Germishuys

In die stikdonker nag hardloop  ʼn bejaarde man waansinnig oor ʼn verlate plaaswerf. Sy hoed waai van sy kop af en tuimel oor die roet en gloeiende kole van ʼn afgebrande ossewa. Die reuk van buskruit hang swaar in die lug. Hy huil en skree, aaklig, hartroerend. Trane tap deur sy wilde wit baard. Hy spring onder ʼn bos in en begin grou. Bolle, wurms en klompe nat grond spat deur die lug. Niks daar nie. Hy gooi sy vuil, verrimpelde hande, met naels wat al tot by die vleis af geskeur is, op na die wolke hemel en gil. ʼn Kreet na God wat onbeantwoord bly. Dan hoor hy dit weer. Babas wat huil. Die eggo weerkaats teen mure en bome. Hy hou sy hygende asem op om beter te hoor. Bloedbelope oë wawyd oop. Hy spring op en pyl weer oor die erf na ʼn ander bos, spring onder dit in en begin waansinnig te grou. Sy weeklaag trek deur die donker, oor die huis, oor die tuin, oor die oop velde daarom, en omsluier die plaas in verdriet en toorn.

• 

In die skemer ratel ons motor, vol gelaai, by die kronkelende plaaspad op.

Ek sit-staan agter in die middel op my sussie se skoot, my nek ongemaklik gebuk om by die venster uit te kan sien. My oom en neef ry voor ons in hul bakkie.

Ons ry verby ʼn groen weiveld, ʼn trop vars geskeerde skape, en ʼn klompie Batswana hutte. Een hut staan weg van die ander, bo-op ʼn klein heuwel, met groot droë takke rondom die donker ingang wat soos reuse geraamte hande lyk.

My pa se plaas was net so groot, dalk groter. Koringlande tot ver verby die horison. Hope grondboontjies, hoog soos berge, vir uitvoer na die buurlande. ʼn Vier jaar lange droogte het alles verwoes. Die geld vir die verkoop van die dorre grond was net genoeg om sy besproeiings skuld af te betaal. Nou trek ons in by ʼn huis wat leeg staan hier op my oom se plaas. Hy en sy gesin woon in die hoof huis aan die ander kant van die vallei, en my oupa en ouma woon in die huisie verby die vlei, agter die dennebos.

My drie ouer sussies, Joanni, Mia en die oudste, Carien, stry met my ma oor watter honde ons gaan aanhou. Wanneer ons om die laaste draai kom raak almal stil. Eers verskyn ʼn groot vervalle skuur, en dan die huis se rooi dak wat bo verwese vrugtebome uit steek. Ons stop by die hek en wag vir my neef om dit oop te maak. Iets vang my oog. ʼn Enkele, hoë boom staan langs die hek en in sy verdroogde takke, ʼn ronde raamwerk van toue, deurvleg met stokkies, diervelle en bene.

My pa klim uit en stap na my neef. Hy vra hom iets en beduie na die vreemde ding. My neef bekyk dit vir ʼn oomblik met hande op sy heupe. Dan antwoord hy met ʼn lig van sy skouers en skud van sy kop.

Wanneer ons voor die huis stop tref die enormiteit my eerste. Geen wonder my oom het iemand nodig om dit in stand te hou nie. Vrugte, denne en peper-bome omring ʼn ongesnyde grasperk, en in die middel; die groot, ou huis, bedek met wilde rankplante wat by die mure opkruip.

Buite die kar praat die grootmense lank oor die instandhouding van die tuin. Teen die tyd wat my oom die agterdeur oopsluit is dit al donker.

Die huis se elektrisiteit is nog nie aangeskakel nie. My oom het ʼn flits. Ons skuifel ongemaklik in die kombuis in. Dit is ʼn eenvoudige vertrek met baie roomkleurige kaste waarvan meeste se deure oopstaan. Ek wens ons het meer flitse gehad. Hy vertel dat die huis die oudste een op die plaas is. Sy stem eggo deur die leemte. Die een helfte waarin ons nou staan is gebou nog voor die grond in ons familie se naam was. Later was die nuwe gedeelte aangebou. Die ou gedeelte se mure is van klei, amper ʼn meter dik. Dit laat die huis koud en nat voel, soos ʼn spelonk. Ek wens skielik dat ons vinniger kan beweeg om by die nuwe gedeelte uit te kom.

Stadig begin ons deurstap. Een groot leë vertrek na die ander. My oom is voor, dan my pa, neef, ma en sussies, en ek heel agter. Wanneer die groot mense nie praat nie heers ʼn onaardse stilte wat slegs nou en dan onder breek word deur die ligte dreuning van donderweer in die verte. Die reuk van pyptabak hang in die lug. Ek probeer verby my sussies skuif om nader aan die lig te wees, maar sukkel om ʼn spasie te vind.

Die duisternis agter my voel soos groot, swaar hande wat aan my rug wil gryp. Oop deure aan my linker en regter kant is geheimsinnige swart poorte waaruit enigiets enige oomblik kan spring.

Ons beweeg deur die spens, ʼn klein vertrek met hout vloere wat kraak en glas kaste wat op staan. Eindelik bereik ons die drie vertrekke en badkamer wat die nuwe gedeelte is aan die einde van die huis. Hier is die vensters groter, die mure nie so dik nie, en die knop in my maag nie so stram nie. Die ingeboude kaste se deure is toe.

Wanneer ons weer in die kombuis kom en die grootmense besluit om opnuut ʼn gesprek aan te knoop het ek genoeg gehad. Ek rits verby hul en ontsnap by die agterdeur uit tot in die vryheid van die ope naglug.

“Sy is bang!” kom my oom se stem van binne.

Almal bars uit van die lag.

“Ek wou sê sy het bietjie benoud gelyk,” sê my ma, en die gelag raak nog harder.

My wange brand.

My pa kom uit, sit ʼn arm om my kop en druk my teen sy sy vas. “Daar is nie spoke hier nie,” troos hy.

Ek wikkel myself vies los en gaan klim in die kar.

//

Genadiglik slaap ons daardie aand in die hoof huis. Die volgende oggend word al ons aardse besittings met een groot vragmotor afgelaai. Die dag is ʼn warrelwind van bokse wat rondgedra en uitgepak word, my ma wat vloere was, Lisa, die bediende, wat kaste skrop, en my sussies wat deur die huis hardloop en baklei oor kamers. Ek is verlig om ‘n kamer in die nuwe gedeelte te kry, naby my ouers sin.

Laatmiddag sit ek in die kamer en pak poppe in my groot hout speelgoed kis in. ʼn Ligte reën trommel teen die venster.

My ouers het ʼn gesprek in hul kamer. Ek begin die woorde uitmaak wanneer hul stemtone hoër raak.

“Al wat ek wil weet is wie dit in die boom gehang het en hoekom,” pleit my ma.

My pa sê iets wat ek nie kan uitmaak nie.

“Bene en velle hang nie hulleself in ʼn boom op nie! Hoekom is jy nou so?” vra sy.

“Ag los dit nou, die goed is klaar afgehaal,” kom sy stem deur.

Skielik val die speelgoed kis se swaar deksel voor my neus verby en klap met ʼn harde hou toe.

My hart klop in my keel. Gelukkig was my hande nie daar in nie.

Na ʼn oomblik se stilte kom my pa se kwaai stem: “Wat gaan daar aan?”

Ek kry ʼn hees ‘jammer’ uit, net hard genoeg vir hom om te hoor.

//

ʼn Paar dae later is die huis amper in orde en ek en my sussies begin die area rondom ons verken. Ons besoek twee damme, ontdek ou verlate bees- en vark krale, en ʼn groot sloot wat ʼn heerlike glyplank maak. My pa maak ook ʼn ontdekking. Hy laat ʼn paar ou verotte bome uit die grond grawe en vind onder die een se wortels twee Mausergewere wat hy en my oom reken was daar weggesteek vir die Engelse tydens die Boereoorlog.

Een dag besluit die vier van ons om die groot oop grasveld agter die skuur te verken. Na ʼn ent se stap bereik ons ʼn koringveld wat nuut omgeploeg is. In die middel van die veld is ʼn klein eiland met sowat vyf bome wat na aan mekaar groei. Carien besluit dat ons daarheen moet stap om dit van nader te bekyk. Op pad kom ons agter dat die bome glad nie groei nie en al lankal dood is. Swart, verdroogde takke krul en vleg deur mekaar. Ons begin ook vreemde donker voorwerpe onder die bome uitmaak, soos rotse maar meer reghoekig.

Wanneer ons naby is stop almal in hul spore. Dit is ʼn ou begraafplaas!

Ons ginnegaap vir ʼn oomblik en dan hardloop die ander vooruit. Na ʼn oomblik se huiwering sit ek hul agterna.

Vanuit die grond krul die bome se groot droë wortels tussen die grafstene uit. Die stene self was van onder opgestoot deur die wortels en staan nou almal skuins in verskeie rigtings. Ons tel agt in totaal, waarvan vier piepklein is. “Seker masels,” sê Carien.

Ons lees ʼn paar inskripsies. Jacoba Johanna Bothma 1856 – 1899. Johannes Jacobus Christoffel Trotsky 1898 – 1899. Petrus Jacobus Bothma 1867 – 1900. Catharina Judith Bothma 1887 – 1901. ʼn Gekraakte graf wat so skeef staan dat dit amper omval, het ʼn addisionele inskripsie. Ons lees: Abraham Wynand Germishuys 1830 – 1902, Moge rust en vrede eindelijk zijn ziel binnenkomen.

Iewers in die verte slaan ʼn blits donderweer hard, een keer, dan weer twee kere vinnig na mekaar.

Ons staar na die steen en probeer uitmaak wat die sin kan beteken.

“Dit was seker Germishuys wat al jou sakke oopgerits het,” sê Carien aan Mia, en grinnik vir haar eie grappie.

“Ag, ek weet dit was jy!”

“Ek het beter dinge om met my tyd te doen! Jy’t vergeet dat jy dit self oopgerits het.”

“Watookal.”

//

Daardie aand speel ons donker kamertjie. Dit is een van ons gunsteling tydverdrywe. Dit werk so: een wag buite terwyl die ander drie wegkruip in ʼn vertrek. Wanneer hul gelukkig is met hul wegkruip plekke skree een dat hul reg is. Die een wat buite gewag het kom dan in met ʼn hand oor haar oë, sit dadelik die lig af en maak die deur toe. Sy moet dan in die donkerte een vir een elkeen vind. Die hoop is altyd dat sy sal opgee omdat jy te goed verskuil was en nie ʼn geluid gemaak het nie.

Vanaand speel ons in die groot kamer in die ou gedeelte wat Mia en Carien deel, en Carien is die een wat ons moet soek.

ʼn Ligte wind huil om die hoeke van die huis.

Ek sit in die bedkassie, knieë styf teen my borskas geknyp. Wanneer die kamer deur oop kraak begin ek stadiger asemhaal om stiller te wees.

Die lig gaan af.

Die deur kraak weer toe.

ʼn Lang minuut gaan verby. Ek konsentreer hard om die geringste geluid op te kan tel, maar hoor niks. Ek wens ek het eerder op die kas of onder die bed weggekruip waar ek darem net iets kon sien.

Waar is sy? Hoekom gebeur niks nie?

Dan, van nader as wat ek verwag het, dreun Carien in ʼn verdikte, uitgerekte stem: “EK IS GERMISHUYS!”

ʼn Giggel bars uit en stop weer onmiddellik. Vier harde voetstappe. ʼn Gil. Carien lag hardop.

“Ek het jou!”

“Jy sal my nooit vang nie!” skree Mia.

Weer voetstappe wat hardloop. Die kamerdeur word oop gegooi. Iemand hardloop by die kamer uit, of was dit albei van hul?

ʼn Doodse stilte heers.

Nou dat die deur oop is, kom ʼn flou strepie lig by die naat van die bedkassie in. Stadig, stil, draai ek my kop om deur die gleuf te loer. As Carien weg is kan ek uitklim en ʼn beter wegkruip plek soek. Maar wat as sy daar staan en net maak of sy weg is? Die gleuf is nou, maar as ek my kop heen en weer beweeg sien ek ʼn klein gedeelte van die middel van die kamer.

Daar is ʼn donkerte daar.

Is dit ʼn silhoeët? Dit kan wees, maar nee, tog nie, want Carien is nie so lank nie en haar bors is nie so breed nie. En sy dra definitief nie ʼn hoed nie. Nee, dit is seker net ʼn skadu wat soos ʼn mens gevorm is. Ek hou aan om my kop stadig heen en weer te beweeg. Waar is sy? My bene begin pyn. My oë raak seker gewoond aan die donkerte want skielik sien ek nie meer die silhoeët daar nie.

ʼn Kasdeur swaai oop.

So sy is dan nog hier!

Nog ʼn kasdeur swaai oop.

En dan nog een.

ʼn Sak word oopgerits.

Hoe belaglik is sy, dink ek, want nie een van ons is klein genoeg om in ʼn sak te pas nie.

Dan hoor ek hoe elk van die lessenaar se laaie in suksessie oopgeruk word met ʼn verbasende spoed.

Nou is sy regtig besig om absurd te wees.

My hart klop al vinniger. Hoe lank tot sy die bedkas se deur kom oopmaak? Ek hoop maar net sy kyk eerste onder die bed waar Joanni wegkruip.

Daar is ʼn roering aan die bedkassie se handvatsel. My hart spring in my keel in.

Die grendel kreun.

Skielik ruk die deur wawyd oop.

My kop skiet op. Daar is niemand daar nie!

Uitasem spring ek by die kas uit in die hoop dat Carien iewers sal wees.

Die kamer is leeg.

ʼn Patetiese gil kruip by my droë keel uit. Dit slaag tenminste daar in om Joanni onder die bed uit te kry.

“Wat is fout? Waar is Carien?” vra sy verdwaas.

//

Die twee van ons stap deur die huis opsoek na Carien en Mia. Ons vind albei plat uitgestrek voor die TV.

My gesig is spierwit.

“Is jy oraait?” vra Mia effens besorgd.

Almal kyk na my.

“Um, wie het my deur nounet oopgemaak?” My stem bewe.

“Waarvan praat jy?”

“Sy’s alweer bang!”

“Jy moet rêrig oor jou bangheid kom, spoke word mos aangelok deur vrees.”

Die twee bars uit van die lag.

Ek draai na Joanni vir hulp. Haar oë glinster laggend.

“Was dit jy wat die deure so oopgeruk het?” vra ek.

“Wat? Nee!” sê sy, en begin ook te lag.

Swaar, brandende trane wel in my oë op. Ek swaai om en storm by die vertrek uit.

//

Die volgende oggend bad ek in die groot badkamer aan die ou kant van die huis.

Buite val ʼn sagte misreën.

Dit is meestal bewolk maar nou en dan flikker ʼn dowwe sonstraal deur die rankplant se blare wat van buite oor die venster hang. ʼn Enkele kers brand op die wye vensterbank.

Die vreemde gebeure van die vorige aand sweef steeds deur my gedagtes, tevergeefs opsoek na ʼn gepaste rusplek in my kop.

My ma, pa en Carien is dorp toe. Mia en Joanni het die skuur gaan verken. Lisa is af. Niemand om my aan te jaag nie. Die stilte is ʼn rare gawe.

Ek lê agteroor met my oë half toe. Nou en dan sit ek op om meer warm water in te tap. Omdat die venster en deur toe is, raak die hele badkamer omvou in stoom. Klein druppeltjies vog vorm op die mure se gladde melk-wit teëls. Ek staar met ʼn lui glimlag na my pienk, verrimpelde vingers.

Ek druk my neus toe en sak onder die water in.

Die geiser maak ʼn kreungeluid.

Iets klap.

Ek kom orent en strek na die warmwater kraan.

ʼn Koel lug blaas teen my nat rug.

Ek kyk om.

Die deur is oop!

Ek kyk reg deur tot in die kombuis.

Dit het nog nooit self oopgegaan nie. Ek het dit ordentlik toe gemaak. Is Joanni hul terug? Hul sou iets gesê het. Is ma hul terug? Ek sou die kar gehoor het.

Ek sit terug teen die bad se rand met groot oë.

Dan hoor ek ʼn geskuifel in die kombuis.

Stadig kyk ek weer om. Niemand daar nie. Ek sien net die kombuistafel en agter dit, ʼn ry laaie en rakke teen die muur.

Nog ʼn geskuifel.

ʼn Skaduwee.

Iemand is daar, agter die tafel.

ʼn Skouer kom in sig in.

ʼn Bruin jas.

Die rand van ʼn breë, bruin hoed, met olierige, spierwit hare wat daaruit hang.

Ouer, langer, en breër skouers as my oom of my pa.

Hy lyk vuil, asof daar ʼn laag stof oor hom is.

Hy skuif al meer in sig in, tot ek hom heeltemal kan sien. Hy staar na die kas, rug teen my. Hy lig ʼn arm op, maak ʼn kas deur oop, staar vir ʼn oomblik, skud sy kop. Dan laat sak hy sy arm en trek ʼn laai oop. Skud weer sy kop.

Hy skuif aan na die volgende ry kaste, en dan die volgende, totdat hy nie meer in sig is nie.

Ek asem stadig uit, versigtig om nie ʼn geluid te maak nie.

Ek sit doodstil vir wat soos ʼn ewigheid voel. Te bang om eers die deur te gaan toe maak.

Uiteindelik hoor ek ʼn kar in die oprit. Ek bly stil sit. ʼn Sleutel draai in die agterdeur.

My verligting is eers volledig wanneer my ma, pa en Carien se vrolike stemme die kombuis vol maak.

Ek kry nie eers skaam wanneer my ma in die badkamer instap en vra hoekom ek dan bad met ʼn oop deur nie. Ek is net so bly om haar te sien dat ek amper huil. Ek draai vinnig weg voordat sy die emosie op my gesig kan sien.

Hulle sal my nooit glo nie.

//

Twee angsgevulde weke gaan verby. Om elke hoek en draai verwag ek dat die spook daar gaan staan en vir my wag. Slapelose nagte met die lig aan lei na rooi geswolle oë die volgende dag, en ongewenste vrae van my gesin af. Enige skielike geluid of beweging laat my vreesbevange.

My gedagtes dwaal vir die eerste keer in my jong lewe in donker plekke rond. Die dood, die hiernamaals, en wat dit alles beteken.

Die beeld van sy breë rug, wit hare en hoed kom gereeld terug na my toe. Dan wonder ek oor en oor dieselfde ding. Het hy geweet ek is daar? Was sy doel om homself aan my te wys? Wil hy my kwaad aandoen?

Die ergste is wanneer ek wel aan die slaap kan raak, want dan kom die aakligste visioene na my in drome. Ontbindende kadawers vol wurms en vlieë, besete skape wat geslag word, ʼn leë plek met wreedaardige poltergeeste wat daar rond dryf, en een keer selfs my eie lyk wat kwaadaardig hoog bo die plaas in die wolke rond sweef.

Dit gaan my verstarde verstand te bowe dat niemand gepla is met die kaste wat so knaend oopstaan nie. Soms stap ek deur ʼn vertrek waarvan al die kasdeure toe is. Wanneer ek weer minute later terug daardeur stap is alles oop. Ek ril dan so dat die hare oor my hele lyf regop staan.

Op ʼn reënerige aand, net na middernag, maak die grieselige gedaante weer ʼn verskyning.

Ek lê wakker in my bed. Een bed lampie brand langs my, helder genoeg om die donker hoeke van die kamer te illumineer maar te flou om die ander mense in die huis se aandag te trek.

Ek staar op na ʼn donker vog spatsel teen die plafon. Dit het ʼn klein tydverdryf van my geword om allerhande diere, gesigte en vreemde monsters daarin uit te maak.

Iewers in die verte hoor ek ʼn laai oopgaan.

Ek vries. Ek hoop ek het my verbeel.

Dan nog ʼn laai, en dan dadelik nog twee in vinnig na mekaar.

Dit klink of dit van die spens af kom.

ʼn Oomblik van stilte, en dan swaai ʼn kas deur oop, die keer nader as die spens. Nog ʼn kas deur swaai oop. Nou is dit duidelik dat dit van die vertrek reg langs my kamer kom, die laaste vertrek van die ou gedeelte van die huis.

Nog ʼn deur swaai oop, die keer nog nader.

Ek ruk die kombers oor my kop en knyp my oë styf toe.

Hy kan nie in die nuwe gedeelte kom nie, sê ek vir die hoeveelste keer oor die afgelope twee weke vir myself. Dit is onmoontlik.

Dan hoor ek dit waarvoor ek al die tyd so bang was. My eie kamerdeur se handvatsel kraak, klik, en klap.

Die deur swaai stadig oop.

Ek ruk die kombers van my kop af.

Sy donker silhoeët is duidelik sigbaar in die skadu van die deurkosyn. So lank dat sy hoed amper die houtpaneel raak. Breë skouers. Jas.

Hy gee ʼn tree vorentoe, tot in die lig.

Sy stowwerige hoed sit laag oor sy voorkop. Onder dit steek wilde boste wit ooghare uit, ʼn kanopie vir twee vaal grys oë wat bo skerp wangbene gespanne uitpeul. Hy staar reg verby my, asof hy deur die muur, verby die tuin, deur die bome, tot by die omgeploegde land en skewe grafstene kan sien. Sy wange is diep, donker holtes. Dun, droë lippe is styf toegeknyp bo ʼn groot wit baard wat tot op sy bruin nekdoek rus. Die doek vou onder ʼn swart toegeknoopte onderbaadjie in. ʼn Dik stoflaag bedek die skouers van sy bruin jas. Sy leer klapbroek is al verskeie kere oorgelap by die knieë. Selfs sy verbleikte velskoene het ʼn stoflaag oor.

Die loop van ʼn pistool steek by sy jas se sak uit.

Ek knyp my mond toe om ʼn gil te stuit.

Stadig draai hy na die kant toe en stap na die hangkas. Hy ruk een deur oop. Buk om meer te sien. Steek sy hand in en druk van die klere kant toe. Skud sy kop. Laat gaan die klere. Dan tree hy links en ruk die ander deur oop, herhaal die aksies. Skud sy kop, en tree terug.

So stap die ellendige ou man stadig deur my hele kamer en deursoek elke holte. Hy lig selfs die speelgoedkis se swaar deksel en krap deur die inhoud.

Dan draai hy na my toe.

Al kyk hy steeds nie direk vir my nie draai my maag en my hart klop tot in my ore.

Hy stap een tree vorentoe. Nog ʼn tree. My asemhalings raak al dieper, sodat my kop begin draai van die lighoofdigheid. Ek wens ek val flou.

Reg voor my bed, so naby dat ek hom kan raak as ek my arm sou uitsteek, stop hy.

Ek let die onmiskenbare reuk van pyptabak op.

Hy sak tot op sy knieë.

Hy buk af, verby my, lig die bedval op, en sak sy kop tot by die vloer. Hy ondersoek die onderkant van die bed.

Ek sien hoe sy skouers in teleurstelling afruk.

Hy laat gaan weer die bedval en staan op.

Hy draai om, stap stadig by die deur uit en verdwyn om die hoek.

Ek word die volgende oggend laat wakker. Hoe vreemd dat ek so vinnig na die gebeurtenis aan die slaap geraak het. Dit was seker die adrenalien stormloop wat my uitgeput het.

//

Sondag, na kerk, kuier ons by my ouma en oupa se huis vir middagete. Nadat my ouma haar beroemde afval dis bedien het, en almal versadig geëet is, gaan lê die grootmense skuins. My sussies kyk ʼn musiek program op die TV waarvoor ek nie lus het nie.

Ek drentel verveeld by die gang af. Die mure is versier met geraamde prente van verskeie voëltjies wat uit geknipte vere aanmekaar gelas is. Die groot staanklok se tikkende wyser weergalm deur die huis.

Van iewers kom ‘n sagte huilgeluid.

Ek stap stadig by die gang af en loer in elke vertrek in. My hart spring in my keel in wanneer ek ‘n figuur op een van die beddens sien sit, maar bedaar weer wanneer ek besef dat dit net my oupa is. Hy sit met sy rug teen my. Sy skouers ruk. Sy hand is in skaamte oor sy gesakte kop en oë gevou.

Dit is niks vreemds nie, na sy beroerte ‘n jaar gelede vind ons hom gereeld so.

Ek stap in en gaan staan voor hom. Hy hou dadelik op huil. Hy staar in die verte in met dowwe, tranerige oë. Hy strek sy hand uit na my maar laat val dit weer swaar tot op sy skoot.

“Doer vêr,” sê hy skielik in ‘n luid dog hees gehuilde stem. Sy wenkbroue lig en sy oë verhelder. “Kyk mooi, agter die kremetart, links van die koppie, daar wei die Elande. Al ag van hulle,” sê hy opgewonde. “Kyk die ram. My trots. My pragtige ram.” Dan begin sy skouers weer ruk en ‘n lang traan rol oor sy gesig.

Dit is ook gewoond vir hom om so na sy ou bosveld en kinderdae te verlang.

“Ons kinders wil net stories hoor,” begin hy weer, die keer sagter. “Elke aand. Ons gaan nie slaap voor Oupa nie kom vertel nie. Van die oorlog. Hy was in die oorlog! Tien khakis met sy knipmes in die nag keel afgesny. Baie geskiet. Vroue, kinders, gered uit die kampe. Net hy en sy perd. Hy verlang elke dag na sy vrou en pa op wat op die plaas agter gebly het,” sy stem raak nog sagter, sodat ek begin sukkel om die woorde uit te maak.

Ek besluit om hom eerder in vrede te laat. Ek stap na die deur toe.

“Ou Germishuys,” sê hy skielik hardop.

ʼn Koue rilling skiet deur my lyf tot in my tone. Ek stap terug na hom toe en gaan sit op die stoel langs sy bed.

Hy staar voor hom uit, asof onbewus van my teenwoordigheid.

“Germishuys?” vra ek met ʼn bewende stem.

“Die oorlog kom tot ‘n einde,” gaan hy weer aan met sy storie. “Negentien-twee. My oupa gaan huis toe maar alles is verwoes. Vee geslag, vrot karkasse oral. Ossewa lankal afgebrand. Sy vrou en tweeling babas is weg. Net sy pa is nog daar. Sy ou pa, ou Germishuys, toe al oor die sewentig. ʼn Slegte ding het gebeur. Die khakis het in die nag gekom. Hy en die vrou het geweet hulle was op pad. Hulle het alles weg gesteek. Potte. Kos. Klere. Die khakis verwoes mos alles.”

Hy snik hartstogtelik.

“Daardie aand wat die khakis gekom het, het die vrou haar babas ook weggesteek. Nie kans gekry om vir ou Germishuys te vertel waar nie! En daai nag het die khakis haar toe ook gevat. Hulle het die ou man gelos op die plaas, hy baklei te veel, hy is te oud. Oppad na die konsentrasie kamp het sy erken dat haar babas nog op die plaas is. Khakis het omgedraai en die babas gaan haal. Maar ou Germishuys was al in die veld, opsoek. Hy weet nie. Hy dink die babas is nog weggesteek. Hy soek. Soek oral. Raak mal van die soek. Hoor babas oral. Dag na dag. Hoor nog steeds die babas. Later spoor my oupa sy vrou en kinders op, almal veilig. Maar toe is ou Germishuys klaar dood. Tot sy laaste dag nog gesoek vir die huilende babas.”

My oupa se ooglede raak swaar. Hy gryp sy broekspype en tel sy bene een vir een op die bed. Ek trek net betyds ʼn kussing onder sy kop in.

Hy lê doodstil maar sy oë is nog wawyd oop.

Net wanneer ek wil draai om uit te stap sê hy weer iets.

“Hy soek oral. Kan nie slaap nie. Deursoek alles. Dag en nag. Net die muti kan hom laat slaap.”

Sy oë val toe.

//

Dit is my oupa se storie, wat ek in die dae wat volg telkemale herhaal in gedagtes, asook die volgende ontmoeting met Germishuys wat finaal my gevoelens van vrees teenoor hom in simpatie in verander.

Ek kom een aand laat uit die badkamer en vind hom in die kombuis met sy arm teen ‘n oop kas, en sy kop wat daarteen rus. Hy staan vir so lank daar dat ek begin dink dat hy aan die slaap geraak het. Skielik ruk sy kop op en hy kyk gespanne om hom. Sy aandag gaan na die agterdeur asof hy iets van buite af hoor. Dan storm hy so vinnig na die deur dat sy voete amper onder hom uitgly en hy met ‘n harde slag teen die hout beland. Hy gryp hy aan die handvastel, ruk die deur oop, en storm die nag waansinnig in.

Waar ek hom eers as ‘n wreedaardige gedaante gesien het, dink ek nou meer oor hom as ‘n tragiese figuur wat, soos sy grafsteen verklap, geen rus of vrede vir sy siel kan vind nie.

//

Die volgende dag gaan soek ek vir Lisa om haar oor muti uit te vra. Ek kry haar in die waskamer besig om klere op te vou. Sy vertel dat mens daar na die sangôma se hut moet gaan as jy siek is of ʼn probleem het. Dan klets sy aan oor die gebruike van al die verskillende plante wat in die veld gevind kan word. Uiteindelik kom sy tot die aardse materiale wat glo kragtige energie afgee. Wortels, hout, knolle, diere bene en velle. Ek vra haar uit oor wat sulke goed in ʼn boom buite ʼn huis sal doen. Sy wil nie antwoord nie. Wanneer ek haar vertel van die raamwerk wat in die boom was toe ons ingetrek het en dat die grootmense dit afgehaal het, vou sy die klere al vinniger op en haar oë raak al groter.

“Hulle moes dit nie afgehaal het nie,” is al wat sy sê.

//

Ek stap langs die grond paadjie af wat na die Batswana hutte lei, met my oog op daardie vreemde een op die heuwel met die hout geraamte rondom die ingang. Wanneer ek naby is stop ek. Sal sy my ooit wil help? Wat as sy betaling soek? Of erger, wat as sy my uit lag? Maar dan stap ek weer aan. Die alternatief is veel erger. Ek moet hulp kry.

Daar is geen deur om aan te klop nie. Ek stap stadig by die ingang in. Dit vat ʼn oomblik vir my oë om gewoond te raak aan die donker.

Die sangôma sit met gekruisde bene op ʼn mat op die vloer, asof sy my verwag het. Dik lae diere velle bedek haar skouers. Haar hare is deurvleg met kraaltjies wat laag oor haar oë hang.

Ek groet.

Sy kyk my op en af.

Ek gaan sit op die mat voor haar en begin verleë vertel van die ou man wat in die huis spook.

Sy lag nie een keer nie.

Terwyl ek nog praat maak sy ʼn houtkissie langs haar oop en haal verskeie beentjies en velle daaruit. Sy vat ʼn lang tou en begin dit daarmee aanmekaar vasbind.

Wanneer ek ophou praat hoor ek dat sy saggies neurie.

Ek bly in stilte sit tot sy klaar is. Sy bekyk haar werk een keer goed van bo tot onder en handig dit dan oor na my.

Ek bedank haar en wag om te hoor of sy ʼn prys gaan gee, maar sy staan net op, gaan buk by ʼn tafeltjie en begin groente kap.

//

Daar is ʼn plek aan die agterkant van die huis waar niemand ooit kom nie. Dit is hier waar ek die been en vel raamwerk hang, hoog in ʼn boom tussen die trosse van ʼn wistaria verskuil.

//

Daardie aand leun ek met my arms op die breë vensterbank in die eetkamer en staar by die venster uit. Van hier kan mens ʼn groot deel van die erf sien.

Die maan gloei in sy volle lig-geel glorie deur die takke.

Die nag is stil. Nie ʼn windjie waai nie. Die honde slaap al diep langs hul hok.

Skielik vang iets my oog. Dit is Germishuys wat stap oor die grasperk, weg van die huis af.

Hy beweeg stadig, verby die skuur, in die veld in, reguit op pad na die begraafplaas waar hy uiteindelik rus kan vind. Ek staar na terwyl sy figuur finaal in die nag in verdwyn.

//

Ek trek die gordyne toe en gaan sluit by my gesin in die TV kamer aan.

“Haai, kyk wie wys gesig hier by ons!” sê my ma.

Ek gaan sit op ʼn bank.

“Sy was seker te bang om op haar eie te wees. Bang vir al die spoke,” sê Carien.

Mia lag hardop.

My ma grinnik.

Joanni kyk vinnig weg, maar ek het reeds die glimlag gesien.

“Los die kind,” sê my pa, maar selfs hy kry nie reg om die lag in sy stem heeltemal weg te steek nie.

 “Vertel ons bietjie meer van al jou spoke, toe?” vra Mia.

Almal kyk na my.

Ek sit my voete op die bank en lê agteroor.

“Moet tog nie laat my spoke julle so pla nie. Ek sorteer hulle self uit.”

Die Skuimpie Skelm

• 

Haar nalatenskap.  ʼn Dooie, opgeblaasde skaap met fyn blommetjies bedek. Die herinnering van twee groot oë wat skrikkerig vanuit die kliphuisie se donkerte na my staar.  ʼn Hopie verdroogte pruimpitte in die mik van  ʼn tak.  ʼn Boerboel wat kreunend slobber aan  ʼn been, met geen idee hoe gelukkig hy is nie. En ek wat al weer alleen is.

=

Hoog bo op die ou beeskraal se wye klipmuur sit ek en staar dromerig na die horison tot dat die son se eerste strepie gloeiende goud agter die mielielande begin uitsteek. Dan swerf my oë oor die bekende toneel wat my Oom se plaas is. Voor my strek die weiveld tot onder by die vlei en klein werkershuisies. Na dit, nog weivelde, die groot hooiskuur en die dennebos wat heel jaar na Kersfees ruik. Die wêreld is besig om wakker te word. Ek hoor  ʼn haan kraai, ʼn lepel wat teen  ʼn pot gekap word,  ʼn baba wat huil. Die reuk van rook en vleis dryf deur die warm lug tot by my. ʼn Ligte bries waai teen my gesig en ritsel die grassade in die veld onder my.

Ek skrik wanneer Skollie skielik om die hoek gestorm kom. Ek het skoon vergeet dat hy besluit het om vanoggend saam my te stap. Ek fluit om sy aandag te kry. Hy blaf  ʼn vlugtige, beleefde hallo in my rigting, en slaan dan angstig koers na  ʼn spesifieke bos gras toe. Hier blaf en krap hy waansinnig tot hy uiteindelik iets vang, een kou gee en afsluk. Ek gril maar kan nie help om ook te giggel nie.

=

In die kombuis bak my ma eiers en klets met my pa. Hy knik maar gee meer aandag aan die dik laag appelkoos konfyt wat hy op sy roosterbrood smeer. Twee van my ouer sussies eet lustig aan hul ontbyt, splinternuwe Walkmans in hul ore. Die derde staan en lag terwyl sy die klein Steffie leer om te sit met  ʼn repie spek. Ek haal  ʼn bord uit die kas en gaan staan langs my ma.

My pa vryf sy hand een keer deur my lang ligte lokke.

 “Ek het die brief gestuur, ek weet nie wat meer ek kon doen nie. Ek het uitdruklik vir haar laat verstaan dat ons haar nie meer kan bekostig nie. Die vakansie is nog lank nie eers verby nie. Wat gaan ons nou doen? Ek moet daardie lap koop. Het sy die brief gekry?” vra my ma.

My pa mompel iets.

“Wat? Ag, kan jy tog net met haar gaan praat? Is sy nog in haar kamer? Jy gaan haal haar ook net op die têksie stasie en sê my niks.”

“Sy sê sy sal verniet werk,” sê hy harder.

“Wat op aarde! Ons kan mos nie -”

“Moes ek haar nou op die stasie gelos het?” brul hy.

Ek tik aan my ma se arm. Sy sien my en skep ʼn eier in my bord in. Ek druk die eier met my wysvinger. Kliphard, maar eetbaar.

Na ontbyt bak die son my vel warm terwyl ek uitgespan op  ʼn bank op die stoep lê. My twee oudste sussies lê ook daar, elk met  ʼn dik Danielle Steel novelle in hul hande. Ek wil dit en die Wilbur Smith boeke in die gangkas so graag lees, maar volgens my ma is ek om een of ander rede nog heeltemal te jonk.

“En by the way,” sê een sussie vir die ander, “as jy vir ma sê van Eric gaan ek jou dagboek lees!”

Die ander se mond val oop. Dan frommel sy  ʼn papiertjie wat op die tafel gelê het op en gooi dit na die ander. Dit bons teen haar voorkop, reg tussen haar oë. Die twee bars uit van die lag.

Laat middag sit ek hoog in die takke van die groot peperboom voor die agterdeur. Ek het die wye, plat mik ingerig as ʼn soort van boomhuisie vir myself, kompleet met vier verskillende bok horings as versierings.

Iets vang my oog.

Dit is Betsie, ons bediende van voor ek gebore was, op pad na haar kamer.

Sy stop by haar deur en haal ʼn sleutel uit haar voorskoot. Sy kyk twee kere om haar voor sy oop sluit. Sy stoot die deur stadig oop, tree in die donkerte in en maak dit weer saggies agter haar toe. Ek hoor hoe die deur weer van binne gesluit word.

=

Die volgende dag sit ek op my oopgespreide kombers by die dam vir my weeklikse piekniek. ʼn Fees van rooi koeldrank, biltong en tjips is uitgepak. Die hoofmaal is ʼn kosblik vol skuimpies wat ek vanoggend self in die mikrogolf gemaak het. Ek bewonder my baksel van alle kante.  ʼn Hele hoop wolkerige wit versiersuiker drome, so perfek soos wat hul kon kom sonder om  ʼn oond te gebruik het.

Voor ek my eerste hap kan vat hoor ek  ʼn ritsel in die takke aan die ander kant van die dam. Geen hond het vandag saam my gestap nie. Die buurman se huis is naby, maar wat sal hy of sy werkers nou in die bosse maak? My nuuskierigheid neem my lus vir die skuimpies oor. Ek staan op en stap versigtig om die dam tot by die bosse. Ek trek die takke weg maar vind net  ʼn skadu leemte. Dan hoor ek weer  ʼn geritsel, die keer aan die ander kant van die dam. Dit moet my verbeelding wees, of rotte, of die wind.

Terug op my kombers tel ek die kosblik op en plaas dit op my skoot. Dan vries ek.

Die helfte van die skuimpies is weg.

Ek lig die kosblik tot oog vlak en draai dit stadig om en om. Voorheen kon die deksel skaars op sonder om die skuimpies te druk, maar nou is daar baie spasie. My hart klop al vinniger. Ek kyk om my. Nie  ʼn siel in sig nie. Het  ʼn hond hier deurgevaar? Ek krap met my hand deur die oorblywende skuimpies. Geen slym of krummels nie.  ʼn Grootmens sou sê ek het vergeet dat ek dit self geëet het. Het ek?

Ek sit die kosblik neer en kyk nou ordentlik om my.  ʼn Doodse stilte heers. My oë rol oor die riete, okkerneut bome, die bosse aan die ander kant,  ʼn verdroogte stomp. Ek skrik wanneer  ʼn hadida kwê in die verte. My hart klop nou behoorlik in my ore. Is ek alleen?

=

Oral waar ek gaan kyk ek oor my skouer. Ek kan aan niks anders dink nie. Met aandete merk my pa op dat ek nog stiller as gewoonlik is.

In kerk die volgende dag kon Dominee net sowel ʼn mimiekkunstenaar gewees het. Wanneer die gemeente opstaan vir  ʼn Psalm neem dit  ʼn paar vuil kyke vir my om agter te kom dat ek ook moet opstaan.

=

Namiddag sit ek doodstil agter die takke op die dam se wal. Ek het  ʼn kosblik vol varsgebakte skuimpies op die plek waar ek gister piekniek gehou het neergesit, en hou dit nou stip dop. Ek wag vir  ʼn ewigheid. Wanneer die son laag lê en my boude begin pyn gaan haal ek maar die kosblik en keer huis toe.

=

Skuins voor skemer klim ek by die ou beeskraal se muur op. Dan stop ek in my spore. Verbeel ek my alweer? In  ʼn skeur in die sement, reg waar ek altyd sit, staan daar ‘n vars geplukte roos.

Ek erken dadelik die geel en oranje blare. Dit behoort aan die een roosboom in ons eie tuin. Oorbluf, bene lam van verwarring, gaan sit ek langs die roos. Ek staar uit oor die horison terwyl  ʼn honderd onwaarskynlike moontlikhede deur my kop gons. Dan hoor ek dit. Eers  ʼn effense gedempte kuggie wat enigiets kon wees, maar dan  ʼn paar duideliker, onmiskenbare hoeste. Dit kom van reg agter my, binne in die kraal.

Ek swaai om. Niemand daar nie. My aandag gaan na die klein kliphuisie in die hoek. Ek klim stadig by die muur af en stap so saggies as wat ek kan nader. Ek maak seker om elke takkie en klippie op die grond te mis. My hart klop in my ore. By die ingang buk ek tot op my knieë, en loer dan in.

In die hoekie, omvou in duisternis, kyk twee oë terug na my.

My oë pas aan en die donkerte lig soos  ʼn verhoog se gordyn.

Daar sit ʼn bewende dogtertjie, omtrent my ouderdom. Sy klou haar bene styf vas.

Sy lyk langer as ek, maar baie maerder, en, kan dit wees, sy dra die kerkrokkie wat my ma aan die begin van die somer uit my kas gehaal het om plek te maak vir nuwer klere. Die rooi blommetjies, wat nou verbleik is, en die pof moutjies, is onmiskenbaar.

Sy kyk my op en af met oë groot van vrees. Wanneer ons oogkontak maak glimlag ek so wyd as wat ek kan in  ʼn poging om haar te laat ontspan. Uiteindelik laat sak sy haar skouers en glimlag floutjies terug.

“Hallo.”

“Dumêla,” bewe haar klein stemmetjie.

Ons hoor  ʼn harde snork geluid van buite. Skielik steek Skollie sy kop by die ingang in regs langs my. Die meisie gee  ʼn verskrikte skreetjie en slaan dan vinnig haar hand oor haar mond. In die klein spasie lyk die Boerboel meer reusagtig as ooit. Hy draai sy kop na die kant en staar na haar vir lang, vreesvervulde sekondes. Dan knik hy eenmaal, glip vorentoe en lek haar met sy druppende tong oor haar gesig. Met swaaiende stert druk hy dan sy groot kop onder haar dun armpie in, sy manier om te bedel vir  ʼn vryf. Met my oë beduie ek vir haar, hy gaan nie opgee tot sy vir hom een of ander erkenning gee nie. Uiteindelik lig sy ʼn bewende, stywe armpie en tik liggies op sy voorkop. Dit werk, hy kreun in dankbaarheid en draai dan om en glip weer uit verby my en verdwyn. Sy lyk verlig en wanneer ons oogkontak maak vorm daar amper  ʼn laggie oor haar gesig.

Ons hoor stemme in die verte en haar oë raak weer groot. Dit is duidelik dat sy nie ontdek wil word nie. As iemand hier aankom sal my aanwesigheid aandag na haar trek. Met  ʼn laaste glimlag glip ek by die deur uit en hardloop huis toe.

=

Die volgende oggend staan ek nog vroeër op as gewoonlik, sluip by die huis uit en hardloop soos  ʼn pyl oor die grasperk, vlieg oor die heining en rits oor die weiveld tot by die ou beeskraal.

Uitasem sak ek by die ingang van die kliphuisie neer. Dit is leeg.

Teleurgesteld klouter ek by die klipmuur op om my sonsopkoms pos te beman. Nog voor die son sy verskyning kan maak hoor ek iets onder my. Ek kyk af. Dit is sy!

Sy kyk op na my, glimlag, en klim verder tot bo. Hoeveel keer het ek tevergeefs my sussies gesmeek om hier op te klim en dan sê hul altyd dat dit te hoog is, maar hier is dan iemand wat dit doen sonder aanmoediging of sukkel. Sonder  ʼn woord kom sit sy langs my en staar uit oor die skouspelagtige landskap. Die sagte, pastel pienk dagbreek lig, die geheimsinnige, melkerige mis oor die vlei, die soet reuk van natgedoude kraalmis, verleen  ʼn onwerklike, magiese gevoel aan die toneel. Sy studeer elke detail met verwondering.

Wanneer die son in sy volle glorie bo-op die goue mielielande rus, staan ek op. As ek nie nou terugkeer vir ontbyt nie sal daar vrae wees om te beantwoord. Sy klim ook by die muur af en, tot my verbasing, stap sy saam met my in die huis se rigting.

Wanneer ek by die agterdeur kom draai ek om haar te groet.

Ek stop verbaas. Sy het skoonveld verdwyn.

Na ontbyt stap ek terug ou beeskraal toe maar sy is nie daar nie. Eers later die dag, wanneer ek hoog in  ʼn pruimboom aan die agterkant van die huis lê en ontspan, gewaar ek haar op die sement onder  ʼn venster sit. As dit nie vir die rooi kerkrokkie was nie sou ek haar nooit raak gesien het nie. Ek fluit twee kere voor sy in my rigting kyk. Ek swaai  ʼn groot tak op en af. Sy sien my. Met  ʼn breë glimlag spring sy op en hardloop na die boom. Rats, miskien nog ratser as ek, klouter sy op tot by die mik langs myne. Haar aandag gaan dadelik na die ryp pruime wat in swaar trosse om ons hang. Sy kyk onseker na my. Ek knik en glimlag. Dan begin sy, eers stadig, dan gulsig, een pruim na die ander verorber. Sy plaas elke skoon gesuigde put versigtig in  ʼn mik tot daar later ʼn hele hoop in die vorm van  ʼn piramide is. Eindelik versadig lê sy agteroor op haar rug en wikkel rond tot sy so gemaklik soos ek uitgespan is. Vir  ʼn lang tyd staar ons na die swaaiende blare en geniet die son spatsels wat oor ons gesigte speel.

=

In die dae wat volg doen ons alles saam.  ʼn Patroon vorm. In die oggend ontmoet ons op die muur en kyk na die sonsopkoms. Dan gaan ek huis toe, sy verdwyn altyd iewers in die tuin, en sluit by my familie aan vir ontbyt. Nadat almal die kombuis verlaat het druk ek kos in my sakke of onder my hemp in. Gewoonlik  ʼn bakkie oorskiet, ʼn vars rolletjie, beskuit of biltong, wat ook al ek kan vind.

Ons ontmoet by die pruimboom. Sy is gewoonlik voor my daar en dan vind ek haar hoog bo in die takke weggekruip. Ek klim op en gee vir haar haar ontbyt, en dan slaan ons koers in.

Ons hardloop resies deur die weivelde. Soms nooi ons vir Skollie saam om dit meer uitdagend te maak. Ons gaan op verkennings ekspedisies. Met iemand aan my sy het ek meer moed om verder te gaan van die huis af as tevore. Ons loop die een bos waar ek nog nooit in was nie plat, en ontdek ʼn dammetjie omring met riete,  ʼn ou verlate begraafplaas, en die klipmure van ʼn ou varkhok wat ons omskep in  ʼn reuse pophuis. Ons, die twee poppe wat daar woon, bak die heerlikste ysterskroewe, kraakvars geroeste metaal plate en smeulende brood bakstene. ʼn Ander dag leer ek haar hoe om bokbolletjies te spoeg. Sy gril haar eers dood en weier om dit in haar mond te sit, maar na ek dit  ʼn paar keer doen probeer sy. Wanneer sy eers die kuns aanleer is dit onmoontlik om by te bly. Sy spoeg so ver dat ons gewoonlik sukkel om te sien waar dit geval het.

=

Een dag, wanneer my gesin dorp toe is, lei ek haar na die ou uie kamer toe. Op my eie was ek altyd te bang om alleen hier in te gaan, ʼn nagevolg van al die spookstories wat my sussies my al vertel het.

Sy stop buite die deur.

Ek wys vir haar om saam my in te kom maar sy skud net haar kop, oë groot van bekommernis.

Ek probeer verduidelik dat al die groot mense dorp toe is. Dit vat ʼn tydjie vir haar om uiteindelik ʼn treetjie tot binne te gee.

Die saalagtige buitekamer het aan die een kant ʼn lang ry gebreekte vensters en talle verdroogte trosse uie wat van die dak af hang. Die vloer is bedek met gebreekte meubels, gerimpelde antieke tydskrifte en koerante, en ander rommel.

Ek begin verken. Ek vind ʼn pienk keramiek bord en bekers met die mooiste blou en wit patrone van kinder engele wat hand-aan-hand deur wolke vlieg. Elke item hou ek hoog in die lug op sodat sy dit ook kan sien. Stadig aan begin sy ontspan.

Ons vind  ʼn kis vol ou lappe. Nou raak sy sommer opgewonde. Sy vat ʼn groot donker blou lap en hang dit met seremonie oor haar skouers. Dan trek sy ʼn kleiner lap oor haar kop, tel ʼn stok van die vloer af op, en transformeer in  ʼn fantastiese koningin met ʼn towerstaf. Sy stap op en af met  ʼn majestueuse neus in die lug en deel links en regs instruksies aan haar verbeelde onderdane uit.

Ons speel so lekker dat nie een van ons die kar se dreuning en die honde se geblaf hoor nie.

Tegelyk sien ons my pa stap oor die grasperk.

Net voor hy sy kop in ons rigting draai val ons plat.

Van die vloer af loer ek op na haar met ʼn glinster in my oë en ʼn lag in my keel, maar haar gesigsuitdrukking stop my. Haar oë is groot van vrees.

Na ʼn tydjie staan sy stilletjies op en trek haar gewaad uit, waai verdrietig in my rigting en verdwyn by die deur uit.

=

Vroeg oggend, in plaas daarvan om na die sonsopkoms te kyk, sit ons in ʼn tuinbedding en grou erdwurms uit. Ons maak  ʼn hele glasbottel vol van die ellendige kriewelende gediertes. Na ontbyt pak ek  ʼn behoorlike piekniekmandjie en vat twee visstokke. Ek kry haar by die boom en ons vat pad na die dam. Skollie agtervolg ons.

By die dam sprei ons die kombers oop en pak ons kos uit. Dit is grillerig om die wurms deur die hoeke te druk, maar dit moet gedoen word. Binnekort is ons lyne nat, ons stokke rus op takke wat ons in die grond geplant het, en ons sit terug en wag vir die aksie.

Die son skuif al hoër deur die lug.

Ons ooglede begin swaar raak. Die stokke maak nie die geringste roering nie. Die water is seepglad.

Wanneer ons  ʼn hond hoor blaf in die verte sit ons regop. Skollie het vir  ʼn tyd lank agter ons gelê maar nou is daar geen teken van hom nie. Dan hoor ons  ʼn geblêr saam met die geblaf. Ons sit nog meer regop en kyk na mekaar met groot oë. Die vreemde geluide beweeg al nader aan ons.

Dan skielik, om die hoek van  ʼn bos, bars daar  ʼn groot stof wolk uit en vanuit die wolk spring ʼn skaap op hoë spoed, ʼn besete desperasie in sy koue swart oë. Hy blêr so wild dat al die voëls meteens uit die bome vlug.

Skollie volg kort na hom met waansin in sy oë en spoeg wat in alle rigtings van sy skerp tande afspat.

ʼn Verlede beeld skiet in my kop in. Ek was nog klein. Ek het in die pomphuis weggekruip. My pa het ons geliefde Labrador met ʼn tou aan die boom vas gemaak. Gevryf oor sy kop, agter sy ore, gekrap op sy ken. Die hond was so verward. Toe het my pa ʼn ver ent weggestap, die .22 geweer op hom gerig en die sneller getrek.

Ek spring op en skree so luid dat my stembande brand.

“Nee! Skollie!”

“Motlohela ntja!”

Die hond kyk nie eers in ons rigting nie.

Die skaap maak ʼn lyn vir die dam. Op die wal kry Skollie hom beet. Hy slaan sonder huiwering sy slagyster bek binne die ongelukkige dier se boud in. Die skaap blêr een laaste keer, angsbevange, oorverdowend. Dan tuimel hy grond toe. Skollie is dadelik op hom. Hy slaan sy tande in sy keel in.  

ʼn Streep bloed verf die blou lug vir ʼn oomblik met rooi.

Die skaap gee een laaste skop wat hom tot in die dam se water laat beland. Daarna maak hy nie weer  ʼn geluid of beweging nie.

Skollie spring en blaf nog wild rond. Nou en dan trap hy teen die grond vas in oorweging om agter die skaap in te spring. Uiteindelik kry hy lank genoeg stil gestaan om op te let dat sy prooi gesneuwel het. Dan staan hy net daar en staar dramaties af na die karkas, bloed al tappend van sy voorkop en bek af.

Die spoed waarmee my maat my help oppak maak dit duidelik dat sy ook weet wat met honde gebeur wanneer hul ʼn plaasdier doodgemaak het.

Ek trek vies vir Skollie aan sy halsband na die vlak kant van die dam toe. Ek ruk hom nader aan die water en begin die bloed afspoel. My maat kom help my. Ons kry hom vinnig skoon en vat koers huis toe.

=

Met aandete skep my ma  ʼn lepel beet vir my in. Ek staar getraumatiseerd na die helder rooi sap wat oor die wit bord versprei.

“Ag, dis net beet! Jy eet heeltemal te min groente. Ek wil niks geklaery hoor nie,” skel sy.

Ek knik bedees en eet dan met lang tande tot alles op is. Die gesin klets oor die dag wat verby is maar ek kan nie die beeld van  ʼn bebloede Skollie, die skaap, eers vlieënd deur die lug en nou morsdood, en al die aaklige blêrende klanke uit my kop uit kry nie.

Na ete groet ek almal vir die aand en onttrek na my kamer toe. Ek maak die deur agter my toe en gaan sit op die bed. Ek hoor  ʼn klap geluidjie agter my. Nog een. Ek kyk om. Nog een. Ek stap na my venster, trek die gordyn oop, en skrik my lam. My maat staan daar met  ʼn hopie klippies in haar hand. Sy laat val dit en waai vir my,  ʼn benoudheid in haar oë. Dan wys sy met haar hande dat ek vinnig moet kom. Iets is fout. Ek trek  ʼn swart jas aan en trippel saggies verby die TV kamer waar almal sit. By die agterdeur draai ek die sleutels so stadig moontlik, en glip dan saggies uit en maak die deur weer toe.

Sy wag vir my by die boom. Sy gryp my dadelik aan die mou en begin my trek in die duisternis van die nag in. Ek is eers senuweeagtig maar besluit om haar te volg. Dit raak vinnig duidelik dat ons in die rigting van die dam beweeg. My hart klop, ek was nog nooit so ver in die aand nie. Die vriendelike weivelde wat altyd so bekend is voel nou vol onheilspellende gevare. Gelukkig ken ek die pad goed genoeg om te weet waar die rotse, vore en heinings is. Die sekelmaan help ook bietjie.

=

By die dam sien ek waaroor haar kommer gaan. In verskeie rigtings gewaar ek nou die swaaiende ligte van manne met flitse. Hulle soek die verlore skaap. As hul hom doodgebyt vind gaan hul missie verander in  ʼn soektog vir wie hom doodgebyt het.

Ons loop gebuk langs  ʼn ry bosse af totdat ons  ʼn oorsig het van die hele dam. Sy verdwyn om  ʼn hoek en kom terug met  ʼn groot verdroogte bos in haar hande. Die bos is lig genoeg om te dra en dig genoeg om  ʼn dooie skaap mee te versteek. Sy druk dit in my hande met  ʼn bemoedigende glimlag. Ons albei weet dit moet ek wees, want nog meer as ek mag sy nie gesien word nie.

Daar is nie veel tyd nie, die ligte beweeg al nader aan waar die skaap lê.

Ek glimlag hopeloos terug en knik dat ek verstaan. Sy staan kant toe en ek stap verby. Steeds gebukkend klim ek teen  ʼn styl wal op en drafstap na die plek waar die skaap is.

Ek vries wanneer  ʼn groep mans om  ʼn bos verskyn, ek het nie besef hoe naby hul was nie.

Ek sien hul duidelik, die buurman homself en vier werkers aan sy sy. Hul flitse swaai oor die wal en beweeg al nader na my.

As ek nou  ʼn beweging maak sal hul my dadelik sien. Ek is vasgevang. Iets vang my oog op die wal. Terselfdertyd beweeg al die flitsligte meteens soontoe.

Dit is my maat wat breë bors bo-op die wal staan.

Die mans staar verbaas. Sy kyk vinnig na my, knik na die skaap, en draai dan haar aandag na hulle. Dan begin sy mars, op en af, neus in die lug, en saai haar instruksies luid aan haar onderdane uit. Ek besef net betyds wat sy besig is om te doen. Ek vind vinnig die skaap se karkas en druk die bos op hom neer. Terwyl die mans steeds gapend na die spektakel op die wal staar, glip ek terug in die nag in.

Ek hardloop in die rigting van die huis. Ek kyk net om om te sien dat sy weggekom het en van die anderkant af ook huis toe hardloop.

=

Die volgende oggend is sy nie by die muur nie.

Na ontbyt pak ek kos in en gaan na die boom, maar sy is ook nie daar nie.

Namiddag sit ek voor die TV saam my sussies wanneer ons  ʼn onaardige geskree van buite hoor.

Ons spring op en hardloop na die venster.

Dit is my maat.

Sy hardloop vreesbevange in wye sirkels oor die grasperk rond. ʼn Gillende Betsie is kort op haar hakke, vadoek in die hand. Elke keer wat sy die vadoek in haar rigting swaai, spring my maat hoog in die lug in om dit te mis. Stof en hoenders spat in alle rigtings.

My sussies lig hul wenkbroue en keer terug na hul program. Ek wil weg kyk maar kan nie.

Skielik maak alles sin. Natuurlik is sy Betsie se dogter. Sy was seker in die geheim hiernatoe gebring, in ʼn groot tas of deur  ʼn familielid in die nag. Sy was veronderstel om weg te kruip, my ouers sou nooit nog  ʼn mond wou voed as hul nie eens vir Betsie kon bekostig nie. En gisteraand het die buurman haar op die damwal gesien en natuurlik my pa gebel om die onbekende kind naby ons huis te rapporteer.

Eindelik vang Betsie haar. Sy gryp haar hard aan haar elmboog en trek haar kamer toe. Ek sien die eerste hou teen haar boude val voor die deur toe gaan.

Die volgende dag sit ek met  ʼn swaar hart in die pruimboom en kyk hoe my pa Betsie se tasse in die bakkie laai. Dan verskyn die twee beswaarde siele, styf teen mekaar, hand aan hand. Die pak is lankal verby en die vrede tussen hul is herstel. Soos hul bakkie toe stap sit Betsie  ʼn arm om haar dogter en druk haar nog stywer vas. Ek hoor  ʼn snik. Hul stop voor my pa.

“Sy mis my daar. Hulle maak nie mooi met haar nie. En daar is nie genoeg kos nie.”

“Ons het nie plek of geld om jou familie aan te hou nie. Jy kan terug kom, maar sy moet by haar pa gaan bly.”

ʼn Lang traan rol oor my maat se wang.

My pa sien dit seker ook, want dan las hy by: “Ek gee jou ʼn verhoging. Hulle moet ordentlik kos vir die kind koop.”

Wanneer hul in die bakkie klim fluit ek so hard as wat ek kan en swaai  ʼn tak. Sy kyk dadelik, maar vandag is daar geen glimlag nie. Met die deur nou toe druk sy  ʼn handjie teen die venster en kyk diep in my oë. Ek staar agterna terwyl die bakkie wegrol en uit sig verdwyn.

=

Tyd gaan aan op die plaas asof niks gebeur het nie. ʼn Week later keer Betsie alleen terug. Die vakansie kom tot  ʼn einde en ek gaan weer skool toe. ʼn Maand later gaan besoek ek die skaap om te kyk of hy nog verskuil is. Die bos het weggewaai maar met die draai van die seisoen is die dam nou bedek met  ʼn laag van fyn pienk blommetjies wat die skaap goed wegsteek.

=

Ek raak ouer en klim al minder boom, maar soms gaan besoek ek nog die hopie pitte in die pruimboom, asof dit  ʼn gedenkteken vir haar is.

ʼn Volle twee jaar verloop voor Skollie weer  ʼn skaap vang. In plaas daarvan om hom te skiet gee my pa hom aan  ʼn kerk lidmaat wat  ʼn kleinhoewe sonder vee besit.

=

Een vir een verlaat my sussies die huis. Uiteindelik matrikuleer ek ook en trek stad toe om kuns te studeer. Later trou my sussies elk en begin families van hul eie. Betsie trek saam met die oudste in wanneer hul  ʼn groot huis koop. My ma en pa trek na  ʼn meenthuis in die dorp.

Op  ʼn Sondag oggend bel my ma my om te hoor hoe dit gaan en ook om te sê dat Betsie vanoggend in haar slaap oorlede is. Van wat? Sy is nie seker nie, weet net dat sy siek was. My Oom gaan  ʼn bees na haar familie toe stuur vir die begrafnis.

=

Daardie vakansie ontmoet die hele gesin by my een sussie se skoonouers se strandhuis. Eendag, terwyl ek en my ma langs die see afstap vra ek haar “Onthou ma nog Betsie se dogter?”

Sy trek haar oë skrefies en kyk uit oor die branders asof die antwoord daar dobber.

“Betsie het baie kinders gehad, ek kan nie een dogter spesifiek onthou nie.”

“Die een wat op die plaas was en weer huis toe gestuur was.”

“O-ja, ek dink ek onthou so iets. Wat van haar?”

“Ek wonder maar net wat van haar geword het. Weet ma wat haar naam was?”

Sy weet nie, maar na nog vrae kry ek die naam van Betsie se man en oudste seun asook die area waar hul gebly het. Die internet en  ʼn paar oproepe vul die res van die informasie in.

=

Sy het ʼn beeldskone vrou geword. Ek staar verstom na haar by die voordeur van haar luukse meenthuis in Montana. Sy is steeds so lank en skraal, maar lyk nou meer soos  ʼn model as  ʼn honger kind. Sy dra  ʼn lang, duursame linne gewaad. Haar hare is met fyn goue lintjies gevleg.

Oor tee onthou ons die ou dae. Haar oë raak vol trane wanneer ek simpatiseer oor haar ma. Sy was op die drumpel om die huis langs hare vir Betsie te koop.

Sy vertel my van haar kinderdae, die swaar jare in die informele nedersetting, dan die beurs vir haar akademiese prestasies, die grade wat gevolg het, en die groot besigheid wat sy nou van die grond af op bou.

Wanneer die vertrek begin donker word staan ek op om te gaan. Ons verruil nommers. Sy kom gereeld stad toe. Ons tref reëlings vir  ʼn koffie ontmoeting.

Terwyl die son agter die horison van beton afsak en die voorstedelike toneel in  ʼn goue gloed omhul, klim ek in my kar en waai vir haar. Met ʼn baba op haar sy en ʼn kleuter in die hand groet sy met ʼn breë glimlag. Daardie glimlag wat geen mens ooit kon vergeet nie.

Stadstuin

Met liefdevolle, vreedsame waardering beweeg my fokus gewoonlik stadig van roosbedding tot roosbedding. So analiseer ek dan die hoeveelheid knoppe, kleure en blaar volheid van elke spesie met stille plesier. Die perske-kleur Just Joeys met hul beskeie, wyl welige, skoonheid. Die wit bespikkelde Burgundy Icebergs wat vir my lyk soos ‘n gehele rooi roos wat hoog op ‘n sneeu belaaide bergtop tussen die ys probeer deur dring. Die skaam Tinieke, ‘n sagte wit roos met fyn, weerlose blare wat net soms, hier en daar, ‘n blosende spatseltjie ligte rooi per ongeluk onthul. Die trotse, diep skarlaken Elegant Beauty, wat my vir geen spesifieke rede so aan my ma en haar ma laat dink.

Maar vanoggend rus my aandag net op een bedding. Daar staan, nuut geplant, drie bome met die helderste pink-oranje kleur blare wat jy jou kan verbeel. Daar is geen naamplaat in hierdie grond geplaas nie, maar ek weet dit is die Harmonie. Die Harmonie het jare gelede al my asem weggeslaan in ‘n bedding aan die ander kant van die tuin maar toe spoorloos verdwyn. Ek het eenkeer vir ‘n tuinier gevra waarheen hul dit geskuif het, maar hy het geen idee gehad waarvan ek praat nie. Nou weet ek, want dit is onmiskenbaar, hierdie helder ontploffing van kleur kan slegs die Harmonie wees wat hul uiteindelik ‘n nuwe spasie voor gevind het.

So gang my gedagtes terwyl ek stip vir die kleurvolle skouspel staar wanneer ek uit die hoek van my oog op let dat twee vroulike figure in my rigting beweeg. Hier, soos oral in die stad, is dit belangrik om altyd bewus te wees van die mense rondom jou. Jy moet in ‘n oogwink kan besluit of iemand dalk ongewenste ambisies kan hê, en dan op ‘n natuurlike maar vinnige manier uit hul pad kom.

Die twee stap stadig, dit blyk of hul kommentaar lewer oor elke voorwerp op hul pad. Hul is middeljarig, beide effens oorgewig, met lang rokke wat oudtyds maar in goeie kondisie is. Hul is skadeloos. Ek keer my aandag terug na die tuin.

Soos destyds bespiegel ek oor hoe die briljante kleur van die Harmonie se pedale nooit buite die natuur kan verskyn nie. Dit kan in geen koffietafelboek, winkelvenster plakkaat of mode optog met dieselfde intensiteit nagemaak word nie. Selfs op ‘n rekenaar skerm sal dit sukkel –

“Are these benches comfortable? You’re just sitting here.”

Ek loer op. Die vrouens is nou reg voor my en hul staar af na my asof ek ‘n kuriositeit op ‘n toeristewinkelrak is. Ek glimlag en frons ewe effe.

“Do you come here often?” vra die ander.

Hul stemme is hoog, soos besorgde tannies by ‘n kerkbasaar wat sopas op iemand anders se verdwaalde kind afgekom het. Die soet geur van Elizabeth Arden se Red Door bereik my en versterk my laasgenoemde analogie.

Ek lig my wenkbroue ‘ja’, en keer vinnig my blik terug na die Harmonie in die hoop dat hul aan sal beweeg.

Hul draai hul koppe in die rigting wat ek kyk, en dan weer terug na my met vrae in hul oë asof daar niks was om te sien nie. Die roostuin kon net sowel ‘n Karoo veld tydens ‘n droogte gewees het.

Ek glimlag weer effe. Hul staan net daar. Wat de hel.

“Where do you live?”

Terwyl ek kontempleer oor wat op aarde dit met hul uit te waai het, antwoord ek maar: “On that side,” en knik so halfies in die rigting van my woonstel gebou wat langs die tuine tussen die bome uitsteek.

“Oh yes,” sê die een, “my sister in law stayed in that building, I know it very well”.

“Your voice is very soft, you sound so young”.

“Do you enjoy it there?”

“It’s a good building, very safe,” kontempleer ek. Ek trek een van die dae en gaan die vriendelike sekuriteitsbeamptes en hul parate veiligheidsmaatreëls mis.

“Your accent is so strange, where are you from?”

“Joburg”.

“Oooh, I am also from Joburg! I moved here just after high school. In the beginning I also didn’t know a soul in Cape Town. I was so lonely back then. You remind me so much of myself. Do you at least have some family here?” vra sy met diep bejammering.

“A sister.”

Sy knik stadig en staar met hartseer na my, asof ek gesê het dat daar nie net geen familielede naby my bly nie, maar dat hul ook almal dood gegaan het in ‘n kar ongeluk toe ek ‘n baba was.

“Do you have a car yet? I didn’t have a car for such a long time when I got here. I had to take public transport. At least they have the new bus service now,” sê die een.

“Yes, the MyCiti, it’s better than the train because the train is very dangerous,” sê die ander.

“Yes, they’ll rob you on the train more often than not…”

So gaan hul aan vir wat soos ‘n ewigheid voel, oor al die transport opsies en dan oor hoe ek te werk kan gaan as ek ooit Blouberg se kant toe wil reis vir die dag. Wat sal ek nou in Blouberg wil gaan doen?

“Is jy Afrikaans?”

Ek kreun van binne maar laat nie my effense glimlag wankel nie.

“Ja, gewoonlik.” Gewoonlik? As ek tog net van daardie laaste bietjie Afrikaanse aksent kan ontslae raak.

“Het jy darem ‘n werkie?”

“Ja, ek werk by Florentino Fashion.”

“Agter die toonbank?”

“By watter tak?”

“In die hoofkantoor. Bemarking.”

Hul wenkbroue lig. Bingo.

“Hoe oud is jy, as ek mag vra?”

“Drie-en-dertig.”

Hul monde val oop. Ek asem die stilte in met waardering.

“Florentino se hoofkantoor is vêr uit die stad, ken jy darem net iemand wat hier bly?”

“Ek bly saam my kêrel.”

“En waar is hy?”

“By ‘n casting.”

“O! Vir ‘n advertensie ekstra?”

“Nee, vir ‘n film hoofrol.”

“O!” sê die een.

“O!” sê die ander.

“O!” sê die een alweer.

Soos uile wat skrik.

Wanneer die een begin praat van hoe sy gereeld in die area van Florentino se hoofkantoor kom en my vir ‘n koppie koffie kan ontmoet oor my etenstyd, besluit ek dit is tyd.

Ek haal my foon uit, lees ‘n denkbeeldige teks op die swart skerm, plop dit terug in my handsak en staan op.

“Jammer, ek moet iewers wees. Goeie dag!”

Wanneer ek ‘n entjie verby die einde van die roostuin is, vertraag ek my pas. Ek stap verby die grasperke waar die Egiptiese Ganse wurms uitpik, verby die ysterkanon wat as eerste wêreldoorlog artillerie gedenkteken dien, verby die koidam met die witgeverfde engel-seun wat ‘n straaltjie water uit die pypie in sy hand laat tap, tot by die groot grasperk aan die ander kant van die kunsgalery. Hoë eike- en dennebome omring die toneel en laat val hier en daar ‘n blaartjie wat in die rustige bries stadig af grond toe daal. Daar is nie ‘n siel in sig nie. Ek gaan sit op die gras en asem die heerlike geur van ‘n Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, wat iewers agter my blom, diep in my neus in. Ek kyk een laaste keer dat daar niemand naby is of aankom nie, en lê dan agteroor tot op my rug. Met die son wat lui deur die blare kanopie flikker op my gesig en die bome se kalm geritsel in my ore, val my oë stadig toe.

Finger Guns

It is early on a Wednesday morning. Louis’ faded blue Volvo is parked in front of JBH Trading Co. in Maitland central, a small industrial area nestled between the big Maitland cemetery and one of the many lower income residential areas that surround the city of Cape Town. 

Louis is sitting in the driver’s seat. The tranquil sounds of Bach’s cello suite seeps languidly out of his old, scratchy speakers. He is half dozing and half lost in the profound immensity of that great adventure which we call existence, that unfolds so rapidly in those brief years between birth and death. He is so still that even the dust in the air, highlighted by the first sun rays of the day, hangs statically around him. The only movement is from his car keys that he gently sways and taps against his leg.

The shrill sound of a woman yelling in distress reaches him from somewhere in the distance. He tries to ignore it. The second yell is closer and much louder. He shuts his eyes tightly, but the words “Daai vuil vark het op my hakke gekak!” still manages to pierce through his cello suite.

Before Louis has a chance to turn and look, a woman slams right against his door with such force that his rear view mirror snaps right off.

The woman, with her tight dress, torn fishnet stockings and big, purple coloured hair, recovers her footing quickly and is now hopping about next to the car, avoiding the feeble attempts of a policeman trying to grab onto her. Her passionate verbal defense never ceases. It goes along the lines of “ek sal hom weer poes klap, daar sit die fokken kak spatsels nog, next time lem ek die naai, wat weet jy, dis niks van jou besigheid nie, jou voorbarige poes”, and so on. The policeman just shakes his head to show that he won’t listen and continues to try to either calm her or grab onto her.

When Louis opens his car door the policeman turns to him, and in that moment the woman dashes off and he sets after her again.

When the two have disappeared down the road, Louis gets out and tries to inspect the mirror but his hands are shaking too much from the fright. ‘Oh, heck’, he murmurs softly. He places it under his seat and out of sight, takes his plastic wrapped sandwich and heads off to work.

 

The head office of JBH Trading Co. consists of three floors, each an open plan filled with many small cubicles and lined with bigger managerial offices along the windows. When Louis gets to his cubicle he leans over the wall and whispers “Morning Al” to his colleague. Al is engrossed in his work and merely lifts his eyebrows in reply. Louis sits down, turns on his computer, takes out his planner – the movements are near mechanical, he has been repeating them every morning for these past sixteen years. Louis’ cubicle walls, as all the other walls in the building, are gray and bare. The office’s carpets are the exact same gray. The desks and computers are all the same standard issue. A deathly silence reigns over the office and is broken only occasionally by the low ringing of a phone or a lone printer ejaculating a document in the distance. Human voices only echo across the floor when a managerial group erupts from a meeting room in high spirits.

Louis works diligently the whole day, only stopping at lunch time to eat his sandwich in the break room. Sharon comes in to warm her food and he tries to inquire about her weekend but she doesn’t have time to talk. On the way out, Louis sees his reflection in the fridge and stops for a moment. His eyes roam over the stomach protruding over his pants, his thinning gray hair and his thick, round spectacles. This must be why Sharon never has time to talk to him. He tucks in his checked shirt and goes back to work.

At 3pm Louis knocks on a door labelled “Liesel Vermaak, General Sales Manager” and enters.

Liesel glances at him from behind her desk and says impatiently “Come in and take a seat, Mr. Thompson.”

When Louis arrived at JBH sixteen years ago, Liesel was his cell manager and has since risen in the ranks to be the manager of the whole floor. Liesel never wears makeup, ties her hair in the same lazy bun every morning, and always wears a jeans and takkies with either a Springbok jersey or a sports branded t-shirt. She has a heavy Afrikaans accent and dearly loves to talk. Louis often wonders how anything gets to enter her head when she is constantly exuding everything from it.

“Mr. Thompson, do you know that you are an hour late for our meeting today?”

Louis starts. “Didn’t you move the meeting to 3pm?”

She raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Mr. Thompson, anybody will tell you that I have the best memory in this company. I would certainly have remembered if I had moved this meeting to 3pm.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. There is an email from her in his inbox stating that it is moved to 3pm.

“Never mind, let me see your reports,” she mercifully concedes.

She takes a file from him and starts paging through the contents, silently ticking off the numbers in it. At one number she stops, looks up at him, and then slowly circles it with a red pen.

“Mr. Thompson, you have not met the target on the Warner account for three months in a row. In fact, nobody in your cell has. It is becoming unacceptable. Can you see that we will lose it if you don’t improve on this number?”

Liesel talks in a heightened pitch as she often does to employees on lower levels, much like a primary school teacher educating children.

“I can see that,” he replies slowly, “and I believe we will continue to miss the target until either the products’ value is increased or the price is decreased. The customer feedback as well as the 0% return purchase rate is a clear indication of that.”

Liesel rolls her eyes. “We cannot simply make the product better or cheaper, the reality is not that simple. These decisions are made by management based on very complex criteria.”

“What criteria is that exactly?”

She laughs loudly. “Mr. Thompson, you can be very glad that you don’t have to worry about things like that! I take those responsibilities on precisely so that you won’t have to. And let me tell you, it is a very difficult job that I do. Now all I ask is that you follow your five rules of selling and just put a little more effort into this. Do you think you can do that for me?”

 

That evening Louis takes a proper look at his mirror and finds it had broken in such a way that it cannot be reattached again. He has no insurance and he does not have enough money to fix it before the end of the month, and a traffic violation fine is the last thing he needs.

It is understandable then that, the next morning, when he spots a purple waft of hair in the distance and identifies it as the woman who broke his mirror, and furthermore notices that she is laughing flamboyantly, flirting with several men, and generally just having the time of her life, he gets out of his car and storms toward her without a clear plan in mind.

When he comes close and she sees him and the menacing look in his eyes, she lets out a petrified yelp and starts running into the opposite direction.

Louis sets after her.

Louis is not a fit man, but he is so fueled by adrenaline that he manages to keep the purple spectacle in sight down an alley, through a little tunnel, and past many rows of small brick houses.

At one particularly run-down street, where the barbed wire fencing is most prominent and the curtains are all closed, she dashes into a small, barren front yard and slips into a tiny run-down house.

Louis stops in front of the house and rests his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He figures he’s come this far, he might as well try to enter the house. He hopes his tenacity would frighten her into owning up to her act of vandalism.

He walks up to the house and rattles on the doorknob. It is locked. He knocks. He hears some shuffling inside. As he lifts his hand to knock again, the door opens. From the darkness erupts a big cloud of white smoke, and with it the most ferocious looking man Louis has ever seen. The man takes a quiet step forward until he is standing centimeters away from Louis’ face. He glares at him angrily through bloodshot eyes. He is so tall and muscled that his frame fills the door. He has little dreads of various lengths pointing in all directions. Sketchy, tribal-like tattoos cover his left eye, forehead and body. Small scars cover his stern, chiseled face. He wears a faded, torn vest with a bright Bugs Bunny satin boxer shorts.

Louis cannot turn and run, he knows the man will have him before he could even cross the yard. The man continues to stare so deeply into his eyes that it feels as though he is reading the story of his very soul. Louis’ trembling hands hang like dead weights at his sides. Even if he was able to make an escape, his body would not be able to move. 

Eerily slowly the man’s angry face relaxes into a smile which keeps broadening until his expression reveals nothing but a happy familiarity and warmth.

“Well, come on in then!” he exclaims. “How rude of me to leave you standing out here!”. He steps back and motions for Louis to enter.

Louis remains where he is, and manages to croak, “No, thank you, I was just, I just wanted to…”

“Come in,” the man says with a flicker of the previous malice returned to his eyes.

Louis steps into the house.

The overwhelming smell of weed and something else, something sweeter, along with a deepening sense of dread, makes Louis feel so lightheaded that he has no choice but to sink into the nearest couch. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he makes out several small, patched up couches stacked around an old TV. Days of Our Lives is on but the sound is turned off. Three walls are covered with old posters of boxing movies and the fourth is covered entirely with a large American flag. He hears a cough and sees a young man reclined lazily on the opposite couch, staring at him with mild interest. The woman with the purple hair is nowhere to be seen.

“This is Arab,” the big man says. He playfully kicks Arab’s leg as he passes. “Don’t be like that, don’t you greet our visitor?” he laughs.

Arab shrugs and turns his attention back to the TV.

“And I am Murdock”.

Murdock sits down on the couch next to Louis and lights a cigarette. He leans back in his chair and starts drumming his fingers on the arm rest, seemingly waiting for Louis to talk.

“Look, I just wanted to talk to the lady that came in here,” he stammers. “I don’t know any of you, I had some private business with her, I don’t want any trouble. I’ll just leave if you want me to -“

“That lady works for me, her business is my business.” Murdock firmly interjects. He takes another drag of his cigarette and stares at Louis intensely, eyes screwed and head cocked to the side. “But you’re not here about her business. You don’t rent whores.”

Louis shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“You don’t do any drugs. You never break any rules. A model citizen, aren’t you?”

Murdock takes another drag and stares at Louis for another few seconds. He is summing him up, and seem to be quite intrigued.

“What do you want most in life? Aside from money, everybody wants money.”

“Just… to be happy” he manages.

Murdock flinches and turns his face away dramatically, as though Louis had slapped him through the face. 

Arab, who had been staring at the TV but also listening to their conversation, turns his head to Louis and says, “When Murdock asks you a question, you’d better answer properly. And remember he always knows when you are lying.”

Louis, now more distressed than ever, quickly, desperately, searches his mind for an answer.

“I want a promotion at work, I don’t like my boss, I wish she was gone”.

“Well, you came to the right place then!” Murdock exclaims and slaps his hand on the table. “Arab here is the best hit man in Cape Town. You give him R20 000 and tell him what she looks like and where she lives. Tomorrow she won’t show up at work.”

Arab sits up a little.

“No, no,” Louis says very quickly, “I don’t mean I want her dead.”

The two men look confused.

“But didn’t you just say you wanted her gone?” Murdock asks.

“I meant I hoped she’d move to another department maybe, I definitely do not want her dead. That is not want I want at all.”

“It’s tricky to get rid of someone and keep them alive,” Murdock muses.

“Better just to kill,” Arab comments lazily from the couch, his gaze back to the TV.

“No, no, guys, really, it would make me very unhappy if she was dead. Really, I don’t want her to be taken or killed or anything like that,” he stammers.

Murdock bursts out laughing and Arab follows suit. Louis figures they are laughing because they have been pulling his leg, and can’t help but laugh with in relief. They are actually laughing at the irony of wanting someone gone but not wanting them to be killed.

“Come,” says Murdock, now in high spirits, “me and you, we’ll do some tik together”. When he sees the consternation on Louis’ face he laughs and adds, “don’t worry, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

When Murdock leaves the room to fetch something, Arab turns to Louis and says: “Murdock’s not your normal naai. You never know what he’s gonna do next. If I were you I’d just smoke the tik to be safe.”

Murdock returns, sits down, lights the pipe and takes a few drags. He then reloads it and places it on the table in front of Louis, and sits back while staring at Louis with that cock of the head and screwed eyes that he finds increasingly unnerving.

Louis reaches for the pipe with trembling hands. He remembers a movie he once saw where drug dealers forced victims to take one hit of something so that they would become addicted and buy more. But driven by the more immediate threat, he proceeds to light it up as he had seen Murdock do. He places the cool, round opening of the glass in his mouth and inhales. He plans on holding it in his mouth without inhaling, but when Murdock says “this stuff costs money, you better not waste it,”, Louis breathes it deeply into his lungs.

A minute of silence passes and Louis is relieved to find that he doesn’t feel very altered and is still in control of himself. He only feels slightly more alert and content. He is suddenly less scared of them, which, he figures, is a very good thing for now he can focus on protecting himself better.

The three men finish the packet of tik and proceed to enjoy many animated conversations. They talk about some turf war and the politics behind it, how it was really the cop’s fault that Louis’ mirror got broken and Arab’s ambitions to become a nature conservationist. 

After about an hour the tik starts wearing off and the conversations run dry. The men end up staring silently at a 7de Laan rerun on the muted TV.

“Well,” Murdock finally says to Louis, “shouldn’t you be getting to work?”

Louis jumps up gratefully and to his surprise both men embrace him heartily. He leaves the house in a hurried daze, relieved that the incident is over, and now very anxious about being late for work.

 

Louis moves past the gray cubicles to his own without greeting anyone, hoping they would think he had been there all along. His sandwich, which he is now very hungry for, is stuffed into his pocket. He sits down and turns on his computer without greeting Al.

A few moments later Al’s head slowly appears over the wall. He looks at Louis questioningly, but Louis only smiles at him. His eyes wander over Louis’ disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes.

“You missed a meeting this morning. Liesel says you have to go to her as soon as you are in.”

The words frighten Louis but he tries not to show it. “What was the meeting about?” he asks.

“Liesel is making a change to the Warner account. She’s getting better suppliers on it to increase the quality of the product, and she’s bringing the prices down by 10%. Sales have already gone up by 90% since it happened this morning.”

 

When Louis enters Liesel’s office she is chatting happily into the phone. “Sure Mike”, she says laughingly, “just send all the problem accounts to me, I’ll sort them right out.”

After she hangs up she turns her attention to Louis and her smile disappears. “Did you just get here now?” her eyes are screwed in disbelief.

“A short while ago. I was held up by people, it was beyond my control” he stammers.

She looks him over critically, and her eyes come to rest on his shirt that is more untucked than usually.

“Mr. Thompson, you smell like a shack. Have you been drinking?”

“No, I was just held up. I don’t mind if you take a half day from my leave.”

She snorts. “It’s really not that simple. You need to go home and come back tomorrow when you’re fresh so that we can have a little talk, do you understand?” she asks, in her best school teacher tone.

“Liesel, you know I’ve never been a minute late for work in my life. I’ll tell you exactly what happened -“

“Mr. Thompson,” she says firmly, “didn’t I say we’ll talk about it tomorrow?”

 

On his way home, Louis stops at the garage. Before giving the attendant a figure, he reaches into his pocket for his wallet to see how much money he has. It’s not there. He checks his other pocket. Nothing. He taps himself down frantically and searches his cubby hole, car doors, floor under the seat. It’s not there. His phone, too, is nowhere to be seen. He mentally retraces his steps. He took the wallet and the phone from his dresser this morning. He checked if it was in his pockets when he left his house, as he always does. It couldn’t have fallen out while he was running after the woman, his pockets are too deep. Then, he remembers the embraces, first by Murdock, then by Arab, as he was leaving them. They both slapped his back and seemed almost to be hugging him twice.

“Fuck” he whispers under his breath.

Would he go back for it? No, it is too dangerous. He’ll just have to find a way to make it to the end of the month. He’ll go home and sleep, for a great exhaustion has now come over him, and figure it out tomorrow.

 

The next day he arrives at work ten minutes early. He is nervous for his meeting with Liesel. At 9 she walks past his desk and motions for him to follow her to her office. His heart beats wildly in his chest.

When they sit down Liesel jumps right into it. “Ja Mr. Thompson, I am sure you are prepared to give all manner of excuses for your behaviour yesterday, but I am simply not interested. This, along with your low performance on the Warner account, as well as certain behavioural issues, have just about pushed me to my limit.”

“What behavioural issues?” he asks incredulously.

“The lack of motivation that is clearly written all over your face, every day. You never take initiative, you never speak up in meetings, you don’t even make friends with your colleagues. Do you even know that they all go for drinks on Friday evenings? When I attend you are never there”.

“I didn’t know” he says softly.

“And your performance on the Warner account just about shows me your level of commitment to this job.”

“But Liesel, I always meet all my targets. My sales figures are the highest on the floor.”

“Not with the Warner account! You know Louis, the job market is very tough at the moment. You’d do well to ask yourself whether you are owning up to the salary we pay you.”

Louis swallows hard and drops his gaze to the floor.

After staring at him with screwed up eyes for what feels to Louis like an eternity, Liesel sighs, shakes her head and turns her attention to her computer.

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson” she says, irritated that he is still standing there.

 

The day passes painfully slowly. A miserable Louis checks his watch every few minutes. He figures the whole office must know he was sent home yesterday, and must have heard what Liesel said to him. When Sharon enters the break room at lunch time and sees him eating quietly without even looking up at her, she stops for a moment and almost talks to him. When he looks up from his sandwich he catches only her back as she walks out the door.

 

When the day is over he slumps into his car and sits for a moment, staring sadly at the gap where the rear view mirror should have been. Does he own up to the salary they are paying him?

He turns the key in the ignition. A dramatic, adventurous symphony bursts out of the scratchy speakers. But the car does not start. He tries again. No luck. He has run out of petrol.

With a crazed little laugh he slouches back into his chair. He turns his gaze back to the broken mirror. The urgent roar of countless violins, trumpets and tambourines forces his mind to a greater world where nothing but profound, heroic acts bare any results.

When cannons start to fire, one after the other, Louis yanks his keys out of the ignition, jumps out of the car and slams the door behind him. He heads in the direction of Murdock’s house.

 

This time, when he knocks on the door, it opens instantly. A tall youth, covered in tattoos similar to Murdock’s, glare down at him. Louis glares back at the man confidently, until he notices the knife in his hand.

The light glimmers off the shiny blade and Louis’ bravado dissipates. 

“Wat soek jy?”

“I’m here to see my friend, Murdock.”

Hearing Murdock’s name, the youth slips the knife into a sheath and stands back to let Louis enter.

The tiny house is alive with activity, a far cry from the smokey, lazy atmosphere of the previous day. He spots Murdock and Arab in the corner, talking in low tones with heads close together. The tall youth, still standing, takes out his phone and hurriedly types into it. Another unknown man sits on the couch, scribbling notes into a journal.

“Louis!” Murdock exclaims excitedly when he sees him. “What a fine time for you to show up!”

He walks over to Louis and shakes his hand warmly.

“Louis my friend, we have a big job to do. I won’t lie, I’m a little nervous. See, there’s this house we want to rob. These people are real larny, they have two big TVs and computers, and the old man hates banks so he keeps a heap of cash under his mattress. We have a key and we know nobody will be there. But here’s the problem, the house is right opposite the police station”. His eyes glimmer with excitement over the challenge.

“What if you get caught?”

“I’ll go to prison and hang out with my friends for a bit, it’s not so bad. But I have things going on and would rather not have to set my ambitions aside. Now listen Louis, here’s a nice joppie for you that will save all of us. If you drive the van and sit in the driver’s seat while we work, the boere won’t look twice at us.”

Louis puts up a hand to protest but Murdock continues, “Just look at you, a white uncle with those glasses and that shirt. You have nothing to worry about, you’re invisible”.

Louis swallows hard. He is definitely worrying.

“It’s time, boys!” the young one calls from the door, tapping on his watch. 

“Let’s go,” Murdock says firmly to Louis. He is not asking, he is telling. 

Louis’ eyes fall on a formidable heap of weapons on the table next to them. Pocket knives, a panga, one large cleaver, and two small pistols.

Louis takes a deep breath and follows them out.

They move fast, the energy is running high. They enter the garage and Murdock shouts at them to get into the back. The van has a home-made spray paint job and it’s windows are sealed up with makeshift shutters. It has no divider between the front and the back. He shoves the keys into Louis’ hands and pushes him toward the front door. Louis can do nothing but get in.

“Dala, dala!” Murdock instructs from the back. Louis starts the van and they set off.

On the road, Murdock gives directions and Louis listens carefully and drives slowly and cautiously.

“Drive faster, man!” Arab says. The rest agree and urges Louis to go faster.

“If we go too fast we’ll attract attention. We could even get in an accident, and that’s the last thing we need right now.”

They fall silent, they know he’s right.

When they reach the police station, Murdock tells Louis to park in the driveway of a big house. Murdock wasn’t exaggerating, the house really is right opposite the station. Two police cars are parked outside.

Louis’ heart beats loudly in his chest. This is crazy.

“Just walk easy, like you belong here. But don’t waste any time either!” Murdock instructs the men.

They go into the house and soon they are bringing out items one by one and loading them into the van.

Louis spots movement from the corner of his eye. Two policemen are walking out of the station. His heart leaps to his throat and bangs so loudly in his ears that he doesn’t even hear when Murdock, who is currently crouched behind him and peering through a tiny opening between the shutters, whispers “he’s coming over. Just be cool.”

A knock on his window. Louis slowly turns his head to the side and smiles sheepishly at the cop. He winds the window down.

“Good morning, officer,” he says in a calm voice. He can’t believe it’s his. 

The cop, who had his hand on his holster and eyes darting nervously to the sight of two of the guys busy carrying a TV and microwave out of the house, is taken aback when he sees Louis.

He frowns deeply. “This your van?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, “I use it to do the hard work with. Certainly won’t take the old lady to church with it”. He speaks smoothly and even manages a little chuckle.

The policeman smiles, his tension visibly fading. He takes his hand off of his holster.

“What you doing here?”

Louis yawns, appreciating the much needed breath of air. “I have to help my brother in law move today. I guess that’s what family is for, hey? He’s at the new place, unpacking the boxes. But I won’t be surprised to find him having only unpacked the beers in all this time!”

The policeman smiles knowingly.

“It’s good exercise at least. You and your friend there should pitch in for a bit, it would save you a trip to the gym.”

The policeman laughs, now completely disarmed.

“No, no, you look like you have it under control. Have a good day,” he says, gives a friendly nod and walks back to the station.

Louis watches him and the other one with bated breath as they get into their car and drive off and out of sight.

“Jesus fucking holy Christ” Murdock lets out under his breath.

 

Back at the house, spirits run high. The men jubilantly relive every detail. They drink beer and smoke weed and tik. Louis drinks a beer but doesn’t smoke. They cheer him and shake his hand repeatedly. He, too, although not proud of having committed a crime, is surprised and impressed by his success with the policeman. He worries about having been seen, but the other men just laugh it off and tell him that, since he has no criminal record and the van wasn’t in his name, they’ll never find him.

Louis still feels uneasy when his eyes drift to the weapons on the table, but he also can’t help but enjoy all the attention. At some point the conversation shifts to focus solely on Louis and his troubles at work.

“You know what I think,” Murdock starts. The room goes quiet. “I think you’re probably the best salesman there, and that lady’s just taking the rewards that belongs to you for herself. She’s on your turf.” 

The others heartily agree and Louis spends the next half hour rejecting various proposals to have her ‘taken out’.  

When the party gets louder and wilder, and Arab starts waving his gun in the air more and more recklessly, and at some point boasts that he is always ready for action and his gun is always loaded, Louis decides it’s time to go.

They want him to stay longer but doesn’t put up a fight when he declines. On his way out, Murdock puts his arm around Louis’ shoulders and presses into his hands a thick wad of R200 notes, his wallet and his phone.

 

A week later Louis is quietly punching numbers into his computer when Mr. Godfrey, the CEO, walks into the office and asks everybody to gather around for an announcement. Louis would rather finish his task but does as he’s told.

Mr. Godfrey, with his neat, tailored suit, clears his throat. Liesel is standing right next to him with a smirk on her face.

“As you all know, the last two years have been tough on our turnover, and the marketplace is truly suffering out there. Times are tough but we’ve gotten through it before and we’re getting through it now, all because of some individuals who always go the extra mile. At JBH we believe in rewarding these individuals. This is why it is my great honour to announce that Liesel Vermaak is being promoted to Senior Sales Executive, effective immediately.”

Liesel flashes a brilliant smile.

“Liesel’s team has consistently reached target for over a decade, and recently she single handedly saved the Warner account, one without which this company would not have been able to continue.”

After the speech people line up to hug or shake Liesel’s hand. Louise stares at her through narrowed eyes as she accepts their compliments and congratulations most humbly.

After she accepts the last congratulations, a firm, warm handshake from Mr. Godfrey himself, she returns to her office. She closes the door behind her and sinks into her big chair. She double clicks on the Solitaire icon and as usually it takes a while to open. While she waits, she closes her eyes and rolls her head back onto her shoulders, a happy smile on her face.

When she comes back up Louis is standing right in front of her desk.

“Mr. Thompson! You gave me a fright. What can I help you with?”

“Why didn’t you fire me the other day?” he asks calmly.

“Excuse me?”

“You could have, you wanted to, why didn’t you?”

“It is very unwise to tempt fate like this. I am very willing to reconsider.”

“You didn’t fire me, and you won’t, because without me your team would have the lowest numbers and you’d have no idea how to save any accounts.”

Liesel’s face, even her ears, turns bright red.

“Mr. Thompson, you are on thin ice,” she says, but her voice falters.

“I want a promotion, a big one. I might want more, but let’s start there and see how it goes.”

When she doesn’t reply he adds in a condescending tone, “do you think you can do that for me?”

 

A month later, Louis is driving to work in a brand new BMW. His phone rings on the seat next to him. It’s Sharon. He’ll call her back later.

Louis stops at a traffic light and spots Murdock leaning against a wall, the woman with the purple hair hanging from his neck and friends crowding around him.

The two men lock eyes. They both smile. Murdock raises his eyebrows at the car and gives a thumbs up. When the light turns green, Murdock makes a finger gun at Louis, and Louis, as he’s driving away, makes one back at Murdock and pulls the trigger.

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.

Shukran

Upon entering the old pawn shop in Parow, the dusty air and sour old woman behind the counter will so insult your senses that exiting back into the gas-filled noisy mess of Voortrekker Road is rendered a happy relief.

The sour old woman is Aafia, and she now sits, slumped dismally over the dirty counter, staring blankly at the three lottery tickets she bought along with her morning cigarettes. Most of the light bulbs in the store have blown, and one of the few left flickers eerily.

Aafia inherited the shop from her father, as he did from his father, who opened its doors in his ambitious youth as a means to elevate his family from poverty, and never since did a Pieters child go to school with tattered shoes. When Aafia was handed the keys in her early thirties, she had no specific ambitions in life, so she begrudgingly resigned herself to the swivel chair behind the counter for all her years to come, wishing her grandfather had bigger aspirations and left them a better legacy than one old shop.

Sales have declined in recent years due to more furniture shops opening up around her, and she is vaguely aware that she might have to close it at some point in the future. It is a matter out of her control, and she decides not to let it worry her; she will deal with the challenge when the time comes.

When Aafia hears the doorbell chime, she sinks lower in her chair, hoping the customers won’t need assistance. She surveys the shop with a glance; one couple is browsing washing machines, another is pointing at and discussing frames on the wall and one man is inspecting an old work bench near to where she is sitting.

“Excuse me, ma’am, may I have a discount if I take the bench and the chair?” he asks.

“I would charge you more if you didn’t,” she grunts. “They’re a pair and they get sold together.”

He inspects it for a while longer and then leaves without buying it.

When the day is finally over, Aafia packs her lottery tickets neatly into her bag and locks up. Out in the street, she hails the dingy taxi that must take her to her apartment block in Salt River. She slumps in with heavy feet, visions of what dismal dinner she will cook herself tonight flickering through her tired mind.

“Come, Auntie, I don’t have all day!” the taxi’s young guardjie remonstrates as he ushers passengers in. He is a lean, dark-skinned boy, dressed in an oversized red hoodie and baggy jeans. There is a sparkle in his eyes.

She shoots him a sideways scowl and continues at her slow pace to a seat in the back.

He laughs at her. “Why you so tired, Auntie? Tonight I’m taking you somewhere special, so you can smile for a change!”

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

The bright-eyed youth continues, “I can see you’re going to fall asleep, but you mustn’t; tonight, I make all your dreams come true!”

He laughs, exposing a row of gold-plated teeth. His jubilant air is in stark contrast with the passengers, who are all utterly dismal, staring lifelessly ahead like corpses. As dusk slowly settles around them, it appears the taxi has indeed transformed into a hearse, at last carrying its dusty cadavers to their dreary ends.

The man next to Aafia, whose eyes have been shut, knocks into her every time they go over a bump in the road. He has been dressed in his best, least-faded suit. At the next stop, his lifeless body is hauled out into the night.

When they reach Aafia’s stop, she, too, is ejected and lands mercilessly on the street. She scuffles to the front door of her rundown apartment block, rummaging through her bag for her keys. Her head is bent the entire time, and she is confused when she opens the gate and does not hear its characteristically loud squeak. For the first time since arriving, she is brought to the present. She looks up to discover that the old apartment block has been replaced by a vast and majestic castle.

 

*   *   *

 

The magnificence of this unexpected stone structure takes Aafia’s breath away. Five large turrets that disappear in the clouds encircle a magnificent keep. Every inch is decorated with intricately carved shapes and mythical creatures. The architecture is ancient, yet the walls shine like polished obsidian. Two terrifying stone gargoyles are perched menacingly above an obviously impenetrable four-storey iron gate.

Aafia, not knowing where she is or how she got there, starts to back away slowly when a soldier dressed in a proud red uniform notices her and exclaims some profanity, which she can’t quite make out. She panics when the soldier rushes toward her, but, before she can turn to run, he falls down in front of her, dust erupting about his now pathetic person, and kisses the air above her feet.

“Your Highness!’’ he exclaims most affectionately. “We have searched for thee in all the woods and all the lands! Pray, let me accompany thee at once to thy keep so that Your Highness may prepare for the dinner that is to be held in thy honour this very hour!”

Aafia, rendered speechless, is promptly led over the drawbridge and into the main ward, which has a monumental fountain in its centre and many servants, soldiers and horses bustling about.

When they notice her, they all stop what they are doing and bow.

An astonished Aafia continues following what is now a platoon of soldiers toward the formidable keep. At the door, they move aside in unison to form a path for her, and bow ceremoniously. She still cannot speak as she enters the keep.

The magnificence of the exterior could not have prepared even a king for the magnificence of this great hall in which our pawnbroker now finds herself. Giant crystal chandeliers, great golden monuments of lions and angels, and a grand staircase made entirely of glass and mirrors are but a few majestic objects that further bewilder the senses. The servants here have somehow been made aware of her arrival, and they are now lined up proudly to meet her.

“Thy bath awaits, my Royal Highness,” announces the most decorated of servants, a thin giant of a man wearing a golden monocle and dressed most splendidly. She will later learn that his name is Ugar and that his family has served the crown loyally for many generations.

Aafia remains dumbfounded and silent as they carry her off and bathe her in a large pool filled with oils and lavender branches, and then dress her in a gold and cream gown that has more layers than she can count, and then usher her into another splendid hall that is filled with grand lords and ladies all dancing and laughing most joyously. When she enters, they stop and bow.

Ugar’s voice booms across the hall. “Here enters Queen Aafia Pieters I, our sovereign ruler, worshipped by all her people, feared by all her enemies, and so loved that she is made immortal in all our hearts!”

Upon hearing her name thus used, Aafia realises for the first time that they have, in fact, not mistaken her for another, and is so pleased and terrified at once that she nearly faints. Her servants do not notice her distress. They lead her to a great black marble throne at the end of the room, where she sits for the rest of the night surveying the bizarre sight at her feet. Harpists play cheerful melodies, servants keep her cup filled with sweet nectars and chefs bring before her great legs of lamb, lobsters, cakes and candy apples, which have always been her favourite dessert. At length, Aafia begins to relax and allows herself to enjoy her new setting.

As the days pass, Aafia becomes more and more comfortable with her life as queen, and is soon ordering servants about and demanding treats and pleasures to fulfil her every desire. She neglects what little duties she has, which annoys her subjects, but they can do nothing about it, so they pretend not to notice and they do the work themselves. Aafia senses their unhappiness, but does not care. It is around this time that she becomes increasingly delighted by the beauty of the ornaments in her castle. She goes for long walks along the decorated halls and gardens, and Ugar narrates where every unique item came from. Most are heirlooms from predecessors, and some were gifts from royal families and noblemen. Once she has seen every furniture piece, statue, vase and chandelier, she orders her merchants to travel to exotic lands and bring her more wonderful things, and soon the splendour of her castle is tripled and comes to be known as the most grand and decorated castle in history.

One day, she is seated on her throne when a merchant, just back from China, presents three rare vases to her with trembling hands.

“They are blue and white ‘Dragon and Lotus’ porcelain vases, Your Majesty; they date to the 1700s,” he stammers.

She surveys them critically. “They are handsome,” she says discerningly, “but not enough so to tempt me. Look…” She motions to a row of vases to her side that are, undoubtedly, more ancient and more beautiful. “Yours would be a horrid disappointment when placed next to the others in my collection. Take them away.”

“Your Highness, they were acquired from the descendants of China’s last royal family!”

“And so? What is that to me?”

“Your Highness…” Here, the man bows his head and takes a step toward her. “I have spent all that I owned to acquire them, and, if you do not buy them, I will surely be ruined. I have five children, Your Majesty.”

“Very well, I will buy them from you and use them as doorstoppers,” she says smugly, revelling in her benevolence.

The man is overjoyed. The servants pack up the vases and lead the man to a door to the side so that he may leave. While doing so, he performs a little hop of jubilance whereby he knocks over one of the precious, more valuable vases that the queen referred to earlier, and it falls to the ground and shatters into many small pieces.

Aafia jumps from her throne in great anger and slaps the poor merchant so hard that her hand is imprinted with red bumps on his cheek.

The room falls silent. Aafia blushes furiously. The servants are all staring at her in shock and disappointment.

Aafia retires to her chambers in shame and stays there for days. She makes sure the merchant is paid double what he asked for, but it is clear to her that the servants still do, and will always, hate her. The disregard of her royal duties and her demanding airs in the past now make it impossible for them to look past this one fatal transgression. They still serve her, they have to, but she can see the loathing in their eyes as they do. When she calls Ugar to take her on a tour, he is away on urgent business. With every meal that is placed in front of her, she imagines she sees the telltale bubbles where they must surely have spat. She eats very little and becomes very thin. She notices statesmen whispering in corridors and then jumping when they see her, so she appoints extra personal guards to protect her against an assassination, but the men they bring to her scare her even more than the statesmen themselves. She decides to host another dinner in her honour to regain some respect, but so few guests show up that the great hall echoes with every sound they make, so they stand about in silence as the harpists play simple, un-practiced melodies. Upon her entrance, Ugar drearily announces, “Here enters Queen Aafia Pieters I, great ruler, feared by her enemies.”

Upon hearing this, and remembering the endearing sentiments made by him previously, Aafia bursts out crying. She runs in shame from the hall, out into the ward, and then across the moat. She falls down in the street in anguish. The soldiers all pretend not to notice her, which plummets her heart into an even deeper despair.

After a long while spent in such anguish, one of her grand coaches appears in front of her and the door swings open.

“Come now, Your Highness, I haven’t got all day!” the coachman chimes. It is the guardjie from the taxi. “Where you going to, Your Highness?”

“Anywhere but here!” she exclaims and climbs in.

 

*   *   *

 

The coach rattles on with Aafia in the back, sobbing quietly, until dawn breaks.

“Thank you, Auntie, that’ll be R9,” the guardjie gleefully demands, snapping her out of her melancholy reverie.

Aafia searches her satin gown for pockets, but it has none.

She panics. How will she pay for this ride? She has no handbag; she has nothing.

“I forgot to bring my money with me,” she says.

“You didn’t forget; you threw it away!” The guardjie curses ‘jirre’ under his breath.

She is embarrassed, but relieved that the dingy taxi continues to rattle along Voortrekker Road without throwing her out.

In Parow, they stop in front of the pawn shop and the guardjie urges her to exit swiftly. She gets out and the taxi speeds off.

The pawn shop has been transformed into a cheap modern furniture shop. A spray-painted ‘Sale always on’ is sprawled offensively over the large window. Ugly tables and chairs line the street in front of it. She walks in. Fluorescent lights illuminate a tacky sea of yellow plywood. She picks up a plain plastic vase and puts it down again in disgust.

The storekeeper, a short man with dark rings under his eyes, appears in front of her. “Can I help you, ma’am?” He eyes her critically, for by now her once-wondrous gown has fallen flat and is covered in dust and ripped in several places. “If you’re not here to buy, I will ask you to leave.”

After one last look about the bright faux hell, Aafia steps back out onto Voortrekker Road. With no money, she can’t take a taxi; she has to walk the 10 kilometres to Salt River. Her soiled satin slippers tear quickly and she is soon walking barefoot on the dirty glass-strewn sidewalk. She reaches her apartment block, but, not having keys on her, she has to wait for somebody to open the gate. The person looks her up and down distrustfully, but lets her in. When she gets close to her front door, it opens and a pretty young woman with two laughing toddlers exits and locks it again behind them. Aafia dismally heads back out into the streets.

Aafia spends the dreary days that follow walking up and down Voortrekker Road, eating nothing but soup from the local soup kitchen and sleeping under bridges. She exchanges her tattered satin gown for a brown shirt and jeans from the Salvation Army. Nobody talks to her, except for Lukas, a seven-year-old homeless boy who is so timid and frightful that the other boys bully him and he has no friends. His large eyes are pools of emotion, as though they are always on the brink of tears. Years ago, he fell asleep on a taxi ride with his mother, and, when he woke, he was at Cape Town station and she was gone. He wandered the large station, wailing, for many days until he finally realised his mother was not coming back. Aafia takes pity on him and lets him sleep under her blanket on cold nights. When she finds out he can’t read or count, she decides to teach him. Needing money for books and pencils, she starts asking strangers for work. She cleans houses, washes cars and gardens. The jobs pay little and do not come frequently, but she manages to makes enough to pay for stationary and a bit of food.

One day, she is asked to clean out an abandoned garage. The new owner will pay her R50 and she can keep whatever she finds in it. At first sight, it is filled with a heap of old newspapers, broken bottles and old planks with rusty nails. She proceeds cautiously and diligently, picking away at the dangerous mass. She does not expect to find anything of value in it, but, when she removes a large corrugated iron sheet, a most exquisite thing is revealed. It is an original 1930s Singer chair, with the iconic Eiffel Tower cast iron stand and a round wooden seat and backrest held together by two iron rods shaped with such effeminate beauty and elegance that it makes Aafia’s heart flutter like a child in love. When she raises it out of its tomb of debris, a second chair is revealed. This Scandinavian design has a large flat seat and backrest, it’s material long since eroded, held together by a complex system of wooden rods so artfully and painstakingly crafted that Aafia’s chest burns when she runs her course hands lovingly over them. Aafia quickly finishes cleaning the garage and calls Lukas to help her carry the chairs. The owner sees, but does not realise the value of the chairs, and lets her go with her prize as promised.

Aafia and Lukas spend the week that follows washing, sanding and oiling their chairs in a quiet parking lot in the backstreets of Parow. They have spent every cent they owned on the restoration. When they are done, the chairs glisten like new. The garage owner would not have let her leave with them if he saw them like this. Aafia then visits upholsterer after upholsterer, until she finally finds one kind enough to cover the Scandinavian chair’s seat and backrest with black leather for nothing but a homeless woman’s promise of future payment.

On a cold, drizzling morning, Aafia and Lukas set out, each with a chair above their heads, to the city. The walk is long and the chairs are heavy. When they reach the market square, the day is already over and the tourists have all left, so they beg for some food and go to sleep right there, Lukas curled up on the black leather of the larger chair and Aafia next to him on a soft patch of soil, holding the other chair close.

The next morning, they are awakened by tourists poking them all over, tickling Lukas into a childish giggling fit. Aafia is assaulted with a hundred questions. The pale crowd stares and snaps their cameras, and talks in strange languages. After a long, confusing hour, she sells the chairs for R20,000.

With this money, Aafia peruses pawn shops and curates from them those pieces that the owners do not realise are valuable, and then restores them and sells them to tourists on the square. She pays back the kind upholsterer and brings him a lot of new business. Thanks to her expert eye and love for the items, she soon acquires a small fortune. She buys back her pawn shop in Parow and transforms it into a beautiful boutique antique shop. Soon, she is curating unique antiques and objects d’art from across the globe. Collectors travel from far to visit her, and she welcomes every one warmly.

Aafia names her business ‘Shukran’, for she has learnt gratitude. Gratitude to her grandfather and all his hard work. Gratitude to herself for learning how to direct her life. Gratitude to the artistry within humanity that creates such beauty in furniture. Gratitude to the guardjie who took her not where she wanted to go, but where she needed to go. Gratitude to every hardship in her past.

Aafia buys a big house for her and Lukas and sends him to the finest school in the district, where he makes many new friends. On weekends, he works with her in the shop, and she shows him the beauty of antiques, so that he may love them as she does. Lukas becomes a strong, intelligent young man. He is known and loved by all as a particularly compassionate man, and his confidence and knowledge of life guides him to exercise many great acts of kindness toward others. He builds a great orphanage and school, where he lets in any child, building more rooms when it starts to overflow.

In later years, Lukas marries and Aafia is bequeathed many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She spends her days surrounded by the wealth of family, and feels richer than she ever dreamt to be, and her heart becomes a sweet, swollen thing made entirely of gratitude and love.

Dives and Lazarus

There was once a great rich man named Dives who lived in a beautiful palace. By his gate lay an old sickly beggar named Lazarus. The great man would not as much as give Lazarus the crumbs off his table. His family urged him to give Lazarus work, but he said that Lazarus was too old and sick, and could do nothing of worth. Lazarus did not complain. Lazarus remained there and bothered not a soul. He was also never heard to say a bad word about the rich man. One day, they both died, Lazarus of his diseases and the great man of a heart attack. When they arrived at the gates of Heaven, the Abrahamic God himself was there to read their judgment. The sight of Him struck fear in both men’s hearts. The rich man stepped back, but Lazarus stepped forward.

“I know thee well, dear Lazarus. Today, you are here to enter my paradise, and to see that rich man enter the inferno.” His voice echoed across time.

Lazarus began to cry with joy. For the first time in his life, his heart was filled with triumph.

“But you are wrong!” roared the Almighty’s voice.

Both men were greatly shocked.

God continued, “You have spent your life idly. When you were young and strong, you did not want to work hard, which is why you became poor and could not eat well, and this is why you became sick and died. You never loved anyone; this is why you died alone. Dives, on the other hand, worked hard and honourably throughout his life. He acquired many wives and they had many children, so that he was always loved and cared for. He taught his children great virtues, so that today they are strong, admirable men who will continue to bring fortune to their country and love to their wives and children. He might not have given money or food to every beggar he crossed, but he never intended harm. As it is written, you must now go to the inferno. My friend, Dives, may enter here with me today, and dine with the angels and soar with the eagles.”

So an utterly distraught Lazarus was savagely dragged away by terrifying demons, and a humbled Dives was whisked into the clouds by sweet, honourable angels.

Many days, or years, or centuries passed, when one day Dives was lying on the top of a mountain amidst soft green leaves of grass, and happened to look down and see a part of Hell exposed to him. There, of course, he saw Lazarus, being whipped by frightful creatures and crying and screaming in shame. Dives was so bothered by this unholy sight that he went to God at once and begged Him to release Lazarus. God listened, for God’s heart is filled with mercy and love.

“I beg thee, sweet Lord, to release that man. For surely have his crimes not been as great as his punishment is now? And surely, if you love the humans whom you had created yourself as your children, this brings even greater pain to you than to me? And surely, if you are almighty, you are perfectly able to release him?”

God listened. God wept.

“Your logic is complete, my dear Dives. I cannot argue with it. But you are mistaken in one obvious way. If for centuries I had let man be so ultimately punished for mere idleness, or mistakes made, or that they had not called my name, then surely you must now realise that I am not almighty at all. You have read that I am perfect, but you have read it from books written by the hands of humans, and humans have always been flawed. The truth is that I am afraid of the Devil, for he is as strong as I am. If I had been almighty, I would have simply destroyed Satan the very second of his creation, or, rather, never made the mistake of creating him in the first place. But now come, let us work together and find a way to free Lazarus’ poor soul.”

So the two thought for hours, or days, or years until they finally had a plan to defeat the Devil.

They sent all the angels down to Earth, so that all the souls in Heaven were left to pour their own wine and play their own clarinets. The angels’ task was to do as much good as they could. They had to heal the sick, they had to give food to the hungry and they had to speak words of courage in the ears of the weak. When the Devil, from his black throne, saw the great fortune that had befallen mankind, he sent all his little devils and spirits and goblins to Earth as well, and angrily commanded them to wreak havoc like never before. They had to trip the crippled, bring pests over all the farmers’ crops and break the spirits of the brave. The tortured souls in Hell were left to enjoy a long yearned for peace.

Now the two heroes flew down unto the dark craters of Hell, and landed before the Devil’s throne.

“We demand eternal custody of the soul of the one named Lazarus!” echoed God’s stern, heavenly voice.

The Devil laughed. “Why? I simply will not.” He was greatly amused.

“You will. For you have had to send all your demons to Earth to fight my angels, and until you release Lazarus I will not call my angels back, and you will never be able to torture your souls in Hell again.”

Hearing this, the Devil cried and screamed and had great childish fits. God persisted.

So it came to be that Lazarus was released from Hell and flew up unto the soft, tranquil clouds of paradise. God and Dives washed him themselves, and rubbed his feet with fragrant oils, and brought before him a great feast. Then they made him a bed of rose petals, where he slept for days, or weeks, or months.

To this very day, Dives and Lazarus are the best of friends and equals, and spend their eternity as such, in perfect bliss. Nevermore will they judge others on fortune alone, but forever will they value above all else faith, hope and love.

The Lonely Ghost

After a gruelling day at the office, I sit down on my sofa and stare at the broken TV. My head is filled with thoughts of marketing strategies and supplier meetings. I should eat something. I hear a noise in the kitchen; it’s probably the neighbour’s cat. I lean back for a better view and see the cat there. It is hissing and its tail is puffed. I roll my eyes. I get up and walk to the kitchen. When I enter, I am startled to see a young girl standing in the middle of the room, hugging herself tight, shivering. She is even more startled to see me; she steps back as if afraid of me. She is very thin and pale, and very pretty. Her long, dark hair covers part of her face. The deep rings around her eyes and her torn ’50s dress are the only indications that she is a ghost. She looks scared.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask politely.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ she says quickly.

‘I know. Do you need help?’

‘How…? How do you know?’ Her voice is frail and sad and I feel a rush of sympathy for this forlorn soul. Maybe she was once a happy young girl, loved by all, and now she is lost and doomed to roam the world without connection. Now everybody screams and runs when they see her.

‘Don’t worry; I am not afraid.’

We stare at each other. She relaxes a little and even smiles.

‘Can I do anything for you?’ I ask.

‘I… was looking for my home. I want to go home.’

‘I can take you there. Where is it?’

‘Where my mom and dad are.’

I can’t help her, after all, but it looks like she already knew that.

‘Why are you not afraid of me?’ She is now even more at ease and looks almost happy.

‘I don’t care for nonsense. I believe only the facts that I see with my own eyes. I see a lovely young woman in front of me who means me no harm.’

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head. Her eyes glisten with mischief.

‘This is very interesting. I wonder if you are really not afraid.’

‘I told you I am not.’

‘But, what if I do this?’ She lifts her head slowly, bringing in to view the ghastly sight of a gaping slit in her throat. This is how she died; she was murdered.

I take a deep breath. I try not to show it, but a slight panic has overcome me. Her wound is not what frightens me, but rather the fact that she is showing it to me. Why would she be trying to scare me? I try to smile.

‘Still not. Let me help you find your home. If you tell me which area it is in, I can give you directions.’

She chuckles. Blood gurgles from her throat.

‘Are you sure about that?’ she asks leisurely, enjoying my growing discomfort.

She leans forward and stares into my eyes, now intently searching for signs of fear.

My heart beats in my throat and my ears ring. I want her gone, but I sense that if I antagonise her in any way or show any fear she will do something. I don’t know what she would do to me, but the possibility of it now paralyses me.

‘Sure. Come with me; I have a map of the city that we can look at,’ I say.

Somehow, I manage to turn and walk away. I try to do so casually, but my body is shaking all over and my self-control is faltering. I do not have a map. I do not want to help her. I just want to get as far away from her as possible.

When I enter the living room, she is sprawled out on the dinner table, thumping her fingers on the wood arrogantly, maliciously waiting for me to show that I am scared.

I smile and walk toward a cupboard in the corner of the room. I start to trawl through it, pretending to search for the map. What do I do now? Can I run? Should I scream? Should I fight her? As I dig through the books and papers, my ears ring louder and louder. There is nothing to do. I can only turn back to her and tell her that I can’t find my map and hope that she will leave.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe I can lie to her, tell her that her house is on the other side of town.

I turn around. She is right in front of me! Her face is horribly distorted and her eyes gleam with malevolence. She opens her black mouth and hisses! She comes at me, as if to eat my soul. I scream! Then I feel her, not on top of me, but inside me. I feel her cold flesh tear through my body. Then, for the most terrifying moment of my life, I see her mind. She is filled with rage and hate and nothing else. The emotions she felt in that moment, after the soldiers raped her and her mother and killed her whole family, when they held her down and cut her throat like a pig, those emotions are all that now exist within her.

Darkness follows.

When I wake, I am lying alone in a field. It is terrifyingly dark. Something is not right; I am in great danger. My heart still beats and my ears still ring. I sit up. I see houses in the distance, but they give me no comfort; they look eerie and forbidding. Somewhere, a branch breaks and I scream, scampering away from the sound pathetically. It is now that I discover my body on the ground where I was lying. It is muddy and bloody; my limbs are all broken and my face is contorted. My terrified eyes stare coldly into the void. I scream again and scamper further away. Something catches my eye. The girl is standing there, smiling cruelly at me. She laughs from the pit of her stomach and then flies away into the ominous woods behind her.

I am screaming and crying, but I manage to get up. I do not know where to go, but all I can do is to try to get away. I run in a state of absolute terror for the rest of my excruciating eternity.

The Family

The eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had just turned four when she started to wonder about the silent visitors at their dining hall table. Why do Mother and Father speak to her and to her little sister and to the servants, but never as much as glance toward any one of the others? When she was a small baby and her eyes had just started resting on the objects around her, and her mind had just started comprehending their existences, she had often wondered about the quiet diners. She would stare at them or open her mouth to speak, but then her parents’ silent hints would immediately warn her against it. And as they never spoke to her and hardly ever even glanced at her, she grew bored of them and instead did what her parents did, showed them as little regard as what they showed her. Lately, however, she had been asking more and more about the world around her, and the many informative and delightful answers she had been receiving pleased her greatly and fuelled her inquisitiveness wonderfully.

“Mamma, who is that?” She pointed her little silver fork at one of the elderly gentlemen. He evoked her curiosity most of all the quiet diners, as he had a habit of eating rather noisily and often dropped something or broke his wine glass. When this happened, one of the maids always rushed in and quietly, but frantically cleaned whatever mess he had made and replaced whatever he had lost or broken.

“It is your grandfather, dear; don’t bother him,” her mother answered nervously.

“Oh, that can’t be right, Mamma! Grandfather lives with Grandmother, very, very far away! I know it cannot possibly be him, for when I visited him and Grandmamma last it took days just to get to them, so how could they possibly be here in time to visit us each night for dinner? And besides, Grandpapa is not nearly as quiet as this man and he also looks nothing like him. So there.”

“I know, dear; this is your other Grandpapa.”

“Oh,” she replied. She had never heard her parents speak of a second Grandpapa. She lifted her eyebrows as if ready to ask another question, lowered them again, and then raised them again and asked, “Mamma, where is my other Grandmamma?”

“Frances!” shouted her father suddenly. His voice echoed through the large room.

She was so startled that for the rest of the evening she dared not ask anything about the matter again. Late the next morning, however, her mother came quietly into her room where she was playing with her dolls and sat down next to her.

“Frances, darling, do you still want to know who the people are who dine with us every evening?” she asked.

The girl looked up at her with big eyes and nodded.

“They are all your grandfathers, grandmothers, grandaunts and granduncles.”

“Oh!” she said. “I did not know I had so many!”

Her mother smiled.

“But Mamma, what about the younger gentleman, the one who sits at the far end and wears those odd clothes? And the young lady who sits about two seats from him? Surely they are too young?”

Her mother sighed and glanced sideways. “Well, they certainly look young, but they really are your grandparents.”

The girl frowned, then asked, “Mamma, and why are they always so quiet? Why have they never spoken to me?”

Her mother sighed again and stood up. “They can’t. Or, they won’t. They don’t-”

“Mamma?”

“They are not like us, Frances; they cannot see us.”

“Mamma!” Frances jumped up and stared wide eyed at her mother. “What do you mean, they cannot see us? How can they not see us if we can see them? How, Mamma?”

“Well no, dear, I mean, they can see us; it is just that they can’t talk to us, and they don’t want to talk to us either, do you hear?”

The little girl frowned still deeper.

“Darling, please,” said her mother again, “don’t be worried about it; they mean you no harm. They are very quiet people and they just need to dine with us; that is all.”

That evening, our little girl spoke very little at the dining table. The rest of the party were just as quiet. There were no jests and no threats of keeping dessert away until everybody’s vegetables were finished. In this silence, the clinking of cutlery from the quiet guests was louder than ever. Frances listened to the old man next to her sniffle constantly, as he had done ever since she could remember.

Frances looked at him. Her mother noticed and the bite that she was about to take drifted slowly back to her plate. “Frances,” she said threateningly. There was fear in her voice. Frances was now too enthralled with the man to pay her mother any notice.

“Would you like a handkerchief?” she asked loudly. Her father inhaled sharply. They were all staring at the man, Frances waiting innocently for a reply and her mother and father dreading it.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said again, louder, and tugged at his sleeve. He stopped eating, but did not look her way. If she had seen her parents’ expressions at that moment, she would have got the fright of her life.

He started eating again. Frances sighed, bit her lip, and them impulsively decided that enough was enough. She stood up on her chair and, with her little plump hands, turned the man’s wrinkled face towards her own. “Sir, can you understand me?” she asked and looked deeply into his eyes, hoping to find the slightest indication of comprehension.

Very slowly, the dull, lifeless air about him started to fade away. The stagnant lines around his mouth and on his forehead stirred. A smile slowly ensued and what looked like recognition came into his eyes.

“Can you speak?” she asked and gave his head a slight jerk.

Now her mother and father jumped up from the table. Her mother shrieked in horror and fled from the room. Her father was about to flee, but stopped and slowly turned back. “Frances!” he shouted. “Frances, come to me at once!”

The man glanced at her father and then back at her. “I can, but not to you,” he said softly, kindly.

“Why not?”

Now the man’s smile faded and a tear ran down his cheek. “Why not?”

“Yes, why can you not speak to me?”

“For us to speak, we must become the same.” Another tear ran down his cheek.

“Then become like me,” said Frances solemnly.

“I cannot, only you can become like me.”

“And then we can speak?”

“We are speaking already.”

Frances looked down and saw a girl lying on the floor. When she realised that it was her own limp body she was looking down on, she tried to scream, or run, or cry, but she could do nothing. She could only let go of the man, sit down and finish her dinner in silence, as any member of the family should naturally be allowed to do.

The Man with Tongues

There was once a man who ate cookies from a jar that he was not supposed to eat from. The jar belonged to a medicine man. The medicine man had warned him that eating from it would bring upon him a severe case of tongues. But he was hungry, and sad, and cross… and the world was bothering him a great deal, as the world was not at all how he had wanted it to be. He felt that a case of tongues could not be so horrible. Then there, in his bed, he woke one morning, with a case of tongues worse than any man had ever had. He returned to the medicine man, all the while trying in vain to hide his many new tongues, but the medicine man laughed and said that he was behaving foolishly. He could do nothing, he said, nothing at all. He pleaded, wept and fell to the floor in bizarre fits. The medicine man could do nothing. At sunset, he returned home. He had not enough food in the house to feed all his tongues and he could not buy any more food from the merchant, as his ailment caused him great embarrassment. He ate what he had and then rummaged around his garden for the melons and tomatoes that grew there. He then spent the night planting various other edibles. He planted strawberries, carrots and grapefruit. He worked until the sun pronounced day and then ate all that was left of the melons and all the ripe tomatoes for breakfast. Then, again, he wept. His limp body fell to the earth in many convulsions and he wept and wept until his eyes became very swollen and his face became wet and pale. He tasted the soil, his dirty clothing, the sweet air, the dew on the leaves and the cold pebbles. One tongue accidentally swallowed a pebble and then another, on his other side, spat it out again. Such astounding accord of organs might have elsewhere evoked pride, but here it caused nothing but a fresh bout of tears. The sun crept slowly up and up until the man was hungry again. The tomatoes that were left were not yet ripe and the sourness made his tongues drip saliva and contort strangely. It was now, while our unfortunate was sitting in his garden with his bereaved face and many wriggling tongues, that a boy walked past and saw. The boy stared and then pointed, and then started laughing hysterically. He then started making rude remarks, all those he could think of, and then ran away to fetch his friends so they, too, could stare and point and laugh and make rude remarks. As he ran off, the man stuck his tongues out at the boy, who, having seen this, would have been able to make a few more rude remarks. The man now stood up and started walking into the open field that lay before his house. He crossed it and encountered a river. He crossed the river and encountered a graveyard. He crossed the graveyard, stepping carelessly on the flowered mounds and encountered a gravelled path. He crossed the path and encountered a small chicken that could speak. He walked past the chicken and encountered the chicken’s children. They could not speak. He walked past the chicken’s children and encountered an old lady’s garden where hundreds of ripe red tomatoes grew. He crossed the garden and reached the jail where the jailor and the angry convicts hung from the windows and pointed and laughed. He passed the jail and encountered the forest and disappeared into its darkness. The animals stared at this strange man stumbling aimlessly forward, but they saw nothing that was bizarrely odd about him, and they certainly saw no tongues of any kind.

An owl noticed the sudden silence, opened one eye and said, “He has gone mad.”

A woodpecker cocked his head to the side and said, “He has driven himself mad.”

The others shrugged and sighed and continued with their doings. The man was never seen or heard from again.