Dit is vyf-en-dertig grade celcius, Vyftien November. Ek lê onder ’n waaier. My gedagtes draai-draai in die speke vas. Daar kleef ’n fyn sweetreuk aan my. Ek bad en bad weer; maar niks bring verligting. Ek pop valiums, prozac, prothiaden, dormicums — wat ek ook al in die hande kan kry. Na sewe saans bel ek almal wie ek ken en praat al hoe meer kak. En ek weet: Ek wag op ’n onwaarskynlike dood.
My huis het onbewoonbaar geword en ek walg aan die dorheid van my bestaan. Ek trek die gordyne toe — vuil pienk en blou gordyne — ek wil nie meer weet hoe dit buite lyk nie. Wat ook al tussen die takke van bome skuil, gaan my nie meer aan nie. Die aarde tol op sy as en ek word naar. Die dood is ’n uitgerekte besigheid wat begin met konsepsie en fokken net nie einde kry nie. Die wind breek deur my vensters en versplinter oor die mat — vul die holtes met ’n groter leegte.
Ek rook ’n pakkie Stuyvesant voor ontbyt op en sit vir die res van die dag en naels kou voor my rekenaar. ’n Dom pianis oor die keyboard. Ses-en-twintig letters, miljoene der miljoene woorde verskuil in die letters om sin te maak uit my bestaan. Eindelose opsies wat tot niks kom.
Uit verveling, begin ek op my bure spioeneer: hulle gewoontes, hoe hulle daagliks tussen hul huise en die hospitaal beweeg. Wasgoed wat slap in die wind hang — die intieme besonderhede waarmee hul hulself klee: Ivan dra funky boxershorts soos uit Amerikaanse movies. Ek kyk hoe groei die gras oorkant die pad in sy tuin; hy buk en trek onkruid uit. Sy arms fyntjies gespierd: ek volg die lyne van sy lyf en die weerloosheid aan sy skouers. Ek wonder oor sy hande: hoe hy post-mortems doen en babies vang in Maternity Ward. Ek ken die patrone van elkeen hier se bestaan: hoe laat hulle die ligte in hul voorkamers afsit en beweeg na slaapkamers — om te wat? Lees, bid, dink aan ander tye, plekke, mense voor hier en nou?
Soggens staan ek op en soek die pad uit my deurmekaar huis om by die werk orde in ander se lewens te skep: ek luister- wie het wie verneuk, wie het die ander met hierdie verskriklike siekte aangesteek ... Waarom die lewe kak is, waarom dit GREAT is; aldus die skizo wat kaalgat in die village rondhol en die tribal authority ontstig. Die wat uitsterf aan ongeneeslike siektes, begin suip en slaan op vlug die vlaktes in met die dood in hul lywe.
Waarom is ek so BORED met die mensdom? (Myself inkluis). Iewers moet iets tog vernuwing bring — maar die wêreld is oud en niks is meer nuut nie. Ek raak skielik befok met die godsdiens en keer terug na die kerk. Ek bid myself simpel. Sondae hoor ek dieselfde boodskap oor-en-oor. Maar dis darem veilig, ’n rigtingwyser op die dodelike pad van leef. Ook dit stem my droef en ek kan die hoflikheid nie meer verduur nie. Die goeie bedoelings werk almal lelik uit en ek raak senuagtig en agterdogtig. Snags slaap ek sleg en die duiwel verskyn by drie geleenthede aan my, sodat ek my huis beangs salf en ’n ander uitweg soek.
Ek keer terug na my kindertyd-passie: die tyd toe ek nog ’n ruimtevaardiger wou word. Saans vat ek my verkyker en staar na die onbereikbare uitspansel. Ek vind uit dat Tetron die enigste planeet is wat ondersom draai en besluit om daarheen te verhuis, sodra dit vir my moontlik is.
In hierdie tyd begin my lewe draai om enige moontlike opsie uit — ek bliksem elke dag van die plat wêreld af en die volgende oggend probeer ek die tyd rewind om op te maak vir wat ook al verlore gegaan het.
Dan word ek uitgeroep op ’n saak na ’n militêre basis ver van hier — ’n pad wat kronkel en kronkel, stowwerig en sinkplaat; en skielik: daar tussen twee heuwels wat soos pikante borste bo die vlaktes uittroon — die basis; knus in hierdie natuurlike cleavage. Ek wonder oor die soldate uit die ou regime wat hier opleiding ontvang het: voorbereiding op ’n waarskynlike dood. Helde van post-mortem medaljes. Hoe het hulle oor dié plek gevoel? En die wat oorleef het, het dit iets in hulle nagelaat, sodat hulle snags wakker word en die stof, klip, sweet en bougainvilleas ruik?
Ek treë dus aan vir diens: naastediens. Ek het geen rang of titel nie. ’n Portugees-sprekende wag keer my voor by die hek. “Bondia,” groet ek en stel my besigheid: ek is hier om die Kaptein te sien. Ek word beduie waarheen om te ry en vind die pad maklik; stop voor ’n huis waar ’n ou hond heup-teen-die-stam onder ’n boom lê; ’n rondloperkat oor die pad koes en ’n Kaptein op my wag. Sy oë en hare is donker, hy dra ’n bokbaardjie en sy kamoefleringsdrag span styf oor sy skouers. Hy toring bo my uit. Sy hande is groot en ru: anders as Ivan s’n; dit laat iets in my roer — ek leef dus nog? Hy nooi my in en ons staan ongemaklik rond in ’n beknopte kombuisie. Hy maak koffie en bied my ’n sigaret aan. Buite hoor ek stemme in Portugees opklink; die woorde draal op die wind en verdwyn verder aan. Daar is ’n ongemaklike stilte hier wat ek nie kan peil nie. Dan hoor ek dit — iewers vanuit ’n ander vertrek:
Chopin se Balade no. 3 in A-flat ... Die skynbare rustigheid, die ondertoon van ’n dringendheid. Ek ken die stuk intiem. Ek luister en wag: dit speel op ’n draaitafel en daar is deurentyd ’n ritmiese krap, ek luister na die stiltes tussen die musiek: my hart huppel lig en vrolik soos ’n hasie oor die vlaktes; dan die opbou na die Grootse — ek raak besete van opgewondenheid. Ek gee oor aan die oomblik en verword tot ’n marionet van die musiek.
Wat volg; is obskuur, onduidelik. Ek wil dit verwoord, my opsies is eindeloos en tog so beperk. Die kaptein staan nog iewers in die kombuis — aangeleun teen ’n kas; hy word ’n hoogtepunt, ’n klimaks in die musiek. Ek staan voor hom, druk my hande teen sy skouers, sodat hy gaan sit. Ek vind myself wydsbeen op sy skoot. My tong in sy mond — ek proe Chesterfield, tandepasta, koffie. Chopin raak besig met iets anders in die agtergrond — ’n roering van vingers oor die klawers, vinnig-vinnig — dit klop in my, tussen my bene. Ek voel sy geslagsorgaan teen die growwe materiaal van die army broek. Op ’n wals in C-sharp bevry ek hom van sy kamoeflering.
Ons gaan stort, hy krimp en word weer lewend in my hand. Hy was die lewe van my af — die ondraaglikheid; al wat bly is rein: ’n suiwer vorm. Wat dink hy nou? Sy hande oor my lyf, sy vingers wat afbeweeg tot daar waar ook my klein skaam orgaan verstyf soos syne. My lyf ’n blote rimpeling op die water, ’n klippie wat val en kring, al wyer uitkring tot in die hortende stiltes van die dood: “Oh, Captain, my Captain!”
Friday, October 16, 2009
'n fokken briljante ding wat ek in 2001 geskryf het!
Wat vir my heel interessant was rondom die hele ding oor vloek, seks en vrouens; is dat niemand maar niemand iets sinvols te sê had oor enige van my skrywe nie; behalwe natuurlik dat ek vloek en in “Oh, Captain my Captain” ’n beskrywing van wedersydse masturbasie gee. Die seksdaad vind nie plaas in die beskrywing nie.
Hipotetiese stelling: y=(f)x
Waar y die afhanklike veranderlike veronderstel en x die onafhanklike veranderlike.
z is dan jou steuringsveranderlike wat kan beteken dat ander faktore intree wat op hul beurt veroorsaak dat jou hipotetiese stelling nie so mooi uitwerk nie.
Eenvoudiger gestel: Sê nou maar net die mens (y) is ’n funksie van God (x) en sonde is die steuringsveranderlike (z). Maklik nê?
Die sonde veroorsaak dat die mens dus nie meer bereid is om as afhanklike veranderlike op te tree nie.
(Bogenoemde is bloot ’n hipotetiese stelling).
My skrywes kan dus as volg gelees word — dit wat ek skryf, is die afhanklike veranderlike (y) — m.a.w. dit wat ek graag sou wou weergee. My subjektiewe relaas van ’n waarskynlike realiteit; want dit kan gebeur. Dit kon gebeur het. Slegs ek sal weet hoeveel is waar en hoeveel nie — of miskien sal selfs ek (die skrywer) op ’n punt nie meer weet hoeveel is waar al dan nie ...
Waarvan is die “subjektiewe weergawe van ’n waarskynlike realiteit” (die storie) afhanklik? x natuurlik: die taal. Die medium waarin ek dit sê. Hierdie medium bestaan uit ’n baie groot hoeveelheid opsies (26 letters, miljoene sinne — soveel betekenisse wat die skrywer in sinne sou wou weergee. ’n Sin om mee sin te maak.)
Die steuringsveranderlike (z) behels dan die wyse (effektief of oneffektief) wat ek aanwend om te sê wat ek sou wou sê. En dit kan die moontlike “geraas” in kommunikasie veroorsaak.
Dit is van my kant af duidelik dat die WYSE waarop ek met die taal omgegaan het om te sê wat ek wou sê, geweldig geraas veroorsaak het by die leser(s) — soveel so dat slegs die vloektaal en effense verwysing na seks gehoor is.
Aan die ander kant, egter, is daar die leser. En hier het ons met dieselfde te doen: y = f(x)
Die teks (y) — dit wat geskryf is; staan as afhanklike veranderlike teenoor die leser (x); onafhanklike veranderlike wat beïnvloed word deur z = die wyse waarop die leser KIES om die teks te interpreteer — hierdie keuse kan bewustelik of onbewustelik wees. Dit word beslis beïnvloed deur die leser se leeservaring, verwysingsraamwerk, godsdienstige en ander oortuigings, persepsies, ens.
Die eenvoudige hipotese wat ek in my skrywe: “Oh, Captain, my Captain!” gemaak het, is: In die grootste oomblikke van ons lewens val ons terug op clichés. Clichés is deurleefde, deurwinterde sinsnedes — daarom dat hulle die status kon bereik. Hulle is baie “useful”.
Niemand het my hieroor aangevat nie — daar was dalk te veel steuringsveranderlikes ...
Die verteller smag na die dood om haar te red uit verveling ... sy het soveel opsies in die taal om hierdie mee weer te gee; maar dit kom (no punn intended) tot niks. Daarteenoor is daar die karakter, Ivan, wie “post mortems doen en babies vang”. Dood / Lewe — die lewe gaan aan — cliché? Dan is daar die kaptein wie haar herinner aan ’n tyd toe jong manne weermag toe is met die wete van ’n (hipoteties gestel) waarskynlike dood ...
In die oomblik van klimaks (petit mort) is die enigste moontlike beskrywing vir wat gebeur dan “Oh, Captain, my Captain!” — ’n clichè.
Bogenoemde is egter alles bloot ’n hipotese; want soos ons almal weet: niks in die lewe is seker nie.
Maar vir eers is ek terug en ek is bly daaroor.
Bylaag tot die Z-faktor
Wat vooraf gesê is, kan natuurlik ook heel anders geïnterpreteer word: dat Taal ’n funksie van die mens(e) wie die taal besig, is.
Dan word taal jou afhanklike veranderlike (y) en die mense wie hierdie spesifieke medium (Taal — Afrikaans) gebruik is dan jou onafhanklike veranderlike (x).
y(taal) = (funksie van) mens.
z — wie die mense is, persepsies, ens.
Die steuringsveranderlike kan dus in hierdie geval steeds die mens se ervaringswêreld wees: in ons geval — moderne tegnologie. Maar die impak van kultuur, “erfgoed” (soos godsdiens en ’n wêreldbeskouing van wat moontlik reg of verkeerd is); kan mens nie weglaat nie. Dit gaan beslis ’n invloed hê op hoe ons met die taal omgaan.
Want taal verander na gelang van die mense se behoeftes, daarom dat neologismes bestaan.
***
En nou, net om geheel en al confusing te wees; wil ek die volgende hipotese stel: Sê nou net die teks (dit wat daar geskryf staan), is (x) die onafhanklike veranderlike, wat net is, omdat dit is. Soos die vorige hipotese i.t.v. God (I AM).
EN die leser is dan jou afhanklike veranderlike (y) wat deur die teks beïnvloed word — soos die leser die teks lees, so lees die teks die leser terug. Miskien was dit nog altyd die woorde wat die leser gelees het en nie andersom nie.
(Dit maak vir my baie sin). Want, helaas, die leser se interpretasie of ervaring, van die teks; verander absoluut niks aan die teks nie — dit is daar; dit staan geskrywe ... Die Skrif Is Aan Die Muur.
Miskien beïnvloed die skrywe / teks dan ook die skrywer en bestaan somehow onafhanklik van die skrywer. Makes u think, doesn’t it?
En weereens sal die steuringsveranderlike (z) die mens se persepsie, ens wees.
Sjoe! Nou’s ek moeg.
Ek het vir ons ’n ander bal gekry om mee te speel ... indien nie: I’m back, play me.
Marlize
Hipotetiese stelling: y=(f)x
Waar y die afhanklike veranderlike veronderstel en x die onafhanklike veranderlike.
z is dan jou steuringsveranderlike wat kan beteken dat ander faktore intree wat op hul beurt veroorsaak dat jou hipotetiese stelling nie so mooi uitwerk nie.
Eenvoudiger gestel: Sê nou maar net die mens (y) is ’n funksie van God (x) en sonde is die steuringsveranderlike (z). Maklik nê?
Die sonde veroorsaak dat die mens dus nie meer bereid is om as afhanklike veranderlike op te tree nie.
(Bogenoemde is bloot ’n hipotetiese stelling).
My skrywes kan dus as volg gelees word — dit wat ek skryf, is die afhanklike veranderlike (y) — m.a.w. dit wat ek graag sou wou weergee. My subjektiewe relaas van ’n waarskynlike realiteit; want dit kan gebeur. Dit kon gebeur het. Slegs ek sal weet hoeveel is waar en hoeveel nie — of miskien sal selfs ek (die skrywer) op ’n punt nie meer weet hoeveel is waar al dan nie ...
Waarvan is die “subjektiewe weergawe van ’n waarskynlike realiteit” (die storie) afhanklik? x natuurlik: die taal. Die medium waarin ek dit sê. Hierdie medium bestaan uit ’n baie groot hoeveelheid opsies (26 letters, miljoene sinne — soveel betekenisse wat die skrywer in sinne sou wou weergee. ’n Sin om mee sin te maak.)
Die steuringsveranderlike (z) behels dan die wyse (effektief of oneffektief) wat ek aanwend om te sê wat ek sou wou sê. En dit kan die moontlike “geraas” in kommunikasie veroorsaak.
Dit is van my kant af duidelik dat die WYSE waarop ek met die taal omgegaan het om te sê wat ek wou sê, geweldig geraas veroorsaak het by die leser(s) — soveel so dat slegs die vloektaal en effense verwysing na seks gehoor is.
Aan die ander kant, egter, is daar die leser. En hier het ons met dieselfde te doen: y = f(x)
Die teks (y) — dit wat geskryf is; staan as afhanklike veranderlike teenoor die leser (x); onafhanklike veranderlike wat beïnvloed word deur z = die wyse waarop die leser KIES om die teks te interpreteer — hierdie keuse kan bewustelik of onbewustelik wees. Dit word beslis beïnvloed deur die leser se leeservaring, verwysingsraamwerk, godsdienstige en ander oortuigings, persepsies, ens.
Die eenvoudige hipotese wat ek in my skrywe: “Oh, Captain, my Captain!” gemaak het, is: In die grootste oomblikke van ons lewens val ons terug op clichés. Clichés is deurleefde, deurwinterde sinsnedes — daarom dat hulle die status kon bereik. Hulle is baie “useful”.
Niemand het my hieroor aangevat nie — daar was dalk te veel steuringsveranderlikes ...
Die verteller smag na die dood om haar te red uit verveling ... sy het soveel opsies in die taal om hierdie mee weer te gee; maar dit kom (no punn intended) tot niks. Daarteenoor is daar die karakter, Ivan, wie “post mortems doen en babies vang”. Dood / Lewe — die lewe gaan aan — cliché? Dan is daar die kaptein wie haar herinner aan ’n tyd toe jong manne weermag toe is met die wete van ’n (hipoteties gestel) waarskynlike dood ...
In die oomblik van klimaks (petit mort) is die enigste moontlike beskrywing vir wat gebeur dan “Oh, Captain, my Captain!” — ’n clichè.
Bogenoemde is egter alles bloot ’n hipotese; want soos ons almal weet: niks in die lewe is seker nie.
Maar vir eers is ek terug en ek is bly daaroor.
Bylaag tot die Z-faktor
Wat vooraf gesê is, kan natuurlik ook heel anders geïnterpreteer word: dat Taal ’n funksie van die mens(e) wie die taal besig, is.
Dan word taal jou afhanklike veranderlike (y) en die mense wie hierdie spesifieke medium (Taal — Afrikaans) gebruik is dan jou onafhanklike veranderlike (x).
y(taal) = (funksie van) mens.
z — wie die mense is, persepsies, ens.
Die steuringsveranderlike kan dus in hierdie geval steeds die mens se ervaringswêreld wees: in ons geval — moderne tegnologie. Maar die impak van kultuur, “erfgoed” (soos godsdiens en ’n wêreldbeskouing van wat moontlik reg of verkeerd is); kan mens nie weglaat nie. Dit gaan beslis ’n invloed hê op hoe ons met die taal omgaan.
Want taal verander na gelang van die mense se behoeftes, daarom dat neologismes bestaan.
***
En nou, net om geheel en al confusing te wees; wil ek die volgende hipotese stel: Sê nou net die teks (dit wat daar geskryf staan), is (x) die onafhanklike veranderlike, wat net is, omdat dit is. Soos die vorige hipotese i.t.v. God (I AM).
EN die leser is dan jou afhanklike veranderlike (y) wat deur die teks beïnvloed word — soos die leser die teks lees, so lees die teks die leser terug. Miskien was dit nog altyd die woorde wat die leser gelees het en nie andersom nie.
(Dit maak vir my baie sin). Want, helaas, die leser se interpretasie of ervaring, van die teks; verander absoluut niks aan die teks nie — dit is daar; dit staan geskrywe ... Die Skrif Is Aan Die Muur.
Miskien beïnvloed die skrywe / teks dan ook die skrywer en bestaan somehow onafhanklik van die skrywer. Makes u think, doesn’t it?
En weereens sal die steuringsveranderlike (z) die mens se persepsie, ens wees.
Sjoe! Nou’s ek moeg.
Ek het vir ons ’n ander bal gekry om mee te speel ... indien nie: I’m back, play me.
Marlize
Monday, October 12, 2009
kortverhaal
Skielik praat ek weer na dertig jaar se stilte en ek kry dit nie reg om op te hou praat nie… Dit is wat ek hardop gesê het in daardie oomblik, aan myself, vir myself: Jou fokken etter. My stem klink vreemd en hees, asof ek ernstige larangitis het.
Ek noem hulle almal. Al die vloekwoorde wat ek ken en nie regkry om te skryf nie, want die sien daarvan, is skrikwekkend. Dat een mens soveel vloekwoorde kan ken na dertig jaar se stilte, is skokkend. En dat ‘n simpel ding soos jou eie kop mens daartoe kan dryf om jou stilte te breek, is miskien verstaanbaar, maar totaal onnodig.
Ek noem vele woorde in onsamehangende sinne: die daaglike drek van my bestaan, kry ‘n ander soort betekenis. Gedagtes tol in my kop en kry uiting op my tong: Fok al die mense, EK is die mense. Daai ou se roeispane vat nie water nie. ‘n Ander ou se kop kap aan en is lekker deur die mikke. Woorde wat ek gehoor het op skool en nooit self gebruik het nie. Aanvanklik het ek slegs myself hardop geskel, in teleurstelling, in onvergeeflike wantroue. Hoe kon ek myself so verlaag dat ek actually begin praat het! Maar toe kom die lekkerste sin ooit in my kop op: KRY VIR JOU!
So, nou kry ek vir my woorde, sinne, betekenisse en ‘n tong waarom woorde krul en uitgespoeg word. En ek kry lekker. Dit ril teen my lyf af en dis vir my mooi. Ek glimlag, ek lag hardop, ek skree, ek huil hardop met skouers wat ruk en blaas my neus luidrugtig in ‘n stuk toiletpapier, want tissues is ‘n vreemde ding in my bestaan en was nog nooit nodig nie.
Skielik kan ek weer die mensdom bereik, want sonder woorde of ten minste gebaretaal, is hul ontoeganglik. Tog weet ek: ‘n middelvinger sê in elk geval meer as ‘n hele sin vol woorde. Maar nooit het ek my eers tot gebaretaal gewend nie. Ek was stil soos ‘n Budhistiese monnik wat vrugte plant en pluk. Dit kan seker ‘n vorm van selfkastyding genoem word, maar ek dink nie dit was so iets nie. Hoe stiller mens raak, hoe minder hoef jy te dink. Dink is nogal ‘n uitputtende besigheid, besef ek. Om so die heeltyd te dink oor wat jy volgende gaan sê, is heel anders as wat ek verwag het.
Vir dertig jaar het ek niks te sê gehad vir die wêreld nie. Ek het egter die wêreld beluister. Ek het amper alles gehoor soos ‘n spioen, ‘n ondergrondse lid van die KGB. Ek het die morsekode van lyftaal en woorde en stiltes tussen woorde soos die stiltes tussen lirieke en musieknote, leer ken. Ek het rokers en nie-rokers, druggies en dominees, sekswerkers en selibate banggatte leer ken. Elke sub-kultuur met ‘n eie taal wat slegs deur die ware luisteraar geken kan word. Ek het klerasie leer verstaan, van labels en goedkoop China-shop klere. In kort, ek het die mensdom in sy warboel van kleur, geur, krag, vernedering, hofwaardigheid, arrogansie, vrese en vreugdes leer verstaan. Maar nooit het ekself hardop gesing of gebid of gebedel vir genade nie.
Ek is ‘n terapeut en stiltes is tog waaroor my beroep gaan. Ek het nooit raad gegee nie, ek het nooit woorde gebruik om my kliënte hul situasies en probleme te laat verstaan nie. Hulle het net daar op my pers bank met die bont kussings en die tissue-boks op die vloer, gesit en gepraat tot hulle leeg was. Ander het saam met my stilgebly en vir die eerste keer kon hul hulself hoor. Dit is daardie kliënte wat my sukses-verhale geword het. Stilte het my geleer dat mense praat, omdat hulle bang is dat die stilte hul sal versmoor en slegs diegene wat daardie vrees oorkom het, kan weer opstaan uit die kak van hul lewens en skoon word, vry word van die woorde wat hul vasgevang hou.
Nou praat ek egter weer. Ek sit om ‘n kring nuutgevonde vriende en praat non-stop vir ure. Ek vertel die stories wat ek gehoor het in my stiltetyd, maar ek split nie op my geliefde kliënte nie. Tog praat ek nie versigtig nie, ek tel nie my woorde nie. Ek is nie bang dat die woorde wat uit my mond vloei, sal terugkom en my naar maak nie, nee wat… ek het geen vrees meer vir woorde nie.
Ek doen ‘n herbesoek aan die plek waar ek my praat verloor het: daar by die soutpanne van Louwna, waar my pa predikant en my ma mevrou-dominee was. Ek ry in die hitte met die air-con aan en heavy metal musiek kliphard wat deur die vensters dreun sodat my kar soos ‘n mobile disco klink. Dan naby die soutpanne parkeer ek langs die pad, trek my skoene uit en vat weer die pad, kaalvoet in die hitte. Weereens word ek vies vir myself omdat die gruis my voete brand. Ek luister vir oulaas na die geluide om my en dan sing ek dit DOOD! Vreemd hoe maklik mens stiltes kan breek, wegvat, vermoor. Ek praat hardop met myself. Ek probeer uitredeneer waarom ek opgehou praat het. Dan loop ek vinnig terug. Ek merk niks op nie, ek is slegs bewus van die woorde wat uit my stroom. Elke onsinnige sin en stukkie woordeskat wat in my oorgebly het, stort ek uit. En dis wragtag lekker. Ek het nooit kon dink dat woorde so arrogant lekker kan wees nie!
Ek sê vir my ouers: “Hier is ek…” en my ma begin huil, my pa val op sy knieë neer op die teelvloer van ons kombuis en prys die Here, halleluja! Ek sê: “Ek is lus vir Ma se pap en wors met uie-en-tamatie sous.” Ek sê: “Die gruispad het my voete gebrand.” Dan vra ek oor die weer en of dit nog so vrek-warm is en ek sê: “Ja, hemel, dit is darem warm hier,” nog voor hulle kan antwoord. Ek vra ook: “Hoe gaan dit?” Dit gaan goed met my, antwoord ek. Ek gee nie om wat hulle vra of sê nie. Hoekom het ek ophou praat? “Sommer.” Verlang ek ooit na die vlaktes noudat ek in die stad bly? “Soms.” Hoekom het ek nooit gebel nie? “Obviously omdat ek nie gepraat het nie.” Hulle praat en vra vrae en ek praat my eie stories. Ek vertel van my lewe en kry skaars asem soos ek praat. Ek gee nie eintlik om oor die groentetuin wat my ma so mooi versorg of die skape wat my pa deesdae aanhou nie. Ek loop nie om die pastorie om te gaan kyk nie. Stil mense loop en kyk na goed. Ek het nie gekom om te kyk of te luister nie, ek het gekom om te praat. Ek kan nie die twee gelyktydig doen nie, besef ek. Dis hels moeilik. So, nou doen ek maar my praatwerk. Te lekker. En ek kry vir my, ek skep, want dit reën pap, korrelrige boerepap vol letters wat woorde maak wat sinne maak wat uit my donder en bliksem en neersous. Ek besluit om vir ‘n rukkie by my ouers aan te bly, daar is baie wat ek die mense van die dorp kan vertel. Ek wil darem ook effe spog met my spraaksaamheid.
Ek loop gereeld die pad wat my stil gemaak het en praat die heeltyd hardop, probeer steeds uitredeneer hoekom ek opgehou praat het. Maar hoe meer ek praat en dink, hoe minder kry ek dit gekop.
En eendag deur my baie praat en nuutgevonde woorde, ontmoet ek ‘n kind wat opgehou praat het en ek probeer my bes om haar aan die praat te kry. Sy kyk net anderpad, so half oor my skouer. Ek kyk om, maar sien niks. Ek oefen al my aangeleerde manupilerende woorde. Ek smeek: “Agtoe, praat met my, sê net iets, enige iets. Ek verstaan baie dinge, jy kan my enige iets vertel,” sê ek. “Kyk, daar bo,” wys ek haar, “daar bo kwetter ‘n voël en wag op jou om terug te antwoord.” Stilte. “As jy mooi vra, sal ek jou ‘n storie vertel.” Alle kinders hou mos van stories. Sy sê niks. Ek kyk af en sien sy is kaalvoet op die gruispad. “Brand jou voete nie al nie? Gaan jy soutpanne toe? Waarheen loop jy, hê?” Niks. “Ek hou van jou hemp, waar het jou ma dit gekoop?” Nog minder. Die kind trek nie haar skouers op nie, sy draai nie haar lyf weg nie, sy skud nie haar kop nie, sy is bewegingloos stil. “Nou maar ja, duidelik wil jy nie met my praat nie. Wat het ek ooit aan jou gedoen?” Die kind kyk net voor haar uit, steeds oor my skouer na die vaal-blou hemel wat pateties oor die vlaktes hang. “Kan ek saam jou terugloop dorp se kant toe,” vra ek. Sy staan net stil. Dit pla my. Ek hou niks daarvan nie. “Wel, kry vir jou!” skree ek vir haar. Direk in haar ore. Sy skrik nie eers nie. Sy kyk net dwarsdeur my, asof ek nie eers daar is nie. Die fokken kind! Die halstarige fokken kind!
Dan merk ek dit op: sy het geen skaduwee nie. Haar skadu sleep agter myne aan soos ek beduie en rondom haar kring om haar aan die praat te kry, so sleep die kind se skaduwee agterna. En ek raak die bliksem in. Skielik verdwyn die kind, raak net weg, sweef iewers oor die vlaktes, haar vaalhare hang aan die wolke. Haar voetspore word die wind se rok wat sleep. Dan skree ek oor die vlaktes: “Here Jissus, kind, kom terug!” Maar ek het nie ‘n stem nie, alles is stil. Ek word bang, daar is geen woorde in my nie, daar is geen gedagtes wat hul praat wil kry nie. Net die stiltes bly.
Ek noem hulle almal. Al die vloekwoorde wat ek ken en nie regkry om te skryf nie, want die sien daarvan, is skrikwekkend. Dat een mens soveel vloekwoorde kan ken na dertig jaar se stilte, is skokkend. En dat ‘n simpel ding soos jou eie kop mens daartoe kan dryf om jou stilte te breek, is miskien verstaanbaar, maar totaal onnodig.
Ek noem vele woorde in onsamehangende sinne: die daaglike drek van my bestaan, kry ‘n ander soort betekenis. Gedagtes tol in my kop en kry uiting op my tong: Fok al die mense, EK is die mense. Daai ou se roeispane vat nie water nie. ‘n Ander ou se kop kap aan en is lekker deur die mikke. Woorde wat ek gehoor het op skool en nooit self gebruik het nie. Aanvanklik het ek slegs myself hardop geskel, in teleurstelling, in onvergeeflike wantroue. Hoe kon ek myself so verlaag dat ek actually begin praat het! Maar toe kom die lekkerste sin ooit in my kop op: KRY VIR JOU!
So, nou kry ek vir my woorde, sinne, betekenisse en ‘n tong waarom woorde krul en uitgespoeg word. En ek kry lekker. Dit ril teen my lyf af en dis vir my mooi. Ek glimlag, ek lag hardop, ek skree, ek huil hardop met skouers wat ruk en blaas my neus luidrugtig in ‘n stuk toiletpapier, want tissues is ‘n vreemde ding in my bestaan en was nog nooit nodig nie.
Skielik kan ek weer die mensdom bereik, want sonder woorde of ten minste gebaretaal, is hul ontoeganglik. Tog weet ek: ‘n middelvinger sê in elk geval meer as ‘n hele sin vol woorde. Maar nooit het ek my eers tot gebaretaal gewend nie. Ek was stil soos ‘n Budhistiese monnik wat vrugte plant en pluk. Dit kan seker ‘n vorm van selfkastyding genoem word, maar ek dink nie dit was so iets nie. Hoe stiller mens raak, hoe minder hoef jy te dink. Dink is nogal ‘n uitputtende besigheid, besef ek. Om so die heeltyd te dink oor wat jy volgende gaan sê, is heel anders as wat ek verwag het.
Vir dertig jaar het ek niks te sê gehad vir die wêreld nie. Ek het egter die wêreld beluister. Ek het amper alles gehoor soos ‘n spioen, ‘n ondergrondse lid van die KGB. Ek het die morsekode van lyftaal en woorde en stiltes tussen woorde soos die stiltes tussen lirieke en musieknote, leer ken. Ek het rokers en nie-rokers, druggies en dominees, sekswerkers en selibate banggatte leer ken. Elke sub-kultuur met ‘n eie taal wat slegs deur die ware luisteraar geken kan word. Ek het klerasie leer verstaan, van labels en goedkoop China-shop klere. In kort, ek het die mensdom in sy warboel van kleur, geur, krag, vernedering, hofwaardigheid, arrogansie, vrese en vreugdes leer verstaan. Maar nooit het ekself hardop gesing of gebid of gebedel vir genade nie.
Ek is ‘n terapeut en stiltes is tog waaroor my beroep gaan. Ek het nooit raad gegee nie, ek het nooit woorde gebruik om my kliënte hul situasies en probleme te laat verstaan nie. Hulle het net daar op my pers bank met die bont kussings en die tissue-boks op die vloer, gesit en gepraat tot hulle leeg was. Ander het saam met my stilgebly en vir die eerste keer kon hul hulself hoor. Dit is daardie kliënte wat my sukses-verhale geword het. Stilte het my geleer dat mense praat, omdat hulle bang is dat die stilte hul sal versmoor en slegs diegene wat daardie vrees oorkom het, kan weer opstaan uit die kak van hul lewens en skoon word, vry word van die woorde wat hul vasgevang hou.
Nou praat ek egter weer. Ek sit om ‘n kring nuutgevonde vriende en praat non-stop vir ure. Ek vertel die stories wat ek gehoor het in my stiltetyd, maar ek split nie op my geliefde kliënte nie. Tog praat ek nie versigtig nie, ek tel nie my woorde nie. Ek is nie bang dat die woorde wat uit my mond vloei, sal terugkom en my naar maak nie, nee wat… ek het geen vrees meer vir woorde nie.
Ek doen ‘n herbesoek aan die plek waar ek my praat verloor het: daar by die soutpanne van Louwna, waar my pa predikant en my ma mevrou-dominee was. Ek ry in die hitte met die air-con aan en heavy metal musiek kliphard wat deur die vensters dreun sodat my kar soos ‘n mobile disco klink. Dan naby die soutpanne parkeer ek langs die pad, trek my skoene uit en vat weer die pad, kaalvoet in die hitte. Weereens word ek vies vir myself omdat die gruis my voete brand. Ek luister vir oulaas na die geluide om my en dan sing ek dit DOOD! Vreemd hoe maklik mens stiltes kan breek, wegvat, vermoor. Ek praat hardop met myself. Ek probeer uitredeneer waarom ek opgehou praat het. Dan loop ek vinnig terug. Ek merk niks op nie, ek is slegs bewus van die woorde wat uit my stroom. Elke onsinnige sin en stukkie woordeskat wat in my oorgebly het, stort ek uit. En dis wragtag lekker. Ek het nooit kon dink dat woorde so arrogant lekker kan wees nie!
Ek sê vir my ouers: “Hier is ek…” en my ma begin huil, my pa val op sy knieë neer op die teelvloer van ons kombuis en prys die Here, halleluja! Ek sê: “Ek is lus vir Ma se pap en wors met uie-en-tamatie sous.” Ek sê: “Die gruispad het my voete gebrand.” Dan vra ek oor die weer en of dit nog so vrek-warm is en ek sê: “Ja, hemel, dit is darem warm hier,” nog voor hulle kan antwoord. Ek vra ook: “Hoe gaan dit?” Dit gaan goed met my, antwoord ek. Ek gee nie om wat hulle vra of sê nie. Hoekom het ek ophou praat? “Sommer.” Verlang ek ooit na die vlaktes noudat ek in die stad bly? “Soms.” Hoekom het ek nooit gebel nie? “Obviously omdat ek nie gepraat het nie.” Hulle praat en vra vrae en ek praat my eie stories. Ek vertel van my lewe en kry skaars asem soos ek praat. Ek gee nie eintlik om oor die groentetuin wat my ma so mooi versorg of die skape wat my pa deesdae aanhou nie. Ek loop nie om die pastorie om te gaan kyk nie. Stil mense loop en kyk na goed. Ek het nie gekom om te kyk of te luister nie, ek het gekom om te praat. Ek kan nie die twee gelyktydig doen nie, besef ek. Dis hels moeilik. So, nou doen ek maar my praatwerk. Te lekker. En ek kry vir my, ek skep, want dit reën pap, korrelrige boerepap vol letters wat woorde maak wat sinne maak wat uit my donder en bliksem en neersous. Ek besluit om vir ‘n rukkie by my ouers aan te bly, daar is baie wat ek die mense van die dorp kan vertel. Ek wil darem ook effe spog met my spraaksaamheid.
Ek loop gereeld die pad wat my stil gemaak het en praat die heeltyd hardop, probeer steeds uitredeneer hoekom ek opgehou praat het. Maar hoe meer ek praat en dink, hoe minder kry ek dit gekop.
En eendag deur my baie praat en nuutgevonde woorde, ontmoet ek ‘n kind wat opgehou praat het en ek probeer my bes om haar aan die praat te kry. Sy kyk net anderpad, so half oor my skouer. Ek kyk om, maar sien niks. Ek oefen al my aangeleerde manupilerende woorde. Ek smeek: “Agtoe, praat met my, sê net iets, enige iets. Ek verstaan baie dinge, jy kan my enige iets vertel,” sê ek. “Kyk, daar bo,” wys ek haar, “daar bo kwetter ‘n voël en wag op jou om terug te antwoord.” Stilte. “As jy mooi vra, sal ek jou ‘n storie vertel.” Alle kinders hou mos van stories. Sy sê niks. Ek kyk af en sien sy is kaalvoet op die gruispad. “Brand jou voete nie al nie? Gaan jy soutpanne toe? Waarheen loop jy, hê?” Niks. “Ek hou van jou hemp, waar het jou ma dit gekoop?” Nog minder. Die kind trek nie haar skouers op nie, sy draai nie haar lyf weg nie, sy skud nie haar kop nie, sy is bewegingloos stil. “Nou maar ja, duidelik wil jy nie met my praat nie. Wat het ek ooit aan jou gedoen?” Die kind kyk net voor haar uit, steeds oor my skouer na die vaal-blou hemel wat pateties oor die vlaktes hang. “Kan ek saam jou terugloop dorp se kant toe,” vra ek. Sy staan net stil. Dit pla my. Ek hou niks daarvan nie. “Wel, kry vir jou!” skree ek vir haar. Direk in haar ore. Sy skrik nie eers nie. Sy kyk net dwarsdeur my, asof ek nie eers daar is nie. Die fokken kind! Die halstarige fokken kind!
Dan merk ek dit op: sy het geen skaduwee nie. Haar skadu sleep agter myne aan soos ek beduie en rondom haar kring om haar aan die praat te kry, so sleep die kind se skaduwee agterna. En ek raak die bliksem in. Skielik verdwyn die kind, raak net weg, sweef iewers oor die vlaktes, haar vaalhare hang aan die wolke. Haar voetspore word die wind se rok wat sleep. Dan skree ek oor die vlaktes: “Here Jissus, kind, kom terug!” Maar ek het nie ‘n stem nie, alles is stil. Ek word bang, daar is geen woorde in my nie, daar is geen gedagtes wat hul praat wil kry nie. Net die stiltes bly.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
My liefste Lente
2 Julie 2009
My liefste Lente
Jy is vandag 1 jaar en vier daggies oud. En jy is al reeds 10 maande in my sorg. In hierdie 10 maande het my hele lewe verander: dit wat voorheen belangrik gelyk het, het vervaag tot 'n gejaag na wind. Ek hoef nooit weer 'n boek te skryf of 'n pen op te tel en woorde in te ryg nie, solank jy net deel van my bestaan kan wees, van my elke oggend se opstaan en saans se gaan slaap. Solank is ek 'n vervulde mens. Jy het my kom wys wie ek regtig is. Jy is magic. Toorgoed. Jou helder donker oe en twee-tand smile is vol geheime krag. Jy het my weer leer bid, onwillekeurig. Ek kan nie anders nie.
Daar is so baie wat ek vir jou wil.
Ek het verlief geraak van daardie eerste oomblik in die hospitaal toe ons gaan kyk het na die baba wat al twee maande alleen daar le. Jou oe het niks verraai nie, jy het nie gehuil of enige emosie gewys nie. Ek het jou versigtig in my arms opgetel en was onmiddelik getoor. Jy was bitter klein: 2 maande oud en het net 3kg geweeg. Die volgende dag is jy in ons sorg geplaas en saam huis toe. Ons het inderhaas gaan klere en doeke en bottels en babarome koop. My hart het gebons oor die vlaktes soos 'n hasie wat skielik vrygelaat is. Iets in my het weer begin leef. Daar was geen twyfel in my nie. Ek het geweet dat God jou vir my bestem het.
Soms kyk ek na jou en word yskoud van vrees dat jy weggevat sal word van my. Ons word nie deur bloed gebind nie, ek het geen aanspraak op jou nie; behalwe vir hierdie liefde wat die stukrag van die oseaan het. Dit is net hierdie liefde wat my bind aan jou. Hierdie term wat so maklik en losweg gebruik word. Hierdie ding wat so onverstaanbaar is. Ek sal sterf vir jou. Ek sal leef vir jou.
Jou biologiese ouers sien jou vandag. Dit is hul volste reg. My aanspraak op jou le vervat in die blote feit dat ek jou liefhet. Dit is waarop ek staan. Dit is die wankelrige voet wat my regop hou vandag. Maar weet verseker, dit is suiwer. Daar is geen skadu's in nie. Ek is bang - ek is bang dat jou magic hul gaan toor en dat hul alles gaan doen om jou terug te kry. Jy is immers uit hul gebore. Terselfdertyd vra ek myself af: wat weeg die swaarste? Hierdie bloed- en genetiese band wat hul met jou het of my liefdesband?
Ek gaan jou mooi aantrek, ek gaan vir jou iets nuuts en pienk en sag koop vir vandag se besoek. Ek gaan jou invryf met lekkerruik rome. Ek gaan jou voorkop soen en my hand oor jou kroesies streel en dan gaan ek kyk hoe jou bloed-ouers jou optel en vashou en ek gaan in hierdie donkerte inspring in die arms van God en weer leer vertrou; want ek kan nie anders nie...
My liefste Lente
Jy is vandag 1 jaar en vier daggies oud. En jy is al reeds 10 maande in my sorg. In hierdie 10 maande het my hele lewe verander: dit wat voorheen belangrik gelyk het, het vervaag tot 'n gejaag na wind. Ek hoef nooit weer 'n boek te skryf of 'n pen op te tel en woorde in te ryg nie, solank jy net deel van my bestaan kan wees, van my elke oggend se opstaan en saans se gaan slaap. Solank is ek 'n vervulde mens. Jy het my kom wys wie ek regtig is. Jy is magic. Toorgoed. Jou helder donker oe en twee-tand smile is vol geheime krag. Jy het my weer leer bid, onwillekeurig. Ek kan nie anders nie.
Daar is so baie wat ek vir jou wil.
Ek het verlief geraak van daardie eerste oomblik in die hospitaal toe ons gaan kyk het na die baba wat al twee maande alleen daar le. Jou oe het niks verraai nie, jy het nie gehuil of enige emosie gewys nie. Ek het jou versigtig in my arms opgetel en was onmiddelik getoor. Jy was bitter klein: 2 maande oud en het net 3kg geweeg. Die volgende dag is jy in ons sorg geplaas en saam huis toe. Ons het inderhaas gaan klere en doeke en bottels en babarome koop. My hart het gebons oor die vlaktes soos 'n hasie wat skielik vrygelaat is. Iets in my het weer begin leef. Daar was geen twyfel in my nie. Ek het geweet dat God jou vir my bestem het.
Soms kyk ek na jou en word yskoud van vrees dat jy weggevat sal word van my. Ons word nie deur bloed gebind nie, ek het geen aanspraak op jou nie; behalwe vir hierdie liefde wat die stukrag van die oseaan het. Dit is net hierdie liefde wat my bind aan jou. Hierdie term wat so maklik en losweg gebruik word. Hierdie ding wat so onverstaanbaar is. Ek sal sterf vir jou. Ek sal leef vir jou.
Jou biologiese ouers sien jou vandag. Dit is hul volste reg. My aanspraak op jou le vervat in die blote feit dat ek jou liefhet. Dit is waarop ek staan. Dit is die wankelrige voet wat my regop hou vandag. Maar weet verseker, dit is suiwer. Daar is geen skadu's in nie. Ek is bang - ek is bang dat jou magic hul gaan toor en dat hul alles gaan doen om jou terug te kry. Jy is immers uit hul gebore. Terselfdertyd vra ek myself af: wat weeg die swaarste? Hierdie bloed- en genetiese band wat hul met jou het of my liefdesband?
Ek gaan jou mooi aantrek, ek gaan vir jou iets nuuts en pienk en sag koop vir vandag se besoek. Ek gaan jou invryf met lekkerruik rome. Ek gaan jou voorkop soen en my hand oor jou kroesies streel en dan gaan ek kyk hoe jou bloed-ouers jou optel en vashou en ek gaan in hierdie donkerte inspring in die arms van God en weer leer vertrou; want ek kan nie anders nie...
Sunday, May 10, 2009
DIE HOENDERHERDER
Tussen hierdie vier mure leef die vrou in die dwangbaadjie. Kyk die mure se vuilwit. Bleek om die kiewe. Die gebou is siek. Mure om prente teen te plak of fotos van familielede. Mure om hande teen te bliksem as jy wil. Mure wat binne hou, wat buite hou. Vuilwitmure van die hospitaalplek.
Die vrou bal ‘n vuis na bo en skree: “Lank leef die waansin! Lank leef ons, hier, nou, altyd, eenders, anders, te rond vir die square gat waarin hul ons wil druk”
. Sy lag skielik uitbundig, gooi haar arms bo haar kop uit en tol in die rondte. Sy lag rukkerig, soos ‘n kar wat lank laas gestart is en nou sukkel om aan die gang te kom. Haar lag maak bang. Die ander mense in hul pajamas skuif ongemaklik rond op hul beddens. Party staan nuuskierig nader.
“Julle fokken klomp zombies!” skree die vrou. “Pille pik, pille pik… pik pik pik, dis ook al wat julle doen…. Pik pilletjies, palmpies vol pilletjies.”
Sy trek haar skouers op in vlerke en beweeg haar kop vorentoe en agtertoe: “Pille pik… pille pik pik pik… dom etters, arme dom etters.”
“Kyk die hoender,” skree ‘n ou tannie wat lank reeds verby seniel gaan draai het, sy is nou bloot entertaining.
“Noem my Jan Hoender,” se die vrou uitbundig… “Weet julle wie is Jan Hoender?” Sy kyk rond en vra weer: “Weet julle wie ek is?” Die mense kyk weg, haar oe wip en tol in haar kop soos sy deur die saal na almal kyk. “Ek ken van hoenders, ek verstaan hoenders, ek is die hoenderherder! En julle is my hoenders… verstaan julle?”
Die vrou gaan staan by haar bed. Bo die bed op die naambordjie is haar dokter se naam geskryf en haar eie daaronder. Sy vee haar eie naam met die mou van haar pers pajama-top af. Dan skryf sy met ‘n koukie: Die Hoenderherder se leplek. Sy staan effe terug en skud haar kop tevrede. Sy klim op haar bed en staan regop daarop. Die ander pasiente trek ‘n halfmaan om haar bed. “Kom my hoendertjies, kom… ek is jul herder, ek sal jul versorg…” Sy tower ‘n boksie smarties uit haar bedkassie se laai uit: “Oe, pilletjies, pilletjies, my hoendertjies, kom pik pik!” Die pasiente staan nader, hou hande uit. Een vir een gee sy elkeen ‘n smartie. Soos ‘n nagmaal waar brood en wyn gegee word om liggaam en siel weer aanmekaar te weef, so deel sy haar unieke pilletjies uit vir die pasiente. “Sit op jou tong, dink een gelukkige gedagte en jy sal vlerke groei wat hoog kan vlieg, my dierbare hoender,” se sy vir die verwarde rooikop vrou met die naels stomp afgekou tot in die lewe. Daar is ‘n tiener in swart geklee met spykerhare wat die lug instaan. Sy roep hom nader. “Kom, kom, haantjie – kom pik ‘n pilletjie vir die pyn.” Hy bly ‘n ent weg van die bed en vreemde vrou daarop staan. Sy spring van die bed af en gaan staan voor hom. “The gift of life and death. The KNOWLEDGE. Eet aan hierdie boom van wysheid en he die kennis van goed en kwaad, sodat jy altyd kan weet…” Hy kyk in haar oe en hou sy hand versigtig uit. Sy gooi ‘n pers en ‘n groen smartie in sy hand. “Jy het meer nodig as die ander. Die pers is ‘n pil vir addelikes. Die groen is ‘n pil wat mens na aan die natuur hou, sodat jy altyd sal weet wie jy is. Voete op vaste grond. Toe, vat, drink dit.” Die tiener sit die twee smarties op sy tong en maak sy oe toe wanneer hy daaraan suig. Skielik beweeg die pasiente almal weg van haar bed af en gaan terug na hul eie. Die saal word swaar. Die mure kry krake en bewe onseker. Die herder van die hoenders gaan staan reg voor die stoornis. ‘n Nurse in ‘n wit uniform en kwaai deurskynende blou oe. “Wat gaan hier aan? Almal van julle, kry julleself reg, groepsterapie is oor tien minute. En almal moet daar wees, niemand word verskoon nie. Dis hospitaalreels.”
Wanneer die nurse weg is, gaan staan die herder in die middel van die saal. “My hoendertjies,” se sy “ons sal maar moet gaan. Onthou net: jy mag as jy wil, maar jy hoef nie…anders bly daar niks van jou oor nie. So as jy nie lus het om deur ‘n seer-deel-sessie te gaan nie, hou jou bek. Bly stil. Se net niks. Capice?”
Die ander pasiente knik koppe en beaam.
“Nou goed, kom ons kry ons in orde vir groepsterapie… jippie, juig al wat leef!” Sy staan voor die spieel bo die wasbak. Met oogpotlood omkring sy haar oe diep swart, sy sit skelrooi lipstiffie aan haar lippe. Dan bind sy ‘n bandana met ‘n geel sonneblom motief op om haar bos krulhare vas. Sy het ‘n pers pajamatop aan en ‘n oranje sweetpakbroek. Aan haar voete is skaapvelpantoffels. “Kom, mooiding,” se sy vir haarself in die spieel. “Ons gaan bietjie groepsterapie hou.”
2.
Sy sit oorkant ‘n sielkundige in ‘n alternatiewe soort spreekkamer met ‘n diep wegsinkbank wat al deurgesit is. ‘n Bank met pers-bont lappe op en kussinkies.
“Ag, ek dra die plekke aan my soos ‘n jas, al die plekke waar ek al was… plekke soos hierdie en plekke waar die vlaktes jou naam kreet en bossies weerlose dinge fluister in die wind… maar ek verwag nie dat jy moet verstaan nie. Jy is van buite en kom dan in. Soos ‘n penis wat slegs ‘n besoeker is en sy desperate semen agterlaat in die hoop dat iets sal groei daaruit. Ek, aan die ander kant, is hier binne, ek bly hier…ek ontvang jou woorde, jou invloede en besluit dan self wat om daarmee te maak. Dis in elk geval wat ek van terapie dink. Dis soos seks. En die shrink is ‘n stywe piel wat saad wil stort in my kop.”
“So, jy sou dus se dat al die inrigtings waar jy was nie ‘n negatiewe effek op jou gehad het nie?” Die shrink kyk skerp na haar. “Want ek kan aflei uit jou skryfwerk dat dit tog ‘n effek gehad het, jy bring dit baie keer in, asof jy dit moet uitkry…”
“Alles moet uit, een of ander tyd. Wat geskryf staan, het bestaansreg. Dit gee wat gebeur het die reg om ‘n effek te he. Ek skryf om al my realiteite te herskep. Niks hoef regtig te wees in mens se onthoue presies soos dit was nie, tyd verander dit. Dit word nuutgeskep in my skryfwerk, ek is alleen-skepper, amper soos ‘n god van die woord. OF wag, eerder ‘n god-in-konstante-wording!”
Die hoenderherder voel die beweging in haar brein. Sy voel die tinteling van gedagtes wat beweeg en plek soek om uit te kom. Sy geniet dit om met die shrink te praat. Daar is iets wat haar vry maak om hier te praat. Sy hoor haar woorde soos musiek in ‘n vreemde taal wat wanneer dit gespreek word, skielik sin maak. Ah, soos ‘n charismatiese christen wat in tale kan bid en iemand anders staan op en vertaal dit. Die shrink as klankbord word die noodwendige vertaler.
“Eintlik,” se sy,”gaan dit alles daaroor om die waan sinvol te bedryf… met of sonder pille, verkieslik daarsonder, sodat mens se kop skoon kan wees.”
“Ek dink nie jy moet jou pille los nie,” se die shrink.
“Ek het nie gese ek gaan my pille los nie… wel, ek het reeds, een soort van hulle… maar kyk na my, ek is fine daarsonder. Ek sien nie gesigte nie, ek het nie ouditiewe of visuele stoornisse nie…”
“Dink jy jy hoort hier, in hierdie plek?” vra die shrink.
“Natuurlik, dis beslis waar ek nou hoort, moenie my huis toe stuur nie, ek is nog nie gereed nie, asseblief.” Skielik lyk die hoenderherder beangs. “Ek is goed vir die ander mense hier, ek doen eintlik jou werk, ek versorg hulle wanneer daar niemand anders is nie… die mense hier het my nodig.”
Die vrou bal ‘n vuis na bo en skree: “Lank leef die waansin! Lank leef ons, hier, nou, altyd, eenders, anders, te rond vir die square gat waarin hul ons wil druk”
. Sy lag skielik uitbundig, gooi haar arms bo haar kop uit en tol in die rondte. Sy lag rukkerig, soos ‘n kar wat lank laas gestart is en nou sukkel om aan die gang te kom. Haar lag maak bang. Die ander mense in hul pajamas skuif ongemaklik rond op hul beddens. Party staan nuuskierig nader.
“Julle fokken klomp zombies!” skree die vrou. “Pille pik, pille pik… pik pik pik, dis ook al wat julle doen…. Pik pilletjies, palmpies vol pilletjies.”
Sy trek haar skouers op in vlerke en beweeg haar kop vorentoe en agtertoe: “Pille pik… pille pik pik pik… dom etters, arme dom etters.”
“Kyk die hoender,” skree ‘n ou tannie wat lank reeds verby seniel gaan draai het, sy is nou bloot entertaining.
“Noem my Jan Hoender,” se die vrou uitbundig… “Weet julle wie is Jan Hoender?” Sy kyk rond en vra weer: “Weet julle wie ek is?” Die mense kyk weg, haar oe wip en tol in haar kop soos sy deur die saal na almal kyk. “Ek ken van hoenders, ek verstaan hoenders, ek is die hoenderherder! En julle is my hoenders… verstaan julle?”
Die vrou gaan staan by haar bed. Bo die bed op die naambordjie is haar dokter se naam geskryf en haar eie daaronder. Sy vee haar eie naam met die mou van haar pers pajama-top af. Dan skryf sy met ‘n koukie: Die Hoenderherder se leplek. Sy staan effe terug en skud haar kop tevrede. Sy klim op haar bed en staan regop daarop. Die ander pasiente trek ‘n halfmaan om haar bed. “Kom my hoendertjies, kom… ek is jul herder, ek sal jul versorg…” Sy tower ‘n boksie smarties uit haar bedkassie se laai uit: “Oe, pilletjies, pilletjies, my hoendertjies, kom pik pik!” Die pasiente staan nader, hou hande uit. Een vir een gee sy elkeen ‘n smartie. Soos ‘n nagmaal waar brood en wyn gegee word om liggaam en siel weer aanmekaar te weef, so deel sy haar unieke pilletjies uit vir die pasiente. “Sit op jou tong, dink een gelukkige gedagte en jy sal vlerke groei wat hoog kan vlieg, my dierbare hoender,” se sy vir die verwarde rooikop vrou met die naels stomp afgekou tot in die lewe. Daar is ‘n tiener in swart geklee met spykerhare wat die lug instaan. Sy roep hom nader. “Kom, kom, haantjie – kom pik ‘n pilletjie vir die pyn.” Hy bly ‘n ent weg van die bed en vreemde vrou daarop staan. Sy spring van die bed af en gaan staan voor hom. “The gift of life and death. The KNOWLEDGE. Eet aan hierdie boom van wysheid en he die kennis van goed en kwaad, sodat jy altyd kan weet…” Hy kyk in haar oe en hou sy hand versigtig uit. Sy gooi ‘n pers en ‘n groen smartie in sy hand. “Jy het meer nodig as die ander. Die pers is ‘n pil vir addelikes. Die groen is ‘n pil wat mens na aan die natuur hou, sodat jy altyd sal weet wie jy is. Voete op vaste grond. Toe, vat, drink dit.” Die tiener sit die twee smarties op sy tong en maak sy oe toe wanneer hy daaraan suig. Skielik beweeg die pasiente almal weg van haar bed af en gaan terug na hul eie. Die saal word swaar. Die mure kry krake en bewe onseker. Die herder van die hoenders gaan staan reg voor die stoornis. ‘n Nurse in ‘n wit uniform en kwaai deurskynende blou oe. “Wat gaan hier aan? Almal van julle, kry julleself reg, groepsterapie is oor tien minute. En almal moet daar wees, niemand word verskoon nie. Dis hospitaalreels.”
Wanneer die nurse weg is, gaan staan die herder in die middel van die saal. “My hoendertjies,” se sy “ons sal maar moet gaan. Onthou net: jy mag as jy wil, maar jy hoef nie…anders bly daar niks van jou oor nie. So as jy nie lus het om deur ‘n seer-deel-sessie te gaan nie, hou jou bek. Bly stil. Se net niks. Capice?”
Die ander pasiente knik koppe en beaam.
“Nou goed, kom ons kry ons in orde vir groepsterapie… jippie, juig al wat leef!” Sy staan voor die spieel bo die wasbak. Met oogpotlood omkring sy haar oe diep swart, sy sit skelrooi lipstiffie aan haar lippe. Dan bind sy ‘n bandana met ‘n geel sonneblom motief op om haar bos krulhare vas. Sy het ‘n pers pajamatop aan en ‘n oranje sweetpakbroek. Aan haar voete is skaapvelpantoffels. “Kom, mooiding,” se sy vir haarself in die spieel. “Ons gaan bietjie groepsterapie hou.”
2.
Sy sit oorkant ‘n sielkundige in ‘n alternatiewe soort spreekkamer met ‘n diep wegsinkbank wat al deurgesit is. ‘n Bank met pers-bont lappe op en kussinkies.
“Ag, ek dra die plekke aan my soos ‘n jas, al die plekke waar ek al was… plekke soos hierdie en plekke waar die vlaktes jou naam kreet en bossies weerlose dinge fluister in die wind… maar ek verwag nie dat jy moet verstaan nie. Jy is van buite en kom dan in. Soos ‘n penis wat slegs ‘n besoeker is en sy desperate semen agterlaat in die hoop dat iets sal groei daaruit. Ek, aan die ander kant, is hier binne, ek bly hier…ek ontvang jou woorde, jou invloede en besluit dan self wat om daarmee te maak. Dis in elk geval wat ek van terapie dink. Dis soos seks. En die shrink is ‘n stywe piel wat saad wil stort in my kop.”
“So, jy sou dus se dat al die inrigtings waar jy was nie ‘n negatiewe effek op jou gehad het nie?” Die shrink kyk skerp na haar. “Want ek kan aflei uit jou skryfwerk dat dit tog ‘n effek gehad het, jy bring dit baie keer in, asof jy dit moet uitkry…”
“Alles moet uit, een of ander tyd. Wat geskryf staan, het bestaansreg. Dit gee wat gebeur het die reg om ‘n effek te he. Ek skryf om al my realiteite te herskep. Niks hoef regtig te wees in mens se onthoue presies soos dit was nie, tyd verander dit. Dit word nuutgeskep in my skryfwerk, ek is alleen-skepper, amper soos ‘n god van die woord. OF wag, eerder ‘n god-in-konstante-wording!”
Die hoenderherder voel die beweging in haar brein. Sy voel die tinteling van gedagtes wat beweeg en plek soek om uit te kom. Sy geniet dit om met die shrink te praat. Daar is iets wat haar vry maak om hier te praat. Sy hoor haar woorde soos musiek in ‘n vreemde taal wat wanneer dit gespreek word, skielik sin maak. Ah, soos ‘n charismatiese christen wat in tale kan bid en iemand anders staan op en vertaal dit. Die shrink as klankbord word die noodwendige vertaler.
“Eintlik,” se sy,”gaan dit alles daaroor om die waan sinvol te bedryf… met of sonder pille, verkieslik daarsonder, sodat mens se kop skoon kan wees.”
“Ek dink nie jy moet jou pille los nie,” se die shrink.
“Ek het nie gese ek gaan my pille los nie… wel, ek het reeds, een soort van hulle… maar kyk na my, ek is fine daarsonder. Ek sien nie gesigte nie, ek het nie ouditiewe of visuele stoornisse nie…”
“Dink jy jy hoort hier, in hierdie plek?” vra die shrink.
“Natuurlik, dis beslis waar ek nou hoort, moenie my huis toe stuur nie, ek is nog nie gereed nie, asseblief.” Skielik lyk die hoenderherder beangs. “Ek is goed vir die ander mense hier, ek doen eintlik jou werk, ek versorg hulle wanneer daar niemand anders is nie… die mense hier het my nodig.”
Saturday, May 2, 2009
SCATTERS FROM THE PLAINS, (FLarde - vertaling)
SCATTERS FROM THE PLAINS
The Social Worker
I grew up behind the counter of Mawethu Butchery & General Dealers where we sold everything possible thing. This is my first memory: Cockroaches scurrying over the cement floor, the smell of dust, incense, oil and pap & tshotlho cooking on the gas stove.
MAMA MINOTO is an incredibly fat woman. It becomes dark inside my brother’s Mawethu Butchery & General Dealers as she enters through the double doors as if a thick thundercloud just moved in front of the sun, blocking out the light. She sways from one plump leg to the other until she comes to a stand still under the fan dangling from the roof, hands on her hips so that her arm pits can cool down under the breeze.
Then she eyes the butchery with two sharp chicken eyes that jump in her head, not missing anything. She greets loudly: “Dumelang Bagaetsho!” and indicates to Liesbet behind the big saw to hand her a glass of water from the fridge. Her voice is husky but it carries far on the dusky wind so that the customers outside return the greeting: “A Gae”.
She sinks into a plastic chair and fills it like a bundle of wet laundry into a washing machine. A mixture of tits, fat and spirit. She empties the glass of water with one gulp, holding the glass in front of her for more. Liesbet hastens to fill it up again. Her chin drips, water clinging to the bits of sticky beard there. Then she searches in her bodice and produces a male handkerchief from its depths. She wipes her face clockwise from left to right: from ear to ear. She lifts her head and wipes away the sweat in the folds under her chin.
Suddenly, as if seeing me for the first time, she turns towards me: “Ah, Mosadiotsile! Wa reng?” I pull up my shoulders, shake my head: “Stille hela, Mma Minoto.”
“Always nothing to say, you. Always stille hela” She stretches her dress over her knees, resting her hands on them, arms arched, head slightly bent down, forming a perfect O. She turns to my direction and the chair turns with her, indicates with her head to the fridge where the chicken feet are kept: “Ke batlha run-aways. Lots, ten bags. And I want my special price, okay?”
I feel like fooling around with her. I know she can handle it and besides, she’s the only fun-person I know around here. “The run-aways took to the road, they’re gone.” I continue to build small heaps of one cents, five cents and ten cents on the counter.
“O makgag,” she says. “I could have been your grandma. One does not play jokes on old people.” She gets up and checks the fridge. “You’re a liar! There are lots and lots of minoto in here, Sadi! Look at all the chicken feet, look! You must not lie to me, auk!”
“How many packets do you want to buy today?” I ask. She bends down, leaning with her body into the fridge, “All, I will take them all and I want ten packets of chicken spice with it - the five-bob type – I will not pay seventy cents for a packet; I’m a special customer.”
We count the packs of chicken feet and chicken spices one by one, together. Mama Minoto gives me a handkerchief with one rand, fifty and twenty cent coins bound in it. I take it out and start to count, putting them in stacks and then I hand her the change. She peeks into the box: “Where is my tambuti? You know I get tobacco for free when I buy the chicken feet… and I do not have to ask for it. I can see you do not work here, you know nothing of how it works in here. I want your brother, I do business much better with him!”
“When my brother comes back, I am going to ask him about this tobacco business between the two of you…”
“It is my pasella, because I only buy here. Give my tambuti so that I can go.”
I hand her the tobacco and check my watch. It is nearly two o’clock, my lunch break is over. “You must go back to your office, give me a lift to the crossing on the road to Mmagabue,” orders Mama Minoto. I take my keys and bag and we drive to the clinic, at the crossing where the taxi’s usually stop to pick up hikers, I drop her off: Mama Minoto and the ten packets of chicken feet.
AUGUST 2000
The wind blows her into my office. Papers and files scatter all over the place so that I have to stretch out my arms to stop them from blowing away, out of the social work office, to who-knows-where. Then I look up. She stares directly into my eyes: “The old man is dead,” she says, “last night.”
I do not say anything. Silence fills the whole room. Even the tap at the back of my office stops dripping. The noises outside fade away. The silence hangs above us like a dust cloud. As if we are keeping a secret, as if the wind blew the secret into the office and left it here so that we have to do something with it. And we are silent – Mama Minoto, the child at her side and I.
“I came to ask for a box. We must give him a proper funeral. He must rest. I do not want him to come and haunt us. I do not want him to bother us anymore.” Only then does she sit down, but the child still stands at her side. Quiet, silent.
:Hoseame, Mma. It is okay, I will get the papers ready for a Pauper’s Funeral. I will write the report. You and the family can fetch the coffin on Friday at Phatsimo, at the mortuary there.”
“What family? You listen, but you here nothing. It is I who came to ask for the coffin. His family? They left him to die like a dog. You know that.”
I search for a Pauper’s Funeral Form and grab a pen, I write:
Family name: Dipeko / Tlhale
Address: House no. A23, Magabue Village, Ganyesa District
Circumstances surrounding death: Mr. Dipeko was sick for a long period and died at home.
I ask her: “How did he die? What happened?”
“The evil in his heart burned him to death…”
“How did he die?” I ask again. I take the piece of paper I was writing on and shows it to her: “ I must write, see, here… I must give a reason…”
“He had to die. Everybody dies… eventually. It was time. I already told you – the evil in his heart burned him to death.”
I continue filling in the form:
Socio-economic circumstances: The applicant is a foster mother and receives a monthly grant for the foster child. She sells chicken feet as an extra means of income. Family members are unwilling to assist and no financial assistance can be expected from them.
Recommendation: In the light of the above it is recommended that a coffin be provided to Ms Tlhale so that a community member / neighbour can be buried.
“Emmapele, Mma. I am quickly going to find someone to sign this form so that we can get the coffin, okay?” I take the form and leave the office to find someone somewhere with the authority to sign a piece of paper to provide a “box” to a man whose evil heart burned him to death.
Back at my office I affirm to Mama Minoto that she can fetch the coffin on Friday. She gets up from the chair, takes her “kierie” in the hand, then rests her other hand on the table, finds her shaky legs and stands steady before me. When did she grow so old? “Kealeboga,” says Mama Minoto and presses her hand against her heart. “Thank you.”
“Hoseame, it is my job Ma Minoto, I must help you.”
She rests her hands upon the child’s shoulder and turns around to walk out of my office. He takes her hand and they walk away I see the child’s hands. They are roughly bandaged in old pieces of cloth. “Wait a bit, Mma! What happened to the child’s hands?”
“He played with fire… children, you know how they are…”
“You must take him to the clinic Mma. Wait, let me write you a letter for the doctor.”
I write fast, a short message for Ivan, the Cuban doctor, to have a look at the child’s hands. I put it in an envelope and hand it to her. She takes it and turns to go. “Wait, Mma Minoto, I want you to come back later on when it is a bit quieter here: we must talk.”
They are already waiting under the trees in front of my office when I return from lunch. I open the door and invite them in. Ma Minoto walks in front, hand on the “kierie”, but still upright and strong. She sits on a chair opposite my desk and I move my chair around the desk so that there is nothing between us. I sit right opposite her with the child standing next to her. He seems to be looking at me, but he is also not looking at me. Maybe he is looking at something that is peering over my shoulder?
“Mama Minoto, we must talk about these things please. Boang.”
She wipes the sweat from her brow, plays with the handkerchief in her lap. I wait. She cleans her throat, puts her hand on the childs head. Then she takes his chin in her hands and turns his face to her. She smiles and then only does she look at me.
“How long do you know me?” she asks.
“Since last year some time,” I answer, “longer than a year.”
“And you sat at my house and drank coffee with me?”
“Eboe, yes”
“And you helped me so that I can take care of the child. You came to my yard and looked at my house and you made a report for court. We went to the magistrate together?”
“Yes.”
“You were stupid when you came here. You knew nothing of my people or my language. But you wanted to help. The first time I came to your office you were reading Tswana words from pieces of paper. I helped you with setswana and I gave you a Tswana name. A new name.”
“Eboe Ma, I know.”
“Now you must listen. I am going to tell you. You must listen so that you can know. I want you to know about the child, Kabelo, and of myself. If I die, then you must make sure that the child is taken care of. Do you hear me?”
I try to read her eyes, see the movement there, so that I can understand where all this is going, but it is muddy waters.
“Boang Mma, I want to hear,” is all I say.
I listen while she talks, with the child first next to her, then at her feet, curled up in a deep sleep. Her voice is an old frog, croacking out sound, a frog in a leathery skin. A frog that seems to be quietly resting, but then the tongue jumps out at irritating thoughts passing by like flies. She catches them, holds them tight and then tells the story so that her thoughts form a whole in my mind of the important things she is telling me. So that I look away. Far away, past Mama Minoto, past the Silence-is-Violence poster on the wall in my office, past the outside buildings, past the scrapyard outside Ganyesa, down the dust road, past trees dying in the draught up the road to Mmagabue where all of this took place.
When Mama Minoto leaves my office, some time after tjaila, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Suddenly my eyes are so tired from looking deeply into human beings. I get up from my chair, phones the mortuary at the the hospital to make sure they will have a coffin available for the old man who died. Then I lock my office door.
I walk.
I walk past the Social Security offices where there is still some pension applicants hanging around under the trees, where there are mothers with little babies sucking their breasts. I walk past the clinic, out the gates in the general direction of the Frylinks’ shop.
I walk with my heart beating unrythmically to the residue sound of Mama Minoto’s croacking voice. I walk with my thoughts like I used to walk the dog on Sundays as a child, in the veldt on our farm, where he used get crazily happy and run ahead of me, only to turn around to see if I am still following him. So I walk with my thoughts barking in my head.
Mama Minoto
The chicken feet woman
This morning, with the first sun light over the plains, I knew that I would be the one to go and tell. That I would be the one to go and ask for a box in which to put away Oneboy Dipeko – as far and deeply away as possible. I saw it in the manner that the family sent the children with coffee to my place. It was sweet with lots of milk, not even goat’s milk, but fresh cow milk. I saw in their dog eyes and in the way they eagerly asked if the coffee was strong and sweet enough and if I liked it. I knew it, even though no one asked me.
So I went over to their houses and told them: “We must put him to the ground. We must give him a proper funeral. I will go. I am taking the child with.” They were just sitting there in the kitchen, black ACE coffee in their cups, probably without sugar. I could see how my words were going bitterly into their heads, but it fell sweet on their stomachs. How sweet to know that it does not have to be one of them. It was Mmaserame who took the ten rand note from her bodice and gave it to me: “Go buy Tshotlho at Mmawethu Butchery for you and the child. Go talk to the man there and ask him for meat for the funeral on Saturday. Tell him I will pay him after pension day…”
“Hoseame,” I said, as if we always talked like this to each other.
I woke Kabelo so that I could clean him for the trip we were going to undertake. I sent one of the children with a bucket to go and fetch water and I told another to start the fire, so that I can warm the water. I did my morning things one by one like any other morning. When the water was hot and ready, I washed Kabelo. I took the green Sunlight Soap and rubbed in on his head and body and the left-over water I poured over him. Thereafter I took off the bandages and cleaned his hands gently, rubbing Fryer’s Balm on the wounds. He did not try to stop me even though I knew it hurt. I then took some vaseline and polished his body until he shone like a star: nobody could say I do not take proper care of this child.
Kabelo waited in silence while I cleaned and readied myself for the road. Old Oneboy Dipeko used to say that the child has the silence of a thief. His footsteps are so soft he does not leave prints… that child, Oneboy used to say, is a majero with evil in him. Then he would shake his head and point at Kabelo: “Look at his eyes, bonna, he is already a tsotsi. I used to keep quiet, one cannot fight with a box Kalahari beer. Beer hears nothing.
I do my morning things as usual, but the whole time I am thinking: “What am going to tell the social worker?” And the whole time I am humming in my head: “Didi Mala, Bana…” Rest easy, child.
We took the old foot path, carved out by the hoofs of goat, sheep and cattle. We walked slowly, the child and I. The child, breaking away, out of our togetherness to run ahead, then turning around, waiting for my crooked legs to come.
Along the road we found people on a donkey cart, also on their way to Ganyesa. They greet me: “Dumelang, Mma.” And we greet back. They ask me if the old man still IS and I say “no, he no longer is. He passed, last night.” Then came their good mannered tears and the question always asked when someone dies: “What happened?” I answered, because I must, it is good manners: “He returned to ash. He went back to his forefathers.” And they shook their heads, sigh, promise to come on Saturdag for the funeral and the food.
As we were walking on a great wind came and threw sand in my mouth and I had to swallow it. All the death buried in the earth, was suddenly in my mouth so that my innards turned and twisted. I had to hide behind a bush to relief myself of the stabbing pain in my stomach. I could smell the sour knowledge of all I knew on my body’s odour. I first stopped at the outside toilets at the clinic where the social worker’s offices are. I made sure that I would be free to talk. In my head I repeated the words that I wanted to say, over and over again.
The child was outside busy drawing pictures in the sand with a piece of wood, as if this was his yard, he seemed peaceful. I took him by the arm and dragged him up: “Listen to me,” I said “you keep your hands away from people’s eyes. You must stand like this,” and I showed him how to keep his hands behind his back. “You stand like this all the time.”
Everything went well in the social worker’s office, but then she called us back. I sat there with my hands in my lap like dead things, whilest the words were flowing from my gut, whilest my stomach burned and turned harshly in me.
I told her:
About the old man and the child’s mother and the ghost dog that barked and bit at my ankles all the time. And her eyes looked away more and more until they became the dust of an August windstorm.
Kabelo
The foster child
I remember the day I came into being. My father’s voice screaming over the plains, bumping against trees and killing anything that came in it’s way, so that I can still hear it in me today: the death of all words. And the singular scream of my mother.
I do not talk. I do not laugh and I never cry. Not like I have seen the other children do. I just am. Since the beginning I have always been here, amongst the rest, but not part of them. Everybody knows of me, because I do not talk. Because I always sit under the Thorn tree at Mama Minoto’s house and I just look. Then they ask: “What are you looking at, child? I just look away then, to the plains, over the plains, into the depth of the plains.
I am the broken branch of my family tree. They are the dogs that piss against the bark and lie in the shade of the tree.
Malome Oneboy taught me that I am a murderer. I killed my mother. Mama Minoto says I was born in-spite-of. I had to be, therefore I am. Oneboy says I killed my mother because I just had to get out that night at Phatsimo Hospital. I tore her up and she bled to death. I am her blood, her madi. Mama Minoto says I must live, so that Mosadiomuntle, my mother,’s death can be paid for. Paid for with madi – blood and money and all the power that flows in and out of one.
We are walking the footpath that we always walk when we go to Ganyesa to the white woman that the people call “Mosadiotsile”. I follow the water on the road that shines in the sunlight and I run with my nose in the wind. I listen to the words in Mama Minoto’s head and I can feel her innards shake, while she is tasting words and spitting them out in the sand.
The wind is angry and throws us full of sand. I run away and swing my arms in the wind, whilest Mama Minoto lingers behind a bush. I turn around and wait for her and when she is next to me, I take her hand and lead her on the foot path. She does not talk today. Usually when we walk somewhere she talks a lot and tells me about my mother. The she says: “ Kabelo, my child, your mama was a beautiful woman. That is why she was given the name Mosadiomuntle. She had round cheeks and a mouth as red as a tomato. Her skin shone in the sun and her feet were flat and big and we knew that she would have lots of sons one day...” Then she becomes quiet and looks at me, rubs my head and says: “Like you, sons like you.”
But today she does not talk. She thinks all the words but they die on her tongue. And I can taste how she is tasting the ground in which we will put Malome Oneboy now that he is dead.
We greet the people we meet along the road and she tells them how Oneboy had to burn to become ashes again. So that they can know that he is now one of the forefathers. We walk to the social worker’s office and Mama Minoto shows me how to stand and go stand right next to her, hiding my hands. I watch as the social worker writes and I do not understand what she says, but I can feel the fear in Mama Minoto as we go to the doctor at the clinic.
He does not ask any questions. Hy looks at my hands and cleans them and gives us things to rub on the wounds. Mama Minoto thanks him and we walk back to the social worker’s office.
Suddenly the words take hold of Mama Minoto and I watch as she talks and talks, her mouth goes dry but she does not stop talking. I see the social worker’s eyes piercing right through the walls and I wonder what she sees. I become tired and lie down at Mama Minoto’s feet, my head on her shoes and I listen, even though I do not hear, how her voice becomes softer and softer and then disappears.
The social worker
I was born on a rainy day in the autumn of 1972, fifteen minutes after my brother. I was a surprise. My mother says she always heard two heart beats, but there were no proof that we would be twins. The wind came up and pulled at the trees on the hospital grounds. Berries and leaves were blowing all over the place. That was when I was born, feet first. That was not my first or last birth.
When one writes down a history, you are forced to fabricate. There is always another history, a subconscious one that mingles in between the lines of the one that is written. It cannot be forced into a specific time frame. I have strangers for forefathers and strangers that will come after me, a history that also becomes part of mine, even if I do not recall it or do not want to make it mine. It is there. It flows in mine and forms an eternity. It is a life history that begins in the middle somewhere and moves backwards and forwards. I can only make out parts thereof, I can write down short moments thereof, the rest is mere speculation. There will always be a secret, obscure story hidden away. Therefore I steal from other’s histories, pull the curtain away and peeks outside, make of the outside what I want to make of it. I make it mine, just because I can.
In my third year at university the lecturer asked us: “What are you doing here?” and moved along the benches and gave us pieces of paper on which to write what we were doing there. We had to write: “Why am I here?” and then give an anwer.
I wrote: “I am here, because I did not go to the movies.”
We were sitting in the cafeteria before class, my friends and I. Kastel came with the suggestion: “Let’s go to the movies.”
“I can’t” I said, “I have class now.”
“Come on, girl, you are not going to miss anything, that I can assure you,” she pleaded with me.
“What’s showing?” I wanted to know.
“Don’t know, but there is showing a lot of movies at Cresta and we can even go to Rosebank to watch an art movie if you like…”
“No, we are going to Cresta, I want to do shopping as well,” replied Rachell.
“You’ll have to make up your mind, the next classes start in five minutes. The movies start in half an hour. Class or movies?” Kastell wanted to know. “There isn’t much of a choice. If you think logically about it,” she added.
“Tell her something that will make up her mind, Kastel,” The others said.
“First have a cigarette, then you can decide,” said Kastel and gave me one. It’s an old trick – let the person smoke until the time has passed and it is too late to attend class.
“I feel like an action movie, with kicking, shooting and fighting,” said Rachel. “I feel so aggro lately.”
“So, you are going to bunk class?”
“Off course!”
Kastel had Rachel convinced to bunk class with the first mentioning of a movie, any alternative to attending class will do.
Rachel’s aggression was a burning desire for retribution. She kept the fire burning with any possible reason to be angry at the world. There is always a reason to be angry: imagined injustices to yourself, your friends, mankind. The cafeteria’s food that is bad, the text books that are too expensive, lectureres who do not know what they are talking about. We live in a country that feeds off injustices, anger and revenge. Why should she be different?
TO BE CONTINUED....
The Social Worker
I grew up behind the counter of Mawethu Butchery & General Dealers where we sold everything possible thing. This is my first memory: Cockroaches scurrying over the cement floor, the smell of dust, incense, oil and pap & tshotlho cooking on the gas stove.
MAMA MINOTO is an incredibly fat woman. It becomes dark inside my brother’s Mawethu Butchery & General Dealers as she enters through the double doors as if a thick thundercloud just moved in front of the sun, blocking out the light. She sways from one plump leg to the other until she comes to a stand still under the fan dangling from the roof, hands on her hips so that her arm pits can cool down under the breeze.
Then she eyes the butchery with two sharp chicken eyes that jump in her head, not missing anything. She greets loudly: “Dumelang Bagaetsho!” and indicates to Liesbet behind the big saw to hand her a glass of water from the fridge. Her voice is husky but it carries far on the dusky wind so that the customers outside return the greeting: “A Gae”.
She sinks into a plastic chair and fills it like a bundle of wet laundry into a washing machine. A mixture of tits, fat and spirit. She empties the glass of water with one gulp, holding the glass in front of her for more. Liesbet hastens to fill it up again. Her chin drips, water clinging to the bits of sticky beard there. Then she searches in her bodice and produces a male handkerchief from its depths. She wipes her face clockwise from left to right: from ear to ear. She lifts her head and wipes away the sweat in the folds under her chin.
Suddenly, as if seeing me for the first time, she turns towards me: “Ah, Mosadiotsile! Wa reng?” I pull up my shoulders, shake my head: “Stille hela, Mma Minoto.”
“Always nothing to say, you. Always stille hela” She stretches her dress over her knees, resting her hands on them, arms arched, head slightly bent down, forming a perfect O. She turns to my direction and the chair turns with her, indicates with her head to the fridge where the chicken feet are kept: “Ke batlha run-aways. Lots, ten bags. And I want my special price, okay?”
I feel like fooling around with her. I know she can handle it and besides, she’s the only fun-person I know around here. “The run-aways took to the road, they’re gone.” I continue to build small heaps of one cents, five cents and ten cents on the counter.
“O makgag,” she says. “I could have been your grandma. One does not play jokes on old people.” She gets up and checks the fridge. “You’re a liar! There are lots and lots of minoto in here, Sadi! Look at all the chicken feet, look! You must not lie to me, auk!”
“How many packets do you want to buy today?” I ask. She bends down, leaning with her body into the fridge, “All, I will take them all and I want ten packets of chicken spice with it - the five-bob type – I will not pay seventy cents for a packet; I’m a special customer.”
We count the packs of chicken feet and chicken spices one by one, together. Mama Minoto gives me a handkerchief with one rand, fifty and twenty cent coins bound in it. I take it out and start to count, putting them in stacks and then I hand her the change. She peeks into the box: “Where is my tambuti? You know I get tobacco for free when I buy the chicken feet… and I do not have to ask for it. I can see you do not work here, you know nothing of how it works in here. I want your brother, I do business much better with him!”
“When my brother comes back, I am going to ask him about this tobacco business between the two of you…”
“It is my pasella, because I only buy here. Give my tambuti so that I can go.”
I hand her the tobacco and check my watch. It is nearly two o’clock, my lunch break is over. “You must go back to your office, give me a lift to the crossing on the road to Mmagabue,” orders Mama Minoto. I take my keys and bag and we drive to the clinic, at the crossing where the taxi’s usually stop to pick up hikers, I drop her off: Mama Minoto and the ten packets of chicken feet.
AUGUST 2000
The wind blows her into my office. Papers and files scatter all over the place so that I have to stretch out my arms to stop them from blowing away, out of the social work office, to who-knows-where. Then I look up. She stares directly into my eyes: “The old man is dead,” she says, “last night.”
I do not say anything. Silence fills the whole room. Even the tap at the back of my office stops dripping. The noises outside fade away. The silence hangs above us like a dust cloud. As if we are keeping a secret, as if the wind blew the secret into the office and left it here so that we have to do something with it. And we are silent – Mama Minoto, the child at her side and I.
“I came to ask for a box. We must give him a proper funeral. He must rest. I do not want him to come and haunt us. I do not want him to bother us anymore.” Only then does she sit down, but the child still stands at her side. Quiet, silent.
:Hoseame, Mma. It is okay, I will get the papers ready for a Pauper’s Funeral. I will write the report. You and the family can fetch the coffin on Friday at Phatsimo, at the mortuary there.”
“What family? You listen, but you here nothing. It is I who came to ask for the coffin. His family? They left him to die like a dog. You know that.”
I search for a Pauper’s Funeral Form and grab a pen, I write:
Family name: Dipeko / Tlhale
Address: House no. A23, Magabue Village, Ganyesa District
Circumstances surrounding death: Mr. Dipeko was sick for a long period and died at home.
I ask her: “How did he die? What happened?”
“The evil in his heart burned him to death…”
“How did he die?” I ask again. I take the piece of paper I was writing on and shows it to her: “ I must write, see, here… I must give a reason…”
“He had to die. Everybody dies… eventually. It was time. I already told you – the evil in his heart burned him to death.”
I continue filling in the form:
Socio-economic circumstances: The applicant is a foster mother and receives a monthly grant for the foster child. She sells chicken feet as an extra means of income. Family members are unwilling to assist and no financial assistance can be expected from them.
Recommendation: In the light of the above it is recommended that a coffin be provided to Ms Tlhale so that a community member / neighbour can be buried.
“Emmapele, Mma. I am quickly going to find someone to sign this form so that we can get the coffin, okay?” I take the form and leave the office to find someone somewhere with the authority to sign a piece of paper to provide a “box” to a man whose evil heart burned him to death.
Back at my office I affirm to Mama Minoto that she can fetch the coffin on Friday. She gets up from the chair, takes her “kierie” in the hand, then rests her other hand on the table, finds her shaky legs and stands steady before me. When did she grow so old? “Kealeboga,” says Mama Minoto and presses her hand against her heart. “Thank you.”
“Hoseame, it is my job Ma Minoto, I must help you.”
She rests her hands upon the child’s shoulder and turns around to walk out of my office. He takes her hand and they walk away I see the child’s hands. They are roughly bandaged in old pieces of cloth. “Wait a bit, Mma! What happened to the child’s hands?”
“He played with fire… children, you know how they are…”
“You must take him to the clinic Mma. Wait, let me write you a letter for the doctor.”
I write fast, a short message for Ivan, the Cuban doctor, to have a look at the child’s hands. I put it in an envelope and hand it to her. She takes it and turns to go. “Wait, Mma Minoto, I want you to come back later on when it is a bit quieter here: we must talk.”
They are already waiting under the trees in front of my office when I return from lunch. I open the door and invite them in. Ma Minoto walks in front, hand on the “kierie”, but still upright and strong. She sits on a chair opposite my desk and I move my chair around the desk so that there is nothing between us. I sit right opposite her with the child standing next to her. He seems to be looking at me, but he is also not looking at me. Maybe he is looking at something that is peering over my shoulder?
“Mama Minoto, we must talk about these things please. Boang.”
She wipes the sweat from her brow, plays with the handkerchief in her lap. I wait. She cleans her throat, puts her hand on the childs head. Then she takes his chin in her hands and turns his face to her. She smiles and then only does she look at me.
“How long do you know me?” she asks.
“Since last year some time,” I answer, “longer than a year.”
“And you sat at my house and drank coffee with me?”
“Eboe, yes”
“And you helped me so that I can take care of the child. You came to my yard and looked at my house and you made a report for court. We went to the magistrate together?”
“Yes.”
“You were stupid when you came here. You knew nothing of my people or my language. But you wanted to help. The first time I came to your office you were reading Tswana words from pieces of paper. I helped you with setswana and I gave you a Tswana name. A new name.”
“Eboe Ma, I know.”
“Now you must listen. I am going to tell you. You must listen so that you can know. I want you to know about the child, Kabelo, and of myself. If I die, then you must make sure that the child is taken care of. Do you hear me?”
I try to read her eyes, see the movement there, so that I can understand where all this is going, but it is muddy waters.
“Boang Mma, I want to hear,” is all I say.
I listen while she talks, with the child first next to her, then at her feet, curled up in a deep sleep. Her voice is an old frog, croacking out sound, a frog in a leathery skin. A frog that seems to be quietly resting, but then the tongue jumps out at irritating thoughts passing by like flies. She catches them, holds them tight and then tells the story so that her thoughts form a whole in my mind of the important things she is telling me. So that I look away. Far away, past Mama Minoto, past the Silence-is-Violence poster on the wall in my office, past the outside buildings, past the scrapyard outside Ganyesa, down the dust road, past trees dying in the draught up the road to Mmagabue where all of this took place.
When Mama Minoto leaves my office, some time after tjaila, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Suddenly my eyes are so tired from looking deeply into human beings. I get up from my chair, phones the mortuary at the the hospital to make sure they will have a coffin available for the old man who died. Then I lock my office door.
I walk.
I walk past the Social Security offices where there is still some pension applicants hanging around under the trees, where there are mothers with little babies sucking their breasts. I walk past the clinic, out the gates in the general direction of the Frylinks’ shop.
I walk with my heart beating unrythmically to the residue sound of Mama Minoto’s croacking voice. I walk with my thoughts like I used to walk the dog on Sundays as a child, in the veldt on our farm, where he used get crazily happy and run ahead of me, only to turn around to see if I am still following him. So I walk with my thoughts barking in my head.
Mama Minoto
The chicken feet woman
This morning, with the first sun light over the plains, I knew that I would be the one to go and tell. That I would be the one to go and ask for a box in which to put away Oneboy Dipeko – as far and deeply away as possible. I saw it in the manner that the family sent the children with coffee to my place. It was sweet with lots of milk, not even goat’s milk, but fresh cow milk. I saw in their dog eyes and in the way they eagerly asked if the coffee was strong and sweet enough and if I liked it. I knew it, even though no one asked me.
So I went over to their houses and told them: “We must put him to the ground. We must give him a proper funeral. I will go. I am taking the child with.” They were just sitting there in the kitchen, black ACE coffee in their cups, probably without sugar. I could see how my words were going bitterly into their heads, but it fell sweet on their stomachs. How sweet to know that it does not have to be one of them. It was Mmaserame who took the ten rand note from her bodice and gave it to me: “Go buy Tshotlho at Mmawethu Butchery for you and the child. Go talk to the man there and ask him for meat for the funeral on Saturday. Tell him I will pay him after pension day…”
“Hoseame,” I said, as if we always talked like this to each other.
I woke Kabelo so that I could clean him for the trip we were going to undertake. I sent one of the children with a bucket to go and fetch water and I told another to start the fire, so that I can warm the water. I did my morning things one by one like any other morning. When the water was hot and ready, I washed Kabelo. I took the green Sunlight Soap and rubbed in on his head and body and the left-over water I poured over him. Thereafter I took off the bandages and cleaned his hands gently, rubbing Fryer’s Balm on the wounds. He did not try to stop me even though I knew it hurt. I then took some vaseline and polished his body until he shone like a star: nobody could say I do not take proper care of this child.
Kabelo waited in silence while I cleaned and readied myself for the road. Old Oneboy Dipeko used to say that the child has the silence of a thief. His footsteps are so soft he does not leave prints… that child, Oneboy used to say, is a majero with evil in him. Then he would shake his head and point at Kabelo: “Look at his eyes, bonna, he is already a tsotsi. I used to keep quiet, one cannot fight with a box Kalahari beer. Beer hears nothing.
I do my morning things as usual, but the whole time I am thinking: “What am going to tell the social worker?” And the whole time I am humming in my head: “Didi Mala, Bana…” Rest easy, child.
We took the old foot path, carved out by the hoofs of goat, sheep and cattle. We walked slowly, the child and I. The child, breaking away, out of our togetherness to run ahead, then turning around, waiting for my crooked legs to come.
Along the road we found people on a donkey cart, also on their way to Ganyesa. They greet me: “Dumelang, Mma.” And we greet back. They ask me if the old man still IS and I say “no, he no longer is. He passed, last night.” Then came their good mannered tears and the question always asked when someone dies: “What happened?” I answered, because I must, it is good manners: “He returned to ash. He went back to his forefathers.” And they shook their heads, sigh, promise to come on Saturdag for the funeral and the food.
As we were walking on a great wind came and threw sand in my mouth and I had to swallow it. All the death buried in the earth, was suddenly in my mouth so that my innards turned and twisted. I had to hide behind a bush to relief myself of the stabbing pain in my stomach. I could smell the sour knowledge of all I knew on my body’s odour. I first stopped at the outside toilets at the clinic where the social worker’s offices are. I made sure that I would be free to talk. In my head I repeated the words that I wanted to say, over and over again.
The child was outside busy drawing pictures in the sand with a piece of wood, as if this was his yard, he seemed peaceful. I took him by the arm and dragged him up: “Listen to me,” I said “you keep your hands away from people’s eyes. You must stand like this,” and I showed him how to keep his hands behind his back. “You stand like this all the time.”
Everything went well in the social worker’s office, but then she called us back. I sat there with my hands in my lap like dead things, whilest the words were flowing from my gut, whilest my stomach burned and turned harshly in me.
I told her:
About the old man and the child’s mother and the ghost dog that barked and bit at my ankles all the time. And her eyes looked away more and more until they became the dust of an August windstorm.
Kabelo
The foster child
I remember the day I came into being. My father’s voice screaming over the plains, bumping against trees and killing anything that came in it’s way, so that I can still hear it in me today: the death of all words. And the singular scream of my mother.
I do not talk. I do not laugh and I never cry. Not like I have seen the other children do. I just am. Since the beginning I have always been here, amongst the rest, but not part of them. Everybody knows of me, because I do not talk. Because I always sit under the Thorn tree at Mama Minoto’s house and I just look. Then they ask: “What are you looking at, child? I just look away then, to the plains, over the plains, into the depth of the plains.
I am the broken branch of my family tree. They are the dogs that piss against the bark and lie in the shade of the tree.
Malome Oneboy taught me that I am a murderer. I killed my mother. Mama Minoto says I was born in-spite-of. I had to be, therefore I am. Oneboy says I killed my mother because I just had to get out that night at Phatsimo Hospital. I tore her up and she bled to death. I am her blood, her madi. Mama Minoto says I must live, so that Mosadiomuntle, my mother,’s death can be paid for. Paid for with madi – blood and money and all the power that flows in and out of one.
We are walking the footpath that we always walk when we go to Ganyesa to the white woman that the people call “Mosadiotsile”. I follow the water on the road that shines in the sunlight and I run with my nose in the wind. I listen to the words in Mama Minoto’s head and I can feel her innards shake, while she is tasting words and spitting them out in the sand.
The wind is angry and throws us full of sand. I run away and swing my arms in the wind, whilest Mama Minoto lingers behind a bush. I turn around and wait for her and when she is next to me, I take her hand and lead her on the foot path. She does not talk today. Usually when we walk somewhere she talks a lot and tells me about my mother. The she says: “ Kabelo, my child, your mama was a beautiful woman. That is why she was given the name Mosadiomuntle. She had round cheeks and a mouth as red as a tomato. Her skin shone in the sun and her feet were flat and big and we knew that she would have lots of sons one day...” Then she becomes quiet and looks at me, rubs my head and says: “Like you, sons like you.”
But today she does not talk. She thinks all the words but they die on her tongue. And I can taste how she is tasting the ground in which we will put Malome Oneboy now that he is dead.
We greet the people we meet along the road and she tells them how Oneboy had to burn to become ashes again. So that they can know that he is now one of the forefathers. We walk to the social worker’s office and Mama Minoto shows me how to stand and go stand right next to her, hiding my hands. I watch as the social worker writes and I do not understand what she says, but I can feel the fear in Mama Minoto as we go to the doctor at the clinic.
He does not ask any questions. Hy looks at my hands and cleans them and gives us things to rub on the wounds. Mama Minoto thanks him and we walk back to the social worker’s office.
Suddenly the words take hold of Mama Minoto and I watch as she talks and talks, her mouth goes dry but she does not stop talking. I see the social worker’s eyes piercing right through the walls and I wonder what she sees. I become tired and lie down at Mama Minoto’s feet, my head on her shoes and I listen, even though I do not hear, how her voice becomes softer and softer and then disappears.
The social worker
I was born on a rainy day in the autumn of 1972, fifteen minutes after my brother. I was a surprise. My mother says she always heard two heart beats, but there were no proof that we would be twins. The wind came up and pulled at the trees on the hospital grounds. Berries and leaves were blowing all over the place. That was when I was born, feet first. That was not my first or last birth.
When one writes down a history, you are forced to fabricate. There is always another history, a subconscious one that mingles in between the lines of the one that is written. It cannot be forced into a specific time frame. I have strangers for forefathers and strangers that will come after me, a history that also becomes part of mine, even if I do not recall it or do not want to make it mine. It is there. It flows in mine and forms an eternity. It is a life history that begins in the middle somewhere and moves backwards and forwards. I can only make out parts thereof, I can write down short moments thereof, the rest is mere speculation. There will always be a secret, obscure story hidden away. Therefore I steal from other’s histories, pull the curtain away and peeks outside, make of the outside what I want to make of it. I make it mine, just because I can.
In my third year at university the lecturer asked us: “What are you doing here?” and moved along the benches and gave us pieces of paper on which to write what we were doing there. We had to write: “Why am I here?” and then give an anwer.
I wrote: “I am here, because I did not go to the movies.”
We were sitting in the cafeteria before class, my friends and I. Kastel came with the suggestion: “Let’s go to the movies.”
“I can’t” I said, “I have class now.”
“Come on, girl, you are not going to miss anything, that I can assure you,” she pleaded with me.
“What’s showing?” I wanted to know.
“Don’t know, but there is showing a lot of movies at Cresta and we can even go to Rosebank to watch an art movie if you like…”
“No, we are going to Cresta, I want to do shopping as well,” replied Rachell.
“You’ll have to make up your mind, the next classes start in five minutes. The movies start in half an hour. Class or movies?” Kastell wanted to know. “There isn’t much of a choice. If you think logically about it,” she added.
“Tell her something that will make up her mind, Kastel,” The others said.
“First have a cigarette, then you can decide,” said Kastel and gave me one. It’s an old trick – let the person smoke until the time has passed and it is too late to attend class.
“I feel like an action movie, with kicking, shooting and fighting,” said Rachel. “I feel so aggro lately.”
“So, you are going to bunk class?”
“Off course!”
Kastel had Rachel convinced to bunk class with the first mentioning of a movie, any alternative to attending class will do.
Rachel’s aggression was a burning desire for retribution. She kept the fire burning with any possible reason to be angry at the world. There is always a reason to be angry: imagined injustices to yourself, your friends, mankind. The cafeteria’s food that is bad, the text books that are too expensive, lectureres who do not know what they are talking about. We live in a country that feeds off injustices, anger and revenge. Why should she be different?
TO BE CONTINUED....
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Miranda - The Admired
She was born with two right thumbs, linked by a soft web of flesh. It seemed as if she was saying: "A-okay, all is fine..." those two thumbs stuck together in an ever hopeful gesture of being "okay". But a few weeks after her birth, the one thumb was non-chalantly removed in a short and decisive surgical procedure. She was suddenly as normal and as plain as all the other babies in the world. There was just the slight scar next to her right thumb that left a vague memory of the extra thumb she once had.
Her name is for the sake of at least having a name: Miranda, meaning: to be admired, derived from Latyn. She says it out loud, tastes the word on her tongue and spits it out at the image of herself in the mirror: Miranda, admired. She has scissors in her right hand. WIth the left hand she holds a strand of long red hair and with one smooth movement from the right hand, she cuts it off. It falls softly to the ground. She feels like crying, but does not stop until she is satisfied that most of her hair is lying at her feet. She feels light and dizzy and as if she could sprout wings. Slowly she turns away from the mirror and walks out of the room. It is intensely cold outside...
Miranda pulls the jacket closer to her body as she walks out into the cold. She opens the door of her second hand Toyota Hilux with the bumps on the back, bonnet and side: scars of her driving expertise. She gets in and starts the ignition, she immediately feels the power surge through the enjin - she loves this, she loves the feeling of power that the bakkie gives her. She loves the fact that she sits higher than most other drivers on the road. It makes her feel like the queen of the road. As she drives, she waves at the cars passing her by, sharing the road with her. She waves and smiles. As if she is indeed the queen of the road. She can see herself dressed in a purple velvet jacket that falls to her ancles. Standing on a hill looking down on the villagers below, her subjects. She is the queen...
Queen of Wands: the queen sits upon a throne with arm rests in the appearance of lions, a symbol of fire and strength. At her feet sits a black cat... Miranda drives on and on through the towns of the North West Province, South Africa. Her mind somewhere lost between the dangling pot-holed roads and the plains stretching as far as the eye can see. She is naked. But no one notices. She is fierce, but no one seems scared. She is fire, but still the cold bites at her innards.
She had a plan, an idea, somewhere in her head, but now she cannot seem to recall it. There was a specific reason why she packed her things and got in the car and started driving. She thinks of the black cat that crossed the street when she was driving through Klerksdorp. She had to swerve out of the road to avoid hitting it. The cat just strolled on as if nothing could touch it... she admires the spirit that resides in cats. What was the plan all about? Yes, sure, getting away. Far away from herself and all that reminds her of who she is. That was part of it. Therefore she cut her hair. She checks herself in the mirror: she looks like a pixie with the short hair and ears sticking out. She smiles at this thought. Focus now, she tells herself. Remember. Think. Start here and work your way back to the beginning... what motivated me to flee? Was I scared? Did something scare me? Is it something in my mind? Something I heard or felt or suspected? Because one can never know anything for sure... so, it must be something I suspected. Did I suspect something about myself or about life?
As Miranda drives past the small towns of the North West province, she thinks of herself as a town. A tiny one-horse town. She is the only inhabitant and she produces all that she needs in the town. She is the tiny red-bricked shop that sells cigarettes and coffee and tea and sugar and pipe tabaccos. She is the post office that receives and delivers post. She is the small church where the big clock chimes each hour, counting off the minutes and days of a life time. And now she is leaving this town. She is leaving all that is familiar behind. Fear of the unknown becomes a very tangible thing in her body. She can feel it creeping up her spine and entering her hands. The scar next to her right thumb starts to itch.
In Wolmaranstadt she stops, gets out the car and enters a rest room next to a garage. The rest room smells of urine and Jik. There is no toilet paper and she shudders as she sits on the toilet, relieving herself, thinking of the germs that could be jumping around. She sees them vividly in purplish black and red colours, jumping on her hands and arms and crawling all over her body. She feels an Itch over her whole body. She needs to get out of there. She washes her hands three times and closes the tap with her elbow, she does not want to touch any more germs. Then she nearly runs out of the rest room, enters the little Star Shop next to the garage and buys Coke, Simba Chips and biltong for the road. The sun is setting in the west and shining directly into her eyes.
Her name is for the sake of at least having a name: Miranda, meaning: to be admired, derived from Latyn. She says it out loud, tastes the word on her tongue and spits it out at the image of herself in the mirror: Miranda, admired. She has scissors in her right hand. WIth the left hand she holds a strand of long red hair and with one smooth movement from the right hand, she cuts it off. It falls softly to the ground. She feels like crying, but does not stop until she is satisfied that most of her hair is lying at her feet. She feels light and dizzy and as if she could sprout wings. Slowly she turns away from the mirror and walks out of the room. It is intensely cold outside...
Miranda pulls the jacket closer to her body as she walks out into the cold. She opens the door of her second hand Toyota Hilux with the bumps on the back, bonnet and side: scars of her driving expertise. She gets in and starts the ignition, she immediately feels the power surge through the enjin - she loves this, she loves the feeling of power that the bakkie gives her. She loves the fact that she sits higher than most other drivers on the road. It makes her feel like the queen of the road. As she drives, she waves at the cars passing her by, sharing the road with her. She waves and smiles. As if she is indeed the queen of the road. She can see herself dressed in a purple velvet jacket that falls to her ancles. Standing on a hill looking down on the villagers below, her subjects. She is the queen...
Queen of Wands: the queen sits upon a throne with arm rests in the appearance of lions, a symbol of fire and strength. At her feet sits a black cat... Miranda drives on and on through the towns of the North West Province, South Africa. Her mind somewhere lost between the dangling pot-holed roads and the plains stretching as far as the eye can see. She is naked. But no one notices. She is fierce, but no one seems scared. She is fire, but still the cold bites at her innards.
She had a plan, an idea, somewhere in her head, but now she cannot seem to recall it. There was a specific reason why she packed her things and got in the car and started driving. She thinks of the black cat that crossed the street when she was driving through Klerksdorp. She had to swerve out of the road to avoid hitting it. The cat just strolled on as if nothing could touch it... she admires the spirit that resides in cats. What was the plan all about? Yes, sure, getting away. Far away from herself and all that reminds her of who she is. That was part of it. Therefore she cut her hair. She checks herself in the mirror: she looks like a pixie with the short hair and ears sticking out. She smiles at this thought. Focus now, she tells herself. Remember. Think. Start here and work your way back to the beginning... what motivated me to flee? Was I scared? Did something scare me? Is it something in my mind? Something I heard or felt or suspected? Because one can never know anything for sure... so, it must be something I suspected. Did I suspect something about myself or about life?
As Miranda drives past the small towns of the North West province, she thinks of herself as a town. A tiny one-horse town. She is the only inhabitant and she produces all that she needs in the town. She is the tiny red-bricked shop that sells cigarettes and coffee and tea and sugar and pipe tabaccos. She is the post office that receives and delivers post. She is the small church where the big clock chimes each hour, counting off the minutes and days of a life time. And now she is leaving this town. She is leaving all that is familiar behind. Fear of the unknown becomes a very tangible thing in her body. She can feel it creeping up her spine and entering her hands. The scar next to her right thumb starts to itch.
In Wolmaranstadt she stops, gets out the car and enters a rest room next to a garage. The rest room smells of urine and Jik. There is no toilet paper and she shudders as she sits on the toilet, relieving herself, thinking of the germs that could be jumping around. She sees them vividly in purplish black and red colours, jumping on her hands and arms and crawling all over her body. She feels an Itch over her whole body. She needs to get out of there. She washes her hands three times and closes the tap with her elbow, she does not want to touch any more germs. Then she nearly runs out of the rest room, enters the little Star Shop next to the garage and buys Coke, Simba Chips and biltong for the road. The sun is setting in the west and shining directly into her eyes.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
ROMANZA - ROFL
1.
Skielik tuimel die vertrek om Jana. Dit voel asof iemand haar ‘n vuishou in die maag gegee het. Sy sit oorkant haar beste vriendin, Marissa, in die klein koffiewinkeltjie op kampus en voel hoe haar wereld in duie stort. Hoe alles wat sy geglo het, gehoop het, liefgehad het, in die niet verdwyn… asof dit in elk geval nooit was nie. Haar gedagtes mael en kolk in haar. Hoe kon sy so dom wees? Hoe kon sy dit nooit besef het nie? Nee! Dis nie waar nie. Maar sy kan in Marissa se oe sien, dat dit die waarheid is. Haar trouman, haar droomman, die enigste man wat sy in haar twee-en-twingtig jaar op aarde, regtig liefgekry het; is ‘n groot stuk valsheid, ‘n leuen. Charl, kreet dit in haar. Die pyn is amper fisies. Die skok laat haar bleek bly sit en staar deur die mure van die koffiewinkel. Haar gedagtes gaan terug na die dag wat sy hom ontmoet het, meer as ‘n jaar gelede:
Dit was die begin van die lente en die bome het kleurryk in Tomstraat gebloei en op kampus kon mens die bloeisels aan blomme sien uitspruit en alles het vertel van ‘n nuwe begin. Die lug het geruik na ruim beloftes en hoop. Sy het lig en vrolik gevoel, ten spyte van die gemis wat daar in haar lewe was. Sedert sy op kampus gekom het, op ouderdom agtien, het sy steeds nie ‘n vaste vriend gehad nie. Daar was hier en daar ‘n outjie saam wie sy na funksies en koshuisdinees toe gegaan het, maar niemand het tot haar gespreek nie. Sy en Marissa het soos vandag koffie gedrink in die Jonge Akker. Sy was laat vir klas en het oorhaastig opgestaan en haar boeksak gegryp en oor haar skouer geswaai. Met die swaai het sy die beker koffie wat op die tafel langsaan staan op die arme man wat daar gesit het, se skoot omgegooi. Dit was Charl, met die donker oe en die ligte vel en die sagte mond. Sy het vreeslik omverskoning gevra. Hy het net gesit en lag.
Sy was dadelik verlore toe sy in sy oe kyk… dit was half-spottend, peinsend, dringend. Dit het haar dadelik lam laat voel. Hy het haar vergewe op die voorwaarde dat sy na klas saam met hom koffie sal gaan drink iewers. Dit was die begin van hul verhouding. Die begin van alles waarvan sy gedroom het vir haarself.
Jana herinner haarself aan die dag wat sy gehoor het haar pa is oorlede in die motorongeluk. Sy was tien en haar ma het seer en tengerig voor haar gestaan, haar dadelik omhels en toe vertel. Hierdie skok en pyn herinner haar nou weer aan daardie dag se gevoel van verlies. Daardie dag se skok en pyn. Daardie dag se gevoel van: “Wat doen ek nou, noudat hierdie met my gebeur het?”
Skielik kyk sy terug in Marissa se oe: “Ek glo jou nie, ek sou tog al lankal uitgevind het. Ek is mos nie dom nie, iets, iets sou my mos daarop gewys het dat hy getroud is… Ek dink jy praat van die verkeerde Charl Engelbrecht. Dit kan beslis nie my Charl wees nie!”
Marissa stry nie met haar nie. Sy laat haar begaan. Ontkenning is deel van die proses waardeur Jana nou moet gaan. Sy bestel net nog koffie. Strek haar hand oor die tafel uit en vat Jana s’n in hare vas: “Ek is altyd hier vir jou, vriendin…”
Jana se hand bewe in Marissa s’n, skielik kan sy dit nie keer nie, sy begin huil. “Ek het hom geglo! Hy was my lewe, my alles!”
“Ek weet, ek weet,” troos Marissa, “daar sal weer iemand spesiaal oor jou pad kom, die regte een wag op jou.”
“Nee, ek wil niks met mans te doen he nie. Dit maak te seer. Om lief te he, is ‘n seer besigheid.” Jana trek haar skouers regop, gooi haar blonde hare weg oor haar skouer en staan op van die tafel. “Ek stick jou vir hierdie koffie… ek moet nou gaan, ek skryf nog my laaste vak more, so, ek moet nog ‘n paar uur se swottery inwerk vanaand.”
Marissa staan ook op: “Ek is regtig jammer dat ek die een was wat jou vertel het van Charl… ek kon dit self nie glo nie, maar as jou vriendin kon ek nie stilbly en jou verder laat seerkry nie.”
“Ek verstaan,” se Jana,”en ek sal okay wees belowe.”
Marissa staan op en gee Jana ‘n vinnige drukkie voor die twee skei en elkeen hul aandag aan hul studies gaan wei. Deur die jare op kampus het hulle baie na aan mekaar gegroei en hul vriendskap beteken baie vir beide. Charl was nooit vreeslik genee met Marissa in Jana se lewe nie, hy wou meestal al haar aandag he en dit het hom gepla dat daar “girly-stuff” was wat Jana saam met Marissa wou doen. Hy wou soos die Engelse se haar “be all and end all” wees. Gelukkig het Jana gesorg dat haar vriendskappe in plek bly. Min het sy geweet hoe nodig sy nog Marissa se vriendskap sou kry na Charl se verraad.
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Jana gaan terug na haar koshuiskamer om agter die boeke in te skuif, maar sy kry dit nie reg om te studeer nie. Haar kop bly by die gedagte aan Charl wat so lank reeds vir haar gelieg het. Klaarblyklik het hy twee kinders ook. Hoe kon sy dit nie geweet het nie? Potchefstroom is nie ‘n groot stad waar mense sommer kan wegraak en wegkom met so ‘n leuen nie. Iewers sou sy mos gehoor het in die afgelope jaar dat hy getroud is. Sy besef skielik hoe goed hy dit geheim gehou het. Sy dink terug aan hul tyd saam en besef dat daar sekere plekke was wat hy vermy het, dat hy soms oor naweke net nie beskikbaar was nie. Sy het geglo hy werk hard. Sy voel skielik intens jammer vir sy vrou. Sy kinders. En sy voel skuldig omdat sy “die ander vrou” was, hoewel onwetend.
Sy gaan le op die smal bedjie in haar koshuiskamer en druk haar gesig in die kussing. Dan begin sy huil. Sy treur oor ‘n hele toekoms saam wat nou daarmee heen is. Sy huil uit frustrasie ook, met haarself en haar onvermoe om te aanvaar dat hierdie droom in skerwe gespat het. Skielik sit sy regop. Sy vat haar Bybel en gaan lees weer 1 Korintiers 13 oor die liefde en besef dat Charl jaloers was, nie opreg was nie, daar is soveel dinge waarmee hy tekort geskiet het. En sy besluit dat as dit ooit gebeur dat sy weer haar hart verloor op ‘n man, sy sy liefde sal meet aan die Bybelse standaard. Dat sy haar nie weer gaan laat mislei deur haar hart nie.
Dan gaan sit sy agter haar lessenaar en trek haar handboeke nader. Sy skryf oor twee dae haar laaste vak vir die kursus om ‘n prokureur te word. Sy het tot dusver goed gedoen in al haar vakke, sy gaan nie toelaat dat hierdie ding veroorsaak dat sy swak doen in haar laaste vak nie. Sy trek haar notaboeke nader, haar handboeke en ‘n pen en eksamenblok. Dan begin sy studeer en vergeet van die seer wat steeds in haar klop soos ‘n oop wond.
Sy weet sy sal Charl moet laat weet dat dit verby is tussen hulle, maar vir nou wil sy fokus weg van dit af en vir eers nog wag tot sy sterk genoeg is om hom in die gesig te staar en weg te stuur. Om sterk en eerlik voor hom te staan, om anders as hy te wees. In haar hart weet sy dit gaan nie maklik wees nie, maar sy weet ook dat sy die tipe vrou is wat in eerlikheid wil leef. En sy glo dat sy sterker hier gaan uitstap, sy gaan nie toelaat dat dit haar verpletter nie. Jana staan op en gaan was haar gesig, spoel die trane af en laat toe dat gevoel van gelatenheid oor haar spoel.
Jana trek weer die boeke nader, bind haar blonde hare vas in ‘n vlegsel laag in haar nek en begin weer studeer. Dan is daar ‘n vinnige klop in haar deur en die deur word oopgemaak. Nog voor sy omkyk, weet sy dis CHarl. Sy ken sy manier van klop en dadelik inkom. Dit is nogal iets wat haar geirriteer het van hom, die feit dat hy altyd aangeneem het hy kan net inkom. Haar hart gaan staan stil vir ‘n sekonde. Sy sukkel skielik om asem te haal. Wel, dan het die tyd vinniger aangebreek as wat sy gedink het. Nou moet sy sterk wees, praat sy haarself moed in. Sy draai om en kyk in sy oe, ‘n ou hunkering ontstaan in haar, maar sy veg daarteen. “Ek weet,” is al wat sy se. Hy kom nader om haar te soen-groet, maar sy stoot hom weg. “Nee, bly weg van my…” Sy kan sien hy verstaan nie wat aangaan nie, hy snap nie wat haar woorde beteken nie. “Jy is getroud. Dit is verby tussen ons, gaan terug na jou vrou toe… ek weier om verder deel van jou leuen te wees…” Sy staan op van die lessenaar en gaan staan direk voor hom, daar is geen verwyte in haar nie, sy weet net met ‘n skielike sekerheid dat sy die regte ding wil doen. Hy trek haar in sy arms in, sy stoot hom weg en se ferm:”Nee, Charl!” “Wat is dit? Ek het spesiaal gekom om jou te sien, want ek verlang my dood!” se hy en maak asof hy nie gehoor het dat sy weet hy is getroud nie. “Ek wil he jy moet gaan en nooit ooit weer terugkom nie. Moet my nie bel nie, moet my nie opsoek nie… gaan nou.” Charl draai verstom om en loop na die deur: “Ek het nie besef jy is so verkramp nie. So what as ek getroud is?” Sy se niks, hou net die deur vir hom oop en beduie dat hy moet loop. Hy draai stadig om en stap uit: “Ek sal jou kontak wanneer jy oor die skok is, ons kan ‘n plan maak om tog saam te wees…” se hy toe hy uitloop.
Jana stoot die deur met ‘n diep innerlike sug toe. Sluit dit dadelik. Dan gaan sit sy op haar bed en voel hoe sy begin bewe van ontsteltenis. Sy arrogansie! Sy is skielik bly en dankbaar dat Marissa haar vertel het, dat sy ontslae is van hom. Sy wil hom nooit weer sien nie. Hierdie was die laaste keer.
Sy keer terug na haar boeke, haar studies, die rede waarom sy op kampus is. Sy gaan steeds goed doen, sy gaan nie toelaat dat hierdie ding ‘n negatiewe effek op haar studies he nie.
2.
“Vriendin,” se Marissa, die dag nadat hulle hul laaste vak geskryf het,”ek het ‘n plan…” “Hmmm, jou planne is altyd goed, vertel vertel…” glimlag Jana oor ‘n beker koffie vir haar. “My neef werk op ‘n wildsplaas en hy het ‘n chalet beskikbaar oor Desembermaand. Hoe lyk dit, stel jy belang? Die natuurskoon is fantasties daar en jy sal kan rus voor jy in Januarie moet begin werk.” Die impulsiewe kant van Jana is dadelik reg met ‘n “ja, ek wil asseblief gaan vakansie hou op die wildsplaas.” Marissa glimlag saam. “Jy gaan dit geweldig geniet en vat jou palet en skilderdoeke saam, pak daai verfkwassies in, jy gaan heerlik kan skilder!”
Skielik tuimel die vertrek om Jana. Dit voel asof iemand haar ‘n vuishou in die maag gegee het. Sy sit oorkant haar beste vriendin, Marissa, in die klein koffiewinkeltjie op kampus en voel hoe haar wereld in duie stort. Hoe alles wat sy geglo het, gehoop het, liefgehad het, in die niet verdwyn… asof dit in elk geval nooit was nie. Haar gedagtes mael en kolk in haar. Hoe kon sy so dom wees? Hoe kon sy dit nooit besef het nie? Nee! Dis nie waar nie. Maar sy kan in Marissa se oe sien, dat dit die waarheid is. Haar trouman, haar droomman, die enigste man wat sy in haar twee-en-twingtig jaar op aarde, regtig liefgekry het; is ‘n groot stuk valsheid, ‘n leuen. Charl, kreet dit in haar. Die pyn is amper fisies. Die skok laat haar bleek bly sit en staar deur die mure van die koffiewinkel. Haar gedagtes gaan terug na die dag wat sy hom ontmoet het, meer as ‘n jaar gelede:
Dit was die begin van die lente en die bome het kleurryk in Tomstraat gebloei en op kampus kon mens die bloeisels aan blomme sien uitspruit en alles het vertel van ‘n nuwe begin. Die lug het geruik na ruim beloftes en hoop. Sy het lig en vrolik gevoel, ten spyte van die gemis wat daar in haar lewe was. Sedert sy op kampus gekom het, op ouderdom agtien, het sy steeds nie ‘n vaste vriend gehad nie. Daar was hier en daar ‘n outjie saam wie sy na funksies en koshuisdinees toe gegaan het, maar niemand het tot haar gespreek nie. Sy en Marissa het soos vandag koffie gedrink in die Jonge Akker. Sy was laat vir klas en het oorhaastig opgestaan en haar boeksak gegryp en oor haar skouer geswaai. Met die swaai het sy die beker koffie wat op die tafel langsaan staan op die arme man wat daar gesit het, se skoot omgegooi. Dit was Charl, met die donker oe en die ligte vel en die sagte mond. Sy het vreeslik omverskoning gevra. Hy het net gesit en lag.
Sy was dadelik verlore toe sy in sy oe kyk… dit was half-spottend, peinsend, dringend. Dit het haar dadelik lam laat voel. Hy het haar vergewe op die voorwaarde dat sy na klas saam met hom koffie sal gaan drink iewers. Dit was die begin van hul verhouding. Die begin van alles waarvan sy gedroom het vir haarself.
Jana herinner haarself aan die dag wat sy gehoor het haar pa is oorlede in die motorongeluk. Sy was tien en haar ma het seer en tengerig voor haar gestaan, haar dadelik omhels en toe vertel. Hierdie skok en pyn herinner haar nou weer aan daardie dag se gevoel van verlies. Daardie dag se skok en pyn. Daardie dag se gevoel van: “Wat doen ek nou, noudat hierdie met my gebeur het?”
Skielik kyk sy terug in Marissa se oe: “Ek glo jou nie, ek sou tog al lankal uitgevind het. Ek is mos nie dom nie, iets, iets sou my mos daarop gewys het dat hy getroud is… Ek dink jy praat van die verkeerde Charl Engelbrecht. Dit kan beslis nie my Charl wees nie!”
Marissa stry nie met haar nie. Sy laat haar begaan. Ontkenning is deel van die proses waardeur Jana nou moet gaan. Sy bestel net nog koffie. Strek haar hand oor die tafel uit en vat Jana s’n in hare vas: “Ek is altyd hier vir jou, vriendin…”
Jana se hand bewe in Marissa s’n, skielik kan sy dit nie keer nie, sy begin huil. “Ek het hom geglo! Hy was my lewe, my alles!”
“Ek weet, ek weet,” troos Marissa, “daar sal weer iemand spesiaal oor jou pad kom, die regte een wag op jou.”
“Nee, ek wil niks met mans te doen he nie. Dit maak te seer. Om lief te he, is ‘n seer besigheid.” Jana trek haar skouers regop, gooi haar blonde hare weg oor haar skouer en staan op van die tafel. “Ek stick jou vir hierdie koffie… ek moet nou gaan, ek skryf nog my laaste vak more, so, ek moet nog ‘n paar uur se swottery inwerk vanaand.”
Marissa staan ook op: “Ek is regtig jammer dat ek die een was wat jou vertel het van Charl… ek kon dit self nie glo nie, maar as jou vriendin kon ek nie stilbly en jou verder laat seerkry nie.”
“Ek verstaan,” se Jana,”en ek sal okay wees belowe.”
Marissa staan op en gee Jana ‘n vinnige drukkie voor die twee skei en elkeen hul aandag aan hul studies gaan wei. Deur die jare op kampus het hulle baie na aan mekaar gegroei en hul vriendskap beteken baie vir beide. Charl was nooit vreeslik genee met Marissa in Jana se lewe nie, hy wou meestal al haar aandag he en dit het hom gepla dat daar “girly-stuff” was wat Jana saam met Marissa wou doen. Hy wou soos die Engelse se haar “be all and end all” wees. Gelukkig het Jana gesorg dat haar vriendskappe in plek bly. Min het sy geweet hoe nodig sy nog Marissa se vriendskap sou kry na Charl se verraad.
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Jana gaan terug na haar koshuiskamer om agter die boeke in te skuif, maar sy kry dit nie reg om te studeer nie. Haar kop bly by die gedagte aan Charl wat so lank reeds vir haar gelieg het. Klaarblyklik het hy twee kinders ook. Hoe kon sy dit nie geweet het nie? Potchefstroom is nie ‘n groot stad waar mense sommer kan wegraak en wegkom met so ‘n leuen nie. Iewers sou sy mos gehoor het in die afgelope jaar dat hy getroud is. Sy besef skielik hoe goed hy dit geheim gehou het. Sy dink terug aan hul tyd saam en besef dat daar sekere plekke was wat hy vermy het, dat hy soms oor naweke net nie beskikbaar was nie. Sy het geglo hy werk hard. Sy voel skielik intens jammer vir sy vrou. Sy kinders. En sy voel skuldig omdat sy “die ander vrou” was, hoewel onwetend.
Sy gaan le op die smal bedjie in haar koshuiskamer en druk haar gesig in die kussing. Dan begin sy huil. Sy treur oor ‘n hele toekoms saam wat nou daarmee heen is. Sy huil uit frustrasie ook, met haarself en haar onvermoe om te aanvaar dat hierdie droom in skerwe gespat het. Skielik sit sy regop. Sy vat haar Bybel en gaan lees weer 1 Korintiers 13 oor die liefde en besef dat Charl jaloers was, nie opreg was nie, daar is soveel dinge waarmee hy tekort geskiet het. En sy besluit dat as dit ooit gebeur dat sy weer haar hart verloor op ‘n man, sy sy liefde sal meet aan die Bybelse standaard. Dat sy haar nie weer gaan laat mislei deur haar hart nie.
Dan gaan sit sy agter haar lessenaar en trek haar handboeke nader. Sy skryf oor twee dae haar laaste vak vir die kursus om ‘n prokureur te word. Sy het tot dusver goed gedoen in al haar vakke, sy gaan nie toelaat dat hierdie ding veroorsaak dat sy swak doen in haar laaste vak nie. Sy trek haar notaboeke nader, haar handboeke en ‘n pen en eksamenblok. Dan begin sy studeer en vergeet van die seer wat steeds in haar klop soos ‘n oop wond.
Sy weet sy sal Charl moet laat weet dat dit verby is tussen hulle, maar vir nou wil sy fokus weg van dit af en vir eers nog wag tot sy sterk genoeg is om hom in die gesig te staar en weg te stuur. Om sterk en eerlik voor hom te staan, om anders as hy te wees. In haar hart weet sy dit gaan nie maklik wees nie, maar sy weet ook dat sy die tipe vrou is wat in eerlikheid wil leef. En sy glo dat sy sterker hier gaan uitstap, sy gaan nie toelaat dat dit haar verpletter nie. Jana staan op en gaan was haar gesig, spoel die trane af en laat toe dat gevoel van gelatenheid oor haar spoel.
Jana trek weer die boeke nader, bind haar blonde hare vas in ‘n vlegsel laag in haar nek en begin weer studeer. Dan is daar ‘n vinnige klop in haar deur en die deur word oopgemaak. Nog voor sy omkyk, weet sy dis CHarl. Sy ken sy manier van klop en dadelik inkom. Dit is nogal iets wat haar geirriteer het van hom, die feit dat hy altyd aangeneem het hy kan net inkom. Haar hart gaan staan stil vir ‘n sekonde. Sy sukkel skielik om asem te haal. Wel, dan het die tyd vinniger aangebreek as wat sy gedink het. Nou moet sy sterk wees, praat sy haarself moed in. Sy draai om en kyk in sy oe, ‘n ou hunkering ontstaan in haar, maar sy veg daarteen. “Ek weet,” is al wat sy se. Hy kom nader om haar te soen-groet, maar sy stoot hom weg. “Nee, bly weg van my…” Sy kan sien hy verstaan nie wat aangaan nie, hy snap nie wat haar woorde beteken nie. “Jy is getroud. Dit is verby tussen ons, gaan terug na jou vrou toe… ek weier om verder deel van jou leuen te wees…” Sy staan op van die lessenaar en gaan staan direk voor hom, daar is geen verwyte in haar nie, sy weet net met ‘n skielike sekerheid dat sy die regte ding wil doen. Hy trek haar in sy arms in, sy stoot hom weg en se ferm:”Nee, Charl!” “Wat is dit? Ek het spesiaal gekom om jou te sien, want ek verlang my dood!” se hy en maak asof hy nie gehoor het dat sy weet hy is getroud nie. “Ek wil he jy moet gaan en nooit ooit weer terugkom nie. Moet my nie bel nie, moet my nie opsoek nie… gaan nou.” Charl draai verstom om en loop na die deur: “Ek het nie besef jy is so verkramp nie. So what as ek getroud is?” Sy se niks, hou net die deur vir hom oop en beduie dat hy moet loop. Hy draai stadig om en stap uit: “Ek sal jou kontak wanneer jy oor die skok is, ons kan ‘n plan maak om tog saam te wees…” se hy toe hy uitloop.
Jana stoot die deur met ‘n diep innerlike sug toe. Sluit dit dadelik. Dan gaan sit sy op haar bed en voel hoe sy begin bewe van ontsteltenis. Sy arrogansie! Sy is skielik bly en dankbaar dat Marissa haar vertel het, dat sy ontslae is van hom. Sy wil hom nooit weer sien nie. Hierdie was die laaste keer.
Sy keer terug na haar boeke, haar studies, die rede waarom sy op kampus is. Sy gaan steeds goed doen, sy gaan nie toelaat dat hierdie ding ‘n negatiewe effek op haar studies he nie.
2.
“Vriendin,” se Marissa, die dag nadat hulle hul laaste vak geskryf het,”ek het ‘n plan…” “Hmmm, jou planne is altyd goed, vertel vertel…” glimlag Jana oor ‘n beker koffie vir haar. “My neef werk op ‘n wildsplaas en hy het ‘n chalet beskikbaar oor Desembermaand. Hoe lyk dit, stel jy belang? Die natuurskoon is fantasties daar en jy sal kan rus voor jy in Januarie moet begin werk.” Die impulsiewe kant van Jana is dadelik reg met ‘n “ja, ek wil asseblief gaan vakansie hou op die wildsplaas.” Marissa glimlag saam. “Jy gaan dit geweldig geniet en vat jou palet en skilderdoeke saam, pak daai verfkwassies in, jy gaan heerlik kan skilder!”
Monday, April 27, 2009
IMPORTANT AFFIRMATIONS
"The past is done. It's nothing but a trail I've left behind. My life is
based on how I choose to think and act in this very moment. And
each moment is a fresh new blessing and opportunity."
"I release any fear, self-doubt and uncertainty now. No one can
make me feel inferior without my consent. I have the power to
control my thoughts. When I think about what I want and I stay
in that vibration, I draw into my life the corresponding reality
through the Law of Attraction."
"I move in the direction of my dominant thoughts and therefore
I have access to unlimited self-confidence at any moment by
simply acting the part. The more often I step into a desired role,
the faster it becomes a natural part of who I am."
based on how I choose to think and act in this very moment. And
each moment is a fresh new blessing and opportunity."
"I release any fear, self-doubt and uncertainty now. No one can
make me feel inferior without my consent. I have the power to
control my thoughts. When I think about what I want and I stay
in that vibration, I draw into my life the corresponding reality
through the Law of Attraction."
"I move in the direction of my dominant thoughts and therefore
I have access to unlimited self-confidence at any moment by
simply acting the part. The more often I step into a desired role,
the faster it becomes a natural part of who I am."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Insomniac nights / Slapelose nagte
Insomnia.... 00h45 am Monday, 27 April 2009
Difficulty falling asleep (initiating sleep) or maintaining sleep. Most adults suffer from insomnia at some time or another. Stress most commonly triggers short-term insomnia. Adress your stress and thereby address your insomnia problem, but I am not stressed... I just cannot seem to fall asleep and if I fall asleep, I cannot stay asleep. Listening to my loved one's slight snoring next to me in bed, just aggrevates the intense need and urgency to also fall asleep, to also take deep breaths and dream of wonderful places.
I also suffer from sleep apnea, that is: if and when I fall asleep... but that is a total different subject that I will tackle later on, for now, I shall concentrate on insomnia. In short sleep apnea is when one stops breathing in your sleep and wakes up due to the lack of air... gasping and coughing... not pleasant at all.
Coping with insomnia ---- hmmm, easiest, but possibly not best way to deal with it: sleeping pills. Benzo's. My greatest problem with insomnia is that I eat when I wake up. I eat whatever I can find, but mostly breakfast cereal, usually Coco Pops. As a matter of fact, that is what I am going to do now! And of course, the result is weight gain... and I can directly contribute it to my nightly wakefulness and need to eat when I am not asleep at night!
There are so many websites giving advice on how to fall asleep and what to do: from benzo's to cognitive behavior therapy and hypnosis... I will not go there. I am telling you what you can do now that you are already awake...
I say: if possible, do not try to fall asleep immediately. Be relaxed, but do not even think of sleep. Enjoy being awake, especially if it is in the early hours of the morning... do not stress about the fact that you have to get up the next day and go to work... that will only result in you not being able to sleep at all!
Maybe you need to be awake when others are asleep, maybe there is something that your body and mind want to tell you that you are not hearing in the day hours. NOW is the time to LISTEN!
My advice starts of with: RELAX and LISTEN
- If it is possible, listen to music in a language that you do not understand, or listen to classical music, preferably barock.
- Relax while you listen to it, take deep even breaths
- Now ask yourself: Is there something I need to know?
- Have a pen and paper ready or start a "LISTEN-JOURNAL"
- Write down EVERYTHING that you are thinking....
Write until it just flows from your sub-conscious. Do not stop yourself if you think what you are writing is nonsense, the idea is not to pass judgement on your free writing, or flowing thoughts, just let it be...
After you have written it down, you may feel tired or you may feel even more awake, it does not matter - there may be an important message for you...
Now, read what you have written and let it be, do not make corrections, do not THINK of what you have written, just read it with an "empty mind".
Your mind may feel empty, you may feel overly stimulated, it all depends on WHERE your psyche is at the moment. Most importantly, you did not lie awake and thought of problems or other shit. You got up and DID something meaningful.
Now, if you really need to fall asleep, because (like me) you have to get up for work within a few hours... you can do some relaxation exercises. But this only works if you can "set" your mind to be focussed and to be creative in visualizing certain things. You can go on a magic carpet ride like I explained in one of my posts and allow the carpet to take you to "droomland" (Dreamland) or you can do the following:
Lie on your back, take deep even breaths, listen to your own breathing...
feel warmth flowing through your body and veins
tell yourself three times: my right foot and leg are warm and heavy, I can feel it sink into the bed
do the same with your right hand and arm
now to it with your left hand side...
end this exercise with: my whole body feels heavy and is sinking into the bed, i feel sleepy, i feel tired...
Repeat the exeecise if needs be.
I hope you will be able to cope with your insomnia as I am trying my best make positive use of the times when my mind and body are so awake and maybe trying to tell me something...
Difficulty falling asleep (initiating sleep) or maintaining sleep. Most adults suffer from insomnia at some time or another. Stress most commonly triggers short-term insomnia. Adress your stress and thereby address your insomnia problem, but I am not stressed... I just cannot seem to fall asleep and if I fall asleep, I cannot stay asleep. Listening to my loved one's slight snoring next to me in bed, just aggrevates the intense need and urgency to also fall asleep, to also take deep breaths and dream of wonderful places.
I also suffer from sleep apnea, that is: if and when I fall asleep... but that is a total different subject that I will tackle later on, for now, I shall concentrate on insomnia. In short sleep apnea is when one stops breathing in your sleep and wakes up due to the lack of air... gasping and coughing... not pleasant at all.
Coping with insomnia ---- hmmm, easiest, but possibly not best way to deal with it: sleeping pills. Benzo's. My greatest problem with insomnia is that I eat when I wake up. I eat whatever I can find, but mostly breakfast cereal, usually Coco Pops. As a matter of fact, that is what I am going to do now! And of course, the result is weight gain... and I can directly contribute it to my nightly wakefulness and need to eat when I am not asleep at night!
There are so many websites giving advice on how to fall asleep and what to do: from benzo's to cognitive behavior therapy and hypnosis... I will not go there. I am telling you what you can do now that you are already awake...
I say: if possible, do not try to fall asleep immediately. Be relaxed, but do not even think of sleep. Enjoy being awake, especially if it is in the early hours of the morning... do not stress about the fact that you have to get up the next day and go to work... that will only result in you not being able to sleep at all!
Maybe you need to be awake when others are asleep, maybe there is something that your body and mind want to tell you that you are not hearing in the day hours. NOW is the time to LISTEN!
My advice starts of with: RELAX and LISTEN
- If it is possible, listen to music in a language that you do not understand, or listen to classical music, preferably barock.
- Relax while you listen to it, take deep even breaths
- Now ask yourself: Is there something I need to know?
- Have a pen and paper ready or start a "LISTEN-JOURNAL"
- Write down EVERYTHING that you are thinking....
Write until it just flows from your sub-conscious. Do not stop yourself if you think what you are writing is nonsense, the idea is not to pass judgement on your free writing, or flowing thoughts, just let it be...
After you have written it down, you may feel tired or you may feel even more awake, it does not matter - there may be an important message for you...
Now, read what you have written and let it be, do not make corrections, do not THINK of what you have written, just read it with an "empty mind".
Your mind may feel empty, you may feel overly stimulated, it all depends on WHERE your psyche is at the moment. Most importantly, you did not lie awake and thought of problems or other shit. You got up and DID something meaningful.
Now, if you really need to fall asleep, because (like me) you have to get up for work within a few hours... you can do some relaxation exercises. But this only works if you can "set" your mind to be focussed and to be creative in visualizing certain things. You can go on a magic carpet ride like I explained in one of my posts and allow the carpet to take you to "droomland" (Dreamland) or you can do the following:
Lie on your back, take deep even breaths, listen to your own breathing...
feel warmth flowing through your body and veins
tell yourself three times: my right foot and leg are warm and heavy, I can feel it sink into the bed
do the same with your right hand and arm
now to it with your left hand side...
end this exercise with: my whole body feels heavy and is sinking into the bed, i feel sleepy, i feel tired...
Repeat the exeecise if needs be.
I hope you will be able to cope with your insomnia as I am trying my best make positive use of the times when my mind and body are so awake and maybe trying to tell me something...
GEDIGTE - geestelik
Maar ek praat, ons praat, want die stiltes
maak te veel geraas:
nou verwoord ons uit die wind –
vurige redenasies oor plek en doel,
tekens en tye,
die droogtes en die einde…
Soveel sinsnedes, grepe uit wegholgedagtes
wat nêrens grondvat of openbaar nie,
bloot ‘n getuie teen die self:
Die mens, uit rooi ploeggrond geskep,
is bliksemsbang vir die wag
by ‘n brandende bos
op ‘n Stem wat net praat
in Stiltes.
***** Geskryf in 1999, in 'n tyd van selfondersoek en soeke na die Stem
____________________________________________________________________
VROEGOGGEND BIDSESSIE BY DIE Middestad- Evangelisasie- en Sendingaksie
Oggendson breek flou teen die spuitnaaldtoring:
Hillbrow ontwaak. In ‘n konka word vuur
brand gemaak. Straatlopers strek
skurwe hande na die warm.
Dae herhaal hulself in ‘n eindelose spiraal,
vou oop soos vuil komberse op die pavement.
Twilight kinders leef oophand by die bushalte
afdak oorkant die pad:
almal hier hèt al geleef, gesterf,
opgestaan en aangegaan.
Maar in die sendinghuis
lui ‘n kosskoolklok:
Staan op Staan op vir Jesus.
Ons gaan aanbid
met koffie-asems
in ‘n pajama-wit koue
****** 1991, toe ek 19 jaar oud was en sendeling in Hillbrow, Johannesburg
____________________________________________________________________
OUTIES-DELIGHT
Vir Donderdag se kerk in die saal,
kan jy daagliks jou grub kom haal –
Die lang ry lywe raak ongeduldig teen die baksteenmuur
van die sendinghuis in Esselenstraat se vrot,
maar aanbid elke Donderdag diè God
wat brood gee in ruil vir sielig sing en luister
wanneer Pieter sy Bybel oopslaan en Jesus fluister
uit die helende Kerrie-pot
van Joe se outies-delight sop.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Iewers in die nag het ek Iemand in my verloor:
Nou loop ek terug op my spoor
soos met verdwaal in ‘n bos.
Waar het ek my god gelos?
Skuins oorkant die Protea Kliniek; op die hoek
van Banket- en Esselenstraat; in die grafitti-stegie
of by die vuur in ‘n asdrom onder die bushaltedak?
Ek loop deur die strate van ‘n grommende stad.
Voetstappe weerklink in die vuilgroengange
met die Jik-reuk, word stil by die anorexia-lyf
op die bed. Daar staan ‘n nursie in wit wat sê:
Ons vat nie Wallcanol-verslaafdes in nie, dis dit.
Ek vra die ou oom in die wagkamer vir ‘n sigaret,
Tracey trek diep en hoes kringe om my kop:
alles word ‘n wasem.
Vanoggend kon ek myself nie
kry in die terug-kyk spieël nie.
____________________________________________________________________
jirre, seën hierdie helse hillbrownag;
strek jou handpalms hoog bo die spuitnaaldtoring
en die hoere en die moffies en die pushers
wat in stegies wag, die pimps wat lywe besit
en die rykes wat kom kyk – hillbrow is die local zoo
en jirre, seën die oophand straatkind
met die gomhonger in sy oë.
******* al die hillbrow gedigte is in 1991 en 1992 geskryf...
____________________________________________________________________
maak te veel geraas:
nou verwoord ons uit die wind –
vurige redenasies oor plek en doel,
tekens en tye,
die droogtes en die einde…
Soveel sinsnedes, grepe uit wegholgedagtes
wat nêrens grondvat of openbaar nie,
bloot ‘n getuie teen die self:
Die mens, uit rooi ploeggrond geskep,
is bliksemsbang vir die wag
by ‘n brandende bos
op ‘n Stem wat net praat
in Stiltes.
***** Geskryf in 1999, in 'n tyd van selfondersoek en soeke na die Stem
____________________________________________________________________
VROEGOGGEND BIDSESSIE BY DIE Middestad- Evangelisasie- en Sendingaksie
Oggendson breek flou teen die spuitnaaldtoring:
Hillbrow ontwaak. In ‘n konka word vuur
brand gemaak. Straatlopers strek
skurwe hande na die warm.
Dae herhaal hulself in ‘n eindelose spiraal,
vou oop soos vuil komberse op die pavement.
Twilight kinders leef oophand by die bushalte
afdak oorkant die pad:
almal hier hèt al geleef, gesterf,
opgestaan en aangegaan.
Maar in die sendinghuis
lui ‘n kosskoolklok:
Staan op Staan op vir Jesus.
Ons gaan aanbid
met koffie-asems
in ‘n pajama-wit koue
****** 1991, toe ek 19 jaar oud was en sendeling in Hillbrow, Johannesburg
____________________________________________________________________
OUTIES-DELIGHT
Vir Donderdag se kerk in die saal,
kan jy daagliks jou grub kom haal –
Die lang ry lywe raak ongeduldig teen die baksteenmuur
van die sendinghuis in Esselenstraat se vrot,
maar aanbid elke Donderdag diè God
wat brood gee in ruil vir sielig sing en luister
wanneer Pieter sy Bybel oopslaan en Jesus fluister
uit die helende Kerrie-pot
van Joe se outies-delight sop.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Iewers in die nag het ek Iemand in my verloor:
Nou loop ek terug op my spoor
soos met verdwaal in ‘n bos.
Waar het ek my god gelos?
Skuins oorkant die Protea Kliniek; op die hoek
van Banket- en Esselenstraat; in die grafitti-stegie
of by die vuur in ‘n asdrom onder die bushaltedak?
Ek loop deur die strate van ‘n grommende stad.
Voetstappe weerklink in die vuilgroengange
met die Jik-reuk, word stil by die anorexia-lyf
op die bed. Daar staan ‘n nursie in wit wat sê:
Ons vat nie Wallcanol-verslaafdes in nie, dis dit.
Ek vra die ou oom in die wagkamer vir ‘n sigaret,
Tracey trek diep en hoes kringe om my kop:
alles word ‘n wasem.
Vanoggend kon ek myself nie
kry in die terug-kyk spieël nie.
____________________________________________________________________
jirre, seën hierdie helse hillbrownag;
strek jou handpalms hoog bo die spuitnaaldtoring
en die hoere en die moffies en die pushers
wat in stegies wag, die pimps wat lywe besit
en die rykes wat kom kyk – hillbrow is die local zoo
en jirre, seën die oophand straatkind
met die gomhonger in sy oë.
******* al die hillbrow gedigte is in 1991 en 1992 geskryf...
____________________________________________________________________
Magic Carpet Rides
I believe that everybody has access to a wide variety of magic carpet rides if they put their minds to it... as an author and creative individual I belief in the magic of our minds. I am therefore suggesting that everyone tries at least once to go on a magic carpet ride in their minds and write down what they experience.
Here is how you do it: the big secret is VISUALIZATION! Find a quiet spot and some nice trance-like or other subtle background music. Now, lie down and imagine an escalator going down into the depths of a big building (this building is your mind). Take that ride on the escalator and count from 1 to 10. When you reach the bottom, step off the escalator and into a field of beautiful green tall grass. Smell the grass, feel the wind blowing against your skin. Enjoy the subtle brush of sunlight. Now, walk through the field and ahead of you you will find a large tree with branches and overhanging leaves. Under the tree there is a big box and inside this box, you will find the following: some food (you choose what type of food), a book (again you choose what type of book), some water and other refreshments for your journey and ALSO (most importantly) you will find a rolled-up carpet. Now take the carpet, open it up, take in everything about the carpet - the texture, the colours, the feel of the carpet... ah, stunning! Beautiful. This is what you have created, your beautiful mind made this carpet. Enjoy the carpet.
The most important thing to remember about your carpet, is that now that you have created it, it will always be there. It will always be with you, nothing and nobody can take it away from you. It can change in colour and texture, but the wonder of it will remain. This is your beautiful creation!
Now, get onto that carpet of yours! IT IS TIME FOR THE RIDE OF YOUR LIFE!
Imagine yourself sitting cross-legged on the carpet, relaxed and poised. Feel how the carpet lifts from the ground and starts to float upwards. This is the beginning of your magic carpet ride...
Next time: I'll take you to the most amazing places imaginable, your carpet will be the vehicle. For now, just enjoy the feeling of freedom as you float upwards!
This is going to be the journey you always wanted to take!
Here is how you do it: the big secret is VISUALIZATION! Find a quiet spot and some nice trance-like or other subtle background music. Now, lie down and imagine an escalator going down into the depths of a big building (this building is your mind). Take that ride on the escalator and count from 1 to 10. When you reach the bottom, step off the escalator and into a field of beautiful green tall grass. Smell the grass, feel the wind blowing against your skin. Enjoy the subtle brush of sunlight. Now, walk through the field and ahead of you you will find a large tree with branches and overhanging leaves. Under the tree there is a big box and inside this box, you will find the following: some food (you choose what type of food), a book (again you choose what type of book), some water and other refreshments for your journey and ALSO (most importantly) you will find a rolled-up carpet. Now take the carpet, open it up, take in everything about the carpet - the texture, the colours, the feel of the carpet... ah, stunning! Beautiful. This is what you have created, your beautiful mind made this carpet. Enjoy the carpet.
The most important thing to remember about your carpet, is that now that you have created it, it will always be there. It will always be with you, nothing and nobody can take it away from you. It can change in colour and texture, but the wonder of it will remain. This is your beautiful creation!
Now, get onto that carpet of yours! IT IS TIME FOR THE RIDE OF YOUR LIFE!
Imagine yourself sitting cross-legged on the carpet, relaxed and poised. Feel how the carpet lifts from the ground and starts to float upwards. This is the beginning of your magic carpet ride...
Next time: I'll take you to the most amazing places imaginable, your carpet will be the vehicle. For now, just enjoy the feeling of freedom as you float upwards!
This is going to be the journey you always wanted to take!
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