affectionately by his family as Pa or Pieta and reverently by his farmhands as Baas Piet, is inspecting his eyeballs so closely in the bathroom mirror that his big nose keeps bumping into the glass.
Unable to determine why his one eye is even redder than usual, he pours another stream of eye drops into it and throws the bottle back into the medicine basket with a loud clunk. He leaves the bathroom with his permanent frown deepened.
In the kitchen, his wife is finishing up breakfast. Their daughters Isabelle, who is not yet five, and Clarissa, who is almost a teenager, are laughing and playing around the table. When the girls see him, they immediately quiet down and take their seats. He is relieved that he doesn’t have to reprimand them this morning. He slumps into his chair at the head of the table.
“Do you have to go to the bank today, Pa?” his wife asks carefully as she pours his coffee.
He is staring at the coffee, lost in thought, and merely grunts in confirmation.
“Will they approve another loan?”
“It’s fine, I’ll mortgage the house in Margate” he replies roughly.
“And next year we’ll pay it all back. Everybody is having a bad year, you know. Susan says their corn stalks won’t grow past her knees, and that the same thing happened eight years ago and that the following year it was back to normal again. Do you remember at the church bazaar last year, old Jan van As made one of his ridiculous speeches about it. I remember his ominous words well: ‘1988 will be the year the devil fares into our crops’. He didn’t say anything about ‘89!” she laughs.
Piet doesn’t reply, he is too busy digging into the large plate of toast, eggs and leftover chops that she has placed before him.

Thapelo Kgosi Molefe, son of the noble Chief Kgafela, ruler of the proud Bakgatla tribe that belongs to the great Batshweneng clan, owns a few sheets of corrugated iron that make up his family home, a robust flock of chickens, and a small but lush vegetable garden. This small holding is situated on Piet’s land, about two-hundred meters away from the big house. Thapelo tends Piet’s gardens and whatever other menial tasks he might have for him.
Thapelo smiles down proudly at his chickens while he sprinkles seeds over the ground in front of them, taking care to distribute it evenly so that both chick and cock can get their fill. He is always tempted to name them, but knows that this would set a bad example for his children. He often berates them for naming that which must later be killed, for many a tear has had to be dried due to such a blunder.
When he is done he looks up to see his wife walking steadily toward him from the direction of the river with a big bucket of water on her head. A sleeping baby is strapped tightly to her back. Her dazzling smile broadens as she nears him. When she is in front of him she sets the bucket down on the ground, gives him a tight, sidelong hug, and disappears into the darkness of the small tin shack.
Thapelo takes the bucket and sets out to water his garden. He inspects each plant closely and delights in how well they are doing and how much they have grown over the past week. He was nervous at the start of the season when he noticed Baas Piet’s corn not growing as it should, and joyously relieved when his ten stalks grew taller than ever.
Inside the simple, neat shack he sits down on the floor to a breakfast of pap and milk. His six year old daughter and seven year old son are dashing in and out of the tiny room, playing a game of tag. His wife is feeding the baby in the opposite corner. He sets down his plate for a moment and calls the children over. They reluctantly approach, sensing orders about to follow.
“What are you going to do with your day?”
“I’m going to the bush to play with the ancestors!” Bontle shrieks.
Bontle is a shy and small child, no taller than a four year old, but so clever and well-spoken that adults often get a start when she does decide to open her mouth. Her hair is kept short and she is wearing a thin, washed out floral dress that is a size too small for her. She has a sweet face and Thapelo often remarks on how she will grow up to be as beautiful as her mother.
“My darling, look at how high the sun is. The ancestors are only there when it is dark, for during the day they have a lot to do. If you wait until tomorrow I’ll wake up early and we can go talk to them together”.
Her big eyes glimmer with excitement.
Thapelo does not like her going to the bush on her own and has had a hard time keeping her out of it since she discovered an old cemetery there recently.
“And you?” he pokes at his son, who merely shrugs and lets his arms fall heavily back into place. He just wants to go back to playing.
“Now listen to me, I have a very good plan,” he starts. “Why don’t the two of you go down to the river and swim there for a while, because it will be very hot today. And on your way back you can pick some walnuts for your mother, and then you can finish all your homework for tomorrow.”
Bontle’s shoulders sag and her brother lets out a sigh.
“I’ll do your homework with you, how is that?”
They smile happily at this and nod in agreement before running off.
When they are out of sight, Thapelo’s wife turns to him and says “The book is almost full, there are only two pages left.”
The pap thickens in his mouth.
“I only get paid next week. They’ll have to write small.”
“It is not that easy, when you are still learning the letters have to be big!”
“I can’t do anything about it now.”

Bontle splashes about in the cool water while her brother sits on a nearby rock and takes advantage of the hot sun by baking some splendid mud pies. A dog barks in the distance. They look up anxiously. Piet’s two daughters and wife, who had been out on a walk with their prize-winning Boerboel stud, is approaching from the fields. The swimming spot is close to the bridge where the gravel road crosses the river, meaning the dog will soon be close to them. Bontle’s little heart beats loudly in her chest. She thinks of running, but her brother calms her and pleads with her to stay for he fears that if they ran now, the dog will take it as a cue to chase them. He notices the wife carrying a leash in her hand, and hopes that she will tie him up when they get close.
Piet’s wife notices the children in the river and does decide to tie up the dog when they get close, but he is too fast for her. Before she can get to him he stops dead in his tracks and stares intently at the children, body stiffening in pre-attack mode. She realises what is happening and starts frantically calling to him but he is not listening. He sets off at great speed in a straight line for the children.
All hell breaks loose. The wife and eldest run toward the river, screaming at the dog at the top of their lungs. Isabel starts crying. Bontle’s brother rushes out of the water and calls for her to follow, but fear has rooted her to the spot. The animal goes straight for her, and within a split second is right on top of her, growling ferociously, biting wherever he can, clawing mercilessly. Water splashes in all directions and tiny arms and legs fly about while the little girl’s piercing screams drown out all the shouting around her.
When the wife finally reaches them the dog lets go of Bontle. The wife grabs him, yanks the leash tightly around his neck and pulls him away angrily. Bontle clutches her injured little body close and rolls back and forth in the mud, calling for her mother with all her might; ‘Mawe! Mawe! Mawe!’ Her mother is too far away to hear her. Her face is a mess of tears and snot and her body is covered in mud and blood.
The wife orders her eldest to take the dog home and lock him up. She then turns to Bontle to assess the damage. Most of the wounds are small and benign, but there is one frightening gash on her upper thigh where the dog must have taken a whole bite out of her flesh. She manages to pick her up. They proceed up the path, the little girl in her arms still wailing for her mother, her brother tagging along anxiously, and little Isabelle trying to keep up from behind, sobbing confusedly.
Piet is sitting on the stoep with a brandy and coke, appreciating his green lawn, when the first heart wrenching cries of ‘Mawe! Mawe! Mawe!’ reach him. When the unhappy group comes into view, his heart sinks in his chest. It looks like trouble.
Piet and his wife would not usually let a farmhand’s children into their house, but the severity of the occasion persuades them otherwise. They bring the child into the enclosed stoep and set her down onto a bench. They give her sugar water, which she sips between sobs, and begin to clean the blood off of her tiny body. Piet had just convinced her to stop her wailing for Mawe when a dab of cloth close to the big wound brings about a fresh, louder than ever, bout of cries. ‘Mawe! Mawe! Mawe!’ echoes through the stoep and into the furthest rooms of the big house. Piet closes his eyes, trying to shut it out, but the cries are too loud.
It takes another hour for Bontle to calm down. There is now a bandage over the big wound and Bontle sobs quietly, writhing in pain every time something touches her thigh. Piet’s wife and daughter present her with a plastic bag filled with Easter eggs and two pretty old dresses that they had carefully selected from the big storage closet. Bontle views the gifts quizzically, at first not understanding what they are. When she realises they are for her she tries to smile in thanks but is still in too much pain.
Piet orders Bontle to stand and try to walk, his deep voice scaring her into doing so even though she does not want to. She manages to get up onto her good leg and takes a step forward, but at the first contact of her bad leg onto the ground a shard of pain shoots up through her body, causing a fresh burst of tears to pour down her soaked cheeks. Piet orders her brother to help, and he quickly grabs onto her from the side and lifts her up so that her leg doesn’t need to touch the ground again.
And so the two trembling children are sent off to waddle the two-hundred meters to their home, with the great plastic bag of gifts draped ceremoniously over Bontle’s little shoulder.
“Doesn’t she need stitches, Pa?” Piet’s eldest asks as they watch them go.
Still staring after them, Piet claps his tongue and thinks for a moment.
“Black skin doesn’t need stitches.”

The next morning Piet walks into the shed as Thapelo exits it with a weed-eater under his arm. The two men lock eyes for a moment, and then Piet quickly averts his. Thapelo pauses for a moment before continuing on in silence. He knows that to bring up the matter of Bontle needing medical care will only anger the Baas.
Life in the big house goes on as usual.
A few days later, Piet is sitting on the stoep, sharpening his biltong knife, when little Isabel straddles up to him and starts begging him to take her to the old pig sties. Her mother had taken her a few weeks ago and she’s been wanting to go back ever since. The many dilapidated brick walls of this abandoned structure make for a wonderful playground filled with glorious treasures.
His short refusals of “I’m busy”, “it’s too far”, and “go ask your mother”, yield no results. The little girl keeps tugging at his sleeve. When one large tug yanks the knife off of the sharpening device he loses his temper. He sets the knife down and calls Thapelo, who had been tending to a rose bush nearby.
“Take her to the pig sties to play. ”
Isabelle’s eyes dart frightfully between her dad and Thapelo. She had never been in Thapelo’s company before, he was like a stranger to her.
“Miss said I must finish all the rose bushes today, Baas.”
“That can wait. Go now,” Piet says with absolute finality.
Isabelle grabs onto his trousers but he shakes her off and pushes her in Thapelo’s direction until finally the pair sets off, leaving him to the solitary joy of sharpening his knife once more.

Blonde pigtails bob up and down as Isabelle clambers over walls and rocks with the agility of a monkey, ignoring all Thapelo’s nervous pleas to go slower. He has a hard time keeping up with her tiny, energetic legs.
He spots a dung beetle on top of a wall and calls her over to look at it, hoping that it would calm her for a while and offer his nerves some respite. It works. She sits on her haunches next to it, and cautiously yet gleefully pokes it with a twig. When the beetle suddenly gets up from its seated position and unexpectedly reveals large, spider-like legs, Isabel shrieks and dashes backward so suddenly that Thapelo has no chance of catching her in time. She tumbles off the wall and onto the brick floor with a thud.
She bursts out crying. Thapelo rushes to her and quickly examines her body; there are two scrapes on her arm, but nothing is broken. The little girl sticks her arms out at him. He quickly picks her up and starts rocking her back and forth, repeatedly whispering “shh” and “it’s okay”. When he kisses his hand and then presses it onto the scrape on her arm, she stops crying and even manages a giggle.
“Do you want to play some more?” he asks.
She thinks for a moment and shakes her head ‘no’.
“Do you want to go to your mother?”
‘Yes’ she nods gratefully.
Piet is reclining on his chair on the stoep with a brandy and coke. The sharpened knife rests on a layer of biltong crumbs on the table next to him. He gets a start when Thapelo appears around the corner with Isabelle in his arms, her head resting against his chest. His frown deepens. He gets up and walks to them at a fast pace.
“She fell off the wall”, Thapelo offers.
Isabelle dolefully sticks her little arm out to display the two scrapes, they are now red and small droplets of blood have formed around one of them.
Piet reaches to take Isabelle but she pulls away from him, and wriggles out of Thapelo’s arms. He sets her down and she dashes into the house in search of her mother.
Piet wants to say something to Thapelo but nods awkwardly instead. Thapelo nods back and heads back to the rose bushes.

A few days later Piet is sitting in his study, entering calculations into his dire financial books. He rests his head in his hands and keeps it there for a moment. The piercing cries of Mawe! Mawe! Mawe! echo into his mind. He had been haunted in this way since the unhappy event. He had hoped that it would lessen with time, but it was growing louder.
He shakes his head, gets up and stalks over to the window to survey the landscape. He notices Thapelo in the distance, pulling weeds from a flower bed. Isabelle is on her knees next to him, tugging at the little plants in an attempt to copy him.
He stares at them curiously, his frown deepening horribly with every moment that passes.

Piet sits down at the table for lunch the next day, his mood so dismal that the two girls don’t say a word, not even to each other. He merely grunts in confirmation when his wife tentatively asks whether he had remembered his blood pressure pills that morning. They eat in silence, glancing up at him every few minutes, fearing an angry outburst at any moment. He shoves the food angrily into his mouth. A large dollop of tomato smoor slides off his fork and splatters over the white table cloth. It looks like blood.
Mawe! Mawe! Mawe! Mawe! MAWE!
Piet looks up at his family. They stare back with panic in their eyes. He drops his fork with a loud bang onto the plate, stands up so quickly that his chair falls onto the floor, and storms out of the house.
He walks straight to his bakkie, gets in, and sets off with screeching tyres.

Thapelo is cleaning his shoes outside when the bakkie pulls up in front of him, covering the shack in a cloud of dust and causing his heart to beat loudly in his chest. He is so stunned that he doesn’t get up until Piet is right in front of him. Piet is a strong man, but so is he, and he quickly decides that even if he does not win in a physical confrontation, he certainly will be able to deal a lot of damage before going out.
Piet stands there in silence for a few awkward moments, and surveys the area around him. His eyes fall on the tall, lush corn stalks. The cobs are bigger than he had ever seen them grow in his fields, even during the good years.
“Do you need me, Baas?” Thapelo asks carefully.
“Your daughter, how is her wound?”
This is the last question Thapelo was expecting.
“We are worried that it might get infected because we don’t have antiseptic. The stad’s doctor’s ginger oil doesn’t work that well. She is still in bed.”
“Can you bring her out, so that we can take her to our doctor?”
Thapelo stares at him in disbelief. “Yes, we can do that” he finally manages.

Neither of the two men are big talkers, so the drive to the doctor is spent mostly in silence. Bontle sits in the back, buckled in by Piet himself. Her wound is dressed with a make-shift bandage of cotton wool and tape.
“Your corn is growing well,” Piet says, breaking the silence. “My fields are on the same soil as yours, and my corn won’t grow.”
“Yes, I plant mine closer together, so they can pollinate each other.”
“The roots can’t get what they need when they are close together.”
Thapelo chuckles. “Not too close, but closer.”
Piet looks at him in disbelief.
“And you start fertilising too late,” Thapelo adds.

Piet’s doctor performs a simple reconstructive surgery on Bontle’s leg so that it wouldn’t leave a scar, and gives her five stitches. He sends her home with a course of antibiotics and a big cherry sucker.

Dawn breaks and the early sun casts a warm, golden glow over the land. Piet and Thapelo are standing in the corn fields. Isabelle is playing nearby.
“See, they are close together.”
“No,” Thapelo says patiently, “this is not close. They can come up to here,” he bends down and draws a line almost halfway between two plants.
Piet wants to argue, but the memory of Thapelo’s tall stalks and fat cobs stop him. He nods instead.
“How do you know all this?”
“My father taught me, and I remembered.”
They stand a while in silence.
“Thapelo, show me what you know, and work in my fields with me, and I will give you 20% of the profit.”
The two men lock eyes.
“I can triple your crop, so I’ll do it for 50% of the profit, Baas.”
Piet wants to laugh, but his smile quickly disappears when he finds no hint of humour in Thapelo’s expression.
After a moment Piet extends his hand to Thapelo. They shake on it.
“Call me Piet,” he says.

Piet picks little Isabelle onto his hip and the three start walking back to the big house. They spot Bontle playing in a narrow ravine in the distance. Thapelo waves, beckoning her to them. She doesn’t see him. Piet puts his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and a deafening whistle rings across the farm. Birds take flight from a nearby tree. Bontle looks up and sees them, and immediately runs toward them. When she gets close Isabelle wriggles out of her father’s arms and runs up to Bontle. After a few shy pokes at each other the two girls spot a rabbit coming out of its hole and sets off after it, screeching and laughing as they go.