We are the land. We are Africa. We are made from the ancestral spirits of the San and the Khoikhoi and the Bantu peoples. We are not the god of everybody but are the beginning of everything. Many people have sought our counsel in the wind or in bones or in the healing wise whispers of those who passed before them. Ours is the domain that stretches across from ocean to ocean and from the great desert above to the stormy coastline below.
We have been here since the beginning. We have raised mountains by folding great depths of rock over each other. We have grown forests and greened valleys. Along us rivers stream down to the sea and carve canyons out of the stone, sand and soil. And we offer their waters to the sky so that it may rain back down upon everything that lives on us. That water sustains life. Our grass and roots and bark feed elephant and buffalo. Our sable and springbuck feed the mighty lion and cheetah. Our fields are filled with abundance. Continue reading
I was sitting at home one night and a friend of ours—a Pom, working at Blue Circle cement factory—phoned me and said “Dorrian, I’m in big trouble. This dog arrived on our doorstep in town and we made the huge mistake of giving him some food. Now the dog refuses to leave. My wife’s gone to Johannesburg and she said that if the dog’s still here when she gets back, she’s moving into the hotel.” And he asked “Can’t you take the dog. He is a St Bernard, but he must be a brak because he has short hair.”
So I said “Ja, bring him. We need a big dog.” Continue reading
I am stuck in the birth canal, inside my mother. All that Doctor Kaizer can see is a tiny patch of my head; pink and blonde. Everything else is swollen folds of red skin stretched into circles and covered in blood, mucus, discharge, remnants of broken water.
My tiny eyes are still shut. Forced shut by being pressed up against the walls of the tunnel everyone is trying to get me out of. So I don’t see the “vanity screens” wheeled around my mother in the labor room, with faded lime cloth scrunched onto the upper and lower rods of a shiny silver frame. Or the hospital-issue, light blue sheet tented over her lower body, her legs stirruped in icy metal holds. Don’t see the white-uniformed nurse handing polished steel tools to the doctor. Or the steel kidney bowl that holds these scalpels, surgical scissors and the glossy new clamp that will grip my umbilical chord when I am finally born. Don’t see my dad holding my mom’s hand but unable to look anywhere near me, or where I’m coming from. Continue reading
My mom is a person of perfection. She is elegant and tall and made from obedience. She is also made to be obeyed. Throughout my primary school years she insisted on piano lessons, extra-mural activities and academic achievement. In the shadow of her pointed finger and clanking gold bangles I spent half an hour before school practicing my scales and every weekday afternoon struggling to perfect things like chess and hurdles and my twelve times table. Then things shifted: One ordinary afternoon her car revved up our farm’s driveway and brought with it its usual fume of panic and “have-I-done-all-my-chores?” But when she pulled open the glass sliding door and stepped into the kitchen, I knew that today the first question wouldn’t be, “Is all your homework done?” Something significant had happened. Her eyes were alive in a new way; not tired or frustrated from the daily rub of farming and expectations. Instead bright and excited, relieved. And in her hand she held up a big, white envelope. Continue reading
Once upon a time there was a farm in the southern round of Africa. This farm lay in a dusty stretch that became known as the Platteland because of its flat horizon. At first this region was overlooked by settlers and pioneers—Voortrekkers—because it didn’t have a bustling port or a roaring river or the promise of gold. It was inland, plain, boring. Eventually, though, government officials of the Zuid Afrikaansche Republiek drew lines across hand-sketched maps and sliced the land into sellable pieces. Then weary representatives reluctantly traveled from Pretoria and spiked a number of sharp metal stakes into the soil. It took them five days on horseback to get there. They carved out farms from the endless savannah and christened them with names like Graslaagte and Zoetmelkvallei and Rietfontein¹. During the frequent droughts that swept the region, these names became airless jokes. During wet years, however, the farms bloomed into their namesakes and were attractive alternatives to the fevered and overpopulated Witwatersrand, where Johannesburg was being built with bricks of newly-discovered gold and mortar made from the rot of chewing tobacco. Continue reading