New Beginnings, New Story…and a New Book

After all the excitement of Vetfaan, Fanny, Gertruida and who-knows-who-else, this weekend is a quiet one in Rolbos. The townsfolk will relax in Boggel’s Place and swap yarns about the days when they had nothing to do, For avid readers, they suggest you spend time with Servaas in the old-age home, where a young nurse reminds him that it’s not ideal to die as a virgin-pensioner:

This e-book is available through your usual online bookshop, and Amazon, of course.

For those with a hunger for the wilds of Africa, there is the option of an e-book or paperback when you order this book filled with unusual and wonderful stories. Some of these adventures are based on real experiences during my travels through Africa. Some are based on stories I heard. And some…well, they simply came to me. Enjoy the unusual, and Imagine: Africa! like you’ve never done before.

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And, in July/August: SHIMMERstate... The story of the Power behind the Universe. What makes us do the things we do?  Why does good and bad things happen to us? Is eternity possible, and how did we come to live on Earth? Why? And then the ultimate question: what is the purpose of all this?

Follow the story of Peter Small, an elderly Coloured man from Cape Town, as he explores the realms of the unknown beyond our consciousness.

Oh…it’s not just that. There’s a baby that is about to be born, a murder or two, some really bad guys and even a few good ones. Together they’ll take you on a journey that is bound to change your life.

Editing will start on Monday. Marinda Ehlers (eBooks for Africa) will see to it that the professional quality of the final product will please readers – so for the next few weeks I’ll be busy with that. Even though the birth of a book is a drawn-out process (and sometimes painful), the result is worth the effort.

This book is the result of several year’s worth of thinking and research – don’t miss out.

Fanny’s Surprise (# 28)

“I thought so.” Gertruida, who will never admit surprise, sits back with a knowing smile. “She had the look.”

“What look?”

“The pregnant look, Boggel. Women who are expecting, look different. And they get moody.”

“I bow, madam, to your superior knowledge.” Boggel knows her well enough not to pry any further. “And now they’re off to see Oudoom? That’d be interesting – her being Catholic and all that.”

“I don’t think Oudoom has ever managed so many problems in such a short time.” She lifts her glass in a mock salute. “But of course, he’s not the one I’m worried about. Servaas can be very narrow-minded sometimes. Even worse – he’s got his black suit on today. It spells trouble.”

***

Servaas, as head elder (and the only one) of the congregation, sits stiffly next to Oudoom. On the other side of the table, Vetfaan and Fanny share worried frowns and anxious looks. They’ve just told Oudoom about the pregnancy, and want to get married as soon as possible.

“Wait a minute.” Servaas has his brows knitted together again – it’s a bad sign. “If you’re pregnant, that means you had….sex? ” He whispers the last word. “Before marriage? Before?”

Fanny feels the muscles in Vetfaans shoulders bunch up.

“Yes, Servaas. We did that thing you can’t even say. It’s a horrible, despicable, loathable act between two people in love.” The veins on his forehead stand out as he speaks. “And you know what? It was one of the holiest moments of my life. Maybe you never loved anybody as much, and I pity you for that. And now, now you’re addressing Fanny and ignoring me – as if she did something wrong. Remember the incident when Jesus came upon the adulterous woman? The one the crowd wanted to kill?

“You’re that same crowd, Servaas. You’re standing there, stone in hand, ready to kill the sinner. Now, let me ask you…what did the crowd say or do to the man involved?” He pauses, breathing hard. “Let me tell you: he doesn’t even get a mention. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Not a single word. They were ready to take the woman’s life, while the man probably bragged about his conquest in the nearest bar…”

“Now, Vetfaan, maybe…” Oudoom tries to calm the big man, but he’s not having any of it.

“No, Oudoom, I’m sorry. The Bible is full of stories about inappropriate sexual conduct. We read about so many whores – and then we read about David. The women get slandered, but David was ‘a man of God’. Men get excused, but women get blamed for sinning. And yet, one prophet was told to marry a woman of ill repute – to be a symbol of God’s union with a sinning community. Go read Hosea, Servaas.

“And don’t you ever, ever insinuate that Fanny is a whore, Servaas. By all that’s holy, I swear you’ll regret it.”

Servaas doesn’t want to back down. “Don’t you get riled up, Vetfaan. Right is right. Wrong is wrong, All I’m saying is that there’s no such thing as a small sin. And sex before marriage is a sin. Full stop.”

Vetfaan gets up to tower above the old man. Oudoom wants to intervene again, but a furious glance from Vetfaan makes him sit back. Where’s Mevrou when I need her…?

“You go get your Bible, old man. And then you show me where it says sex before marriage is wrong. The Book teaches us about fidelity, but then we read about Solomon’s vast harem. I’m not going to argue about nonsense, Servaas. I’m telling you to get off your high horse. This,” he points at Fanny, “is the woman I love. She was brought up as a Catholic and we had sex before we got a piece of paper to say we’re committed to each other. If you can’t live with that, then so be it. I’m not asking you to understand or condone anything. I’m telling you we’re getting married, and that’s it. Either Oudoom agrees to confirm our loyalty to each other, or I’ll get a magistrate to do so. Is that clear?”

Fanny tries to keep a straight face, but Vetfaan’s outburst brings back the guilt she feels about the evening with Henry Hartford III. As she bursts out in tears, her raw howl of anguish fills the room. Vetfaan swirls around to try and calm her down.

“No…Fanie…sniff!…Servaas is right. There’s something I must confess…”

***

When she stops talking, nobody says anything for a long time. Vetfaan, ashen-faced, stares at Fanny with the saddest eyes. Servaas sits back in triumph, satisfied that his opinion was vindicated. Oudoom gets up quietly to fetch the bottle of brandy he hides behind the books on the shelf.

“Now listen,” he says, still searching for words, “don’t let us get carried away here. First of all: I don’t care much about the differences we humans like to tag our faith with. Originally there was one God and one faith. Then some people started telling each other their faith – their church – is the right one. Now we have thousands and thousands of churches, faiths and religions. I wonder what God thinks of that. After all – there can only be one God, one Creator. My idea is that it is important to live your faith by showing others kindness, compassion, respect. That’s what God wants – not this plethora of churches vying for the attention of people in search of God. And you know what drives most churches? Not faith, my friends. Money. Power. That’s what. I think God cringes when He sees what we have done with His commandments.

“So, Servaas, her being a Catholic simply means she’s also looking for the answers, just like we are.” Oudoom hands out the glasses with the neat brandy, even serving a very small portion to Fanny.  ”Now…as for the evening with Henry? That’s more difficult.”

“At that stage Fanny knew how much Vetfaan loved her. It was wrong. A mistake. But…don’t we all make mistakes? Henry Hartford was a troubled young man. He could manipulate his way into any situation. He used and abused people…and then he saved Fanny’s life…. by sacrificing his own. That tells me a lot – he wanted you, Fanny, to have the future he couldn’t have himself. In giving his life, he blessed the union between you and Vetfaan. I think he had  a moment of clarity and honesty, and he knew…

“So, Vetfaan, if Henry gave his life – tell me – what are you prepared to give?”

“But Dominee…” Servaas is still upset.

“No Servaas, this is not the time to come with your own preconceived ideas. The Bible teaches us about love and forgiveness. To a certain extent, the question I asked Vetfaan is the same question I direct to you. Both of you: are you brave enough to live your faith…or do you read your Bible only to get handy arguments against your fellow men and women? Select verses to feed your sick egos? Don’t, gentlemen, be hypocrites. Love. Forgive. And live in peace. You’re so busy with loving your own little egos, that loving thy neighbour means nothing to you. Quite frankly, I’m disgusted…” The speech leaves the clergyman breathless. Where did that come from?

Servaas sits back suddenly, struck by the enormity of what Oudoom has just said. The Bible is a guide to living a pure life, a kind life – and nobody is so perfect, so holy, to be able to adhere to every letter of the Book. His self-righteousness disappears in a flash.

Fanny dares not look up. Why did she tell them? She should have stayed quiet, and a lot of the anguish would have been spared. Sobbing softly, she storms from the room.

Vetfaan sinks his head into his hands and nearly misses the motions Servaas is making with his hands. Go after her, they tell him, go after her you bloody fool! Now!

Big Question… Listen to the video and then answer the question:

There are two types of crowds. The one is ready to throw stones. The other joins Rod and Amy in singing.  There’s no middle ground;  you can belong to only one of the two…the question is: which?

The Wordless Easter Sermon

“Oudoom will give the same sermon he delivers every Easter Sunday.  I don’t feel like going.” Vetfaan sips the strong coffee Boggel served, pulls a face and puts down the mug. “He’s always going on about the stone that was rolled away, and the significance it has. Now me? I’ve got enough stones to roll away. I think I’ll sit here and contemplate my life while you guys go.”

The rest of the group sees the determined look on Vetfaans face and decides not to argue. He’s been in a morose mood all week, so picking a fight with him right now isn’t going to help.

Living alone on a farm has many advantages. Vetfaan doesn’t have to get up or go to bed at set times. He usually starts his day when it’s quite dark still, and often flops over into his bed soon after sunset. Meals are simple affairs of bread and whatever else he can find in the fridge. It also allows plenty of time for thinking.

He’s spent a lot of time contemplating life lately. Politics, relationships, the meaning of life, love, hope  and dreams have been foremost in his mind. Somehow, the state of the world and the way we live just doesn’t make much sense to him at this stage. So, under the awning in front of Boggel’s Place, he allows his mind to roam over the events of the year since last Easter. It’s been a good year, a bad year, a happy year, a sad year. He remembers his moments on Springbokkop and the reassurance he got from them.

He’s so engrossed in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps. It’s only when Oudoom lays a hand on his shoulder that he wakes up from his reverie with a start.

The whole congregation is there, standing quietly in the sun, in front of Boggels Place.

“They know my sermon by heart,” Oudoom smiles wryly, “but I think they finally got the message. This year I’m not going to repeat it – instead, I thought I’d preach the most important sermon Jesus ever delivered.”

Vetfaan recovers sufficiently to raise an eyebrow. “The Sermon on the Mount? That’s quite something…”

“No,” Oudoom’s smile widens. “The silent one. When He rose from death, He didn’t announce it with a grand speech filled with big words. He left the grave quietly, alive, well. He didn’t need to say it, the Resurrection said it all. His most powerful statement, Vetfaan, didn’t need words.”

“Ja,” Servaas climbs up the stairs to the stoep to sit down next to Vetfaan. “So that’s what we’re doing on Ester Sunday. A sermon of silent love. It’s what our faith should be about, isn’t it?.”

Gertruida  reaches over to pat Vetfaan’s shoulder. “The message Jesus left us with, is to love God and one another, remember? Love, like we all know, needs no speeches. It is. It’s there in how we care for each other, the way we speak and the way we act. St James put it so nicely: faith without action is no faith at all. And St Francis of Assisi taught us to convince people of our faith in any way we can – and only  if we’re really desperate, only then to use words.”

It is a quiet day on Boggel’s stoep. Nobody needs to say anything.

And Vetfaan got all the answers he prayed for so much. Sermons don’t need churches. They don’t need fancy pulpits and long speeches. It’s in the silence of caring, kindness and respect that the message of the Resurrection is most tangible. Anybody can profess to believe, he realises, but it’s absolutely rare for people to live Christ’s most important statement.

Faith, he discovers on the stoep, is like the love of the little congregation holding their morning service in Boggel’s Place. Words aren’t necessary. Words tend to make things superficial, even meaningless. That’s why lawyers make a living by debating laws, politicians believe in their own causes and churches differ. It doesn’t matter what you call your religion, or what ideology holds your truth. It even matters less if words have been the stumbling block in your search for truth.

Trusting that inner voice to guide one’s actions, is what it’s all about. It’s in this wordless sermon we start to mean something to others.,

(Don’t watch this without a box of tissues…)

Starting over? Definitely!!

“But we  can’t hold a concert here,” Servaas says earnestly, “who’d come?”

“Not that kind of concert, Servaas. If we asked Oudoom to use the church, then Ben can play there. And we don’t ask money – if somebody wants to donate something, that’s fine. We give whatever comes in to the orphanage in Grootdrink. We kill three flies with one stroke: Ben gets to play, the orphanage will get something and the church will be full, for a change.” Gertruida glances over to Vetfaan. “You’ll see to it, won’t you?”

When Gertruida uses that tone of voice, people pay more attention to what she’s saying. It’s a mixture of playful octaves, with a high ‘you’ll’ and a low ‘won’t’. It’s said in a joking manner, but the eyes are steely-grey and direct – there’s no mistaking that some parts of your anatomy may go missing if you ignored the remark. Sure, he’ll tell Oudoom…

Vetfaan can only smile sheepishly and flex his considerable biceps. Sure…he’d rather argue with a deranged Kalahari lion than cross swords with this woman.

Servaas is brave enough to ask if Ben knew about Gertruida’s plan. She gives him a withering look.

“Ben has been practicing for three months now. The driver of Kalahari Vervoer’s lorry told me so himself. Every time he drives past Bitterbrak, the sound of that violin makes him stop and listen. He says it’s improved a lot. And remember: that driver is a member of the Grootdrink Skoffelorkes – he knows his music.”

Ben, quite naturally, gets taken by surprise by Gertruida’s visit the next day. No, there’s no way. Definitely not. Impossible.

Gertruida ignores the man and walks through to the make-shift kitchen area. The old tin mug and a faded and chipped dinner plate glares back at her from the basin of soapy water. The shelf above the Primus is empty, except for three packets on instant soup (tomato) and a single tin of beans. Without a word, she chucks out the water, loads the mug, plate and food into the basin, and walks out to her car. Ben is so shocked, he can only stare.

Gertruida returns to the cottage, staggering with a big box. She starts unpacking the crockery: four new plates, mugs, a salt-and-pepper set (full), and a set of knives and forks. Next are the groceries: coffee, sugar, bully beef, tinned meat, long-life milk, sugar. By the time she’s finished, the shelf can barely hold everything.

“W-w-what’s this all about, Gertruida? I can’t pay…”

“Oh shush, you silly man. You haven’t been to town lately, so it was logical you had just about no food left here. We held a collection in Boggel’s Place.”

“But I don’t nderstand?”

“It’s not a gift, Ben. It’s your pay for the concert. One piece. You only have to play one piece. That’s all.”

The people of the Kalahari are a proud lot. They’re honest, too. (Most of the time.) Generally, they don’t accept charity. You grace a homestead on an isolated farm with a visit, and you’ll leave with a bag of biltong. Or maybe a leg of lamb. Or some eggs. People in these parts are so independent, that they never want to feel they owe you something. They pay their debts. Always. Gertruida knows this, and that’s why she has no doubt that Ben will reciprocate with a little performance in the church the next Saturday.

With a smile and a mock curtsey, she leaves Ben gaping as she drives off.

***

When the sun sets in its red throne of glory, the patrons in Boggel’s Place empty their glasses and amble over to the church. There’s a box at the door (marked: Orphanage), which fills up with home-made toys and teddybears. Gertruida has lit a row of candles down the small aisle and placed two lanterns on the lectern. The atmosphere is soft, inviting,  as the little congregation sits down in the silence only churches have. It’s different to the quiet outside, where one feels more in touch with the dust and the vast landscape around. Here, especially in the flickering glow of the candles, they become aware of a Bigger Presence – something holy and sacred.

Nobody wants to say anything – the mood is too fragile.

Oudoom and Gertruida exchange worried glances. She had told Ben the concert would be at sundown, and then left; certain he would have no choice. But…what if…

The drone of the old Land Rover lights up the faces with brilliant smiles. Ben is coming! Everybody tries hard to believe they never doubted that he would come; nevertheless, the relief is tangible. The old wooden benches creak and groan as they twist around to see Ben enter the church.

Ben obviously went to a lot of trouble to do this right. The long khaki pants were pressed to smooth the material under a mattress, while the white shirt really seems white in the golden candle-glow. His shoes – shined with sheep’s fat – are even made more impressive by the fact that he is wearing socks for a change.

Ben stops at the door, uncertainty overwhelming him. The fine sheen of sweat on his forehead is clear even in the twilight. Oudoom sees this, and extends both arms to him.

Without a word, Ben walks to the front of the congregation. As he unpacks the violin with tender hands, Gertruida notices he has brought no sheet music along. Then he closes his eyes; takes a deep, shuddering breath; and starts to play.

The music moves like a gentle wave through the audience. In the sad and forlorn melody, everyone is carried back to an age of innocence when it was so easy to believe everything would work out. It drenches the regrets of lost loves and shattered hopes. The notes eddy back and forth amongst the successes and failures that exist in everybody who has ever grabbed at life’s trapeze – missed – fell – and got hurt. It’s a melody of healing, one that touches everybody in that church; even Ben, who plays on with his eyes shut and the picture of a beaming Lori in his mind. She’s there, he is certain, smiling her approval as she dabs away a tear.

There is a hushed silence at the end of the piece as the shabby man packs away his cherished violin. There’s no applause. It isn’t necessary. The shining eyes and arms reaching out to comfort each other say it all..

Gertruida will join the others at the bar later on, after she has spent a few quiet minutes with Ben in the church. Starting over is so difficult – so painful. Its foundation is previous failure; its future is so uncertain.  Along Life’s way there are loved ones who find new, greener pastures; some find new partners; and some depart on the final journey. Whatever we aim for doesn’t always reward us with the expected bounty. And in the late-night hours, every soul on this planet will – on occasion – wrestle with the age-old question…what if…?

This is when Ben’s music will be the rising tide to float the floundering ship. It’s the wings that lift us above the storm. It’s there, in the happy smile of a child, receiving an unexpected gift. It is, in the end, the flickering glow of a candle in a small church, reminding us that starting over is the only way ahead…

Daily Prompt: Faithful

Faith is in the sunset, Hope in the dawn

“Faith,” Oudoom leans his elbow on the counter to keep his balance, “is an important thing. Without it, we may as well stop trying.”

He gets a chorus of silent nods for his effort. It’s been a long day in Boggel’s Place while they reminisced about the past year.  Boggel has found some of the Vermaak’s peach brandy, and it always surprises the patrons with its quality.

“Well, we’ve got nothing else, Oudoom,” Kleinpiet tries to be helpful, “as the politics and the economy seem to be sliding more and more out of control.” He straightens up a bit, remembering something important. “But we do have each other. Yes. Faith, and company. We can survive a long time on that.”

Gertruida almost manages to stop a ladylike burp. She smiles apologetically. “With faith and company, hope will follow. Even love. And happiness.”

“No, man. Look at me – I’m single.” Vetfaan is feeling a bit sorry for himself again. “Like Servaas.” He glances over for support and the old man replies with a slow wink. “We don’t have company or love. But we’re happy and we’ve got faith. So you don’t have to have a full house. A pair is enough to win this hand.”

They all turn to Kleinpiet and Precilla who’s sitting quietly in the darker corner of Boggel’s Place. The two of them have had a most romantic first Christmas together, and they’re still cooing at each other.

“They’re disgusting.” Servaas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he lowers his voice. “Look at them. They should be doing that at home – not in public. All this whispering, giggling and smooching is extremely unsettling. This is a bar, not a knock shop.”

Gertruida bursts out laughing. Servaas can be utterly cantankerous  over Christmas time – it’s been like that for several years now. Ever since Siena passed away, Servaas seems to detest the festivities around Christmas time.

She squares her shoulders. It’s time to do something about it.

“Servaas?” Gently. Softly. Voice filled with kindness. “We know you’re sad and lonely. Most of us are, this time of year. We wish we had a little fire in the hearth at home, with kids and grandchildren and aunties and uncles and friends and family. Then we’d be at home, cooking up a storm in the kitchen with venison pie, yellow rice – and dumplings for pudding. The small children would sing carols and somebody would play Father Christmas.

“But we don’t have that, do we? At least, not everybody does. And you know why?” She waits a long second before going on, allowing her question to sink in. “Because it’s alright like this. It is meant to be like this.

“You’ve had Christmases with your family – and with Siena. They’re some of the most precious memories you possess. You cherish those and you protect those … but you also resent them. That’s wrong. You feel angry because of them. You keep on comparing now, with then. And when you come up short, you lash out at others who are building little memory castles they will dwell in, in later years.

“You know what faith is? Faith is the hope for the future, but it is also the firm knowledge of the past. Faith says: maybe you have had better times, but the best is still to come. Faith says there is hope. And faith is the foundation of love and happiness. That’s the best company anybody could wish for.”

Servaas starts breathing deeply, trying to get his emotion under control. With a quivering voice he tells that that’s all fine and dandy, but he misses Siena. He misses her desperately.

“That’s why faith is necessary,” Oudoom says, “without it, your past is just a memory. Useless events that came and went. But if you add faith to your memories, it lights up like one of those Christmas trees in Upington. Then you believe there is a time for everything. Some of us are lucky enough to have fond memories of previous Christmases, and that’s good. If your current Christmas is different, it simply demands that you cherish those times.

“You know, we don’t know whether Christ ever had a birthday party. Imagine: thirty-three years without a day when people make a bit of fuss about you? Maybe He would have loved to put His feet up, be spoilt and have people singing to Him. But He had faith like no other. He trusted His Father completely, knowing the time will come when the whole world will celebrate His birth. That was good enough for Him.”

“What Oudoom is saying, Servaas, is similar to the old saying: enough unto the day is sufficient thereof. Don’t be unhappy because you were happier in the past. Don’t be a grumblebum because you think this is all there is. Celebrate your past, be content with the present, and hope for the future.  That’s what faith is about. It’s simple, really.”

Boggel leans over with a tissue for the tears on Servaas’ cheeks. The old man blows his nose enthusiastically. Then he manages a wobbly smile.

Kleinpiet glances up from his conversation with Precilla to signal for another beer. Precilla and he has fallen silent as they listened to the conversation at the counter. Reaching over, he takes her hand to give it a gentle squeeze.

“One day, hopefully a long, long time into the future, one of us may be sitting here alone during Christmas time. Whether it’s you or me, doesn’t matter. Then the remaining one must remember these words; maybe even repeat them. We are the lucky ones tonight, and we must appreciate every second. Nothing, however, remains the same forever.”

“No, we won’t forget it, Kleinpiet. Love will see to it.”

“Only if you have faith,” Boggel says as he shuffles over with their order, “only if you have faith…”

Vetfaan and the Mayans

“So what’s new in Upington?” Kleinpiet is nursing a beer when Vetfaan walks into Boggel’s Place, dusting his jeans with his hat.

“Not much. The Cronje’s emigrated to Ireland and the cafe next to the garage closed shop.  Oh, and that lawyer, du Plooy; he got his secretary pregnant. The people are all gossiping about that.”

Hieronimus du Plooy is one of the richest men in the North. His farm and his horses earned him the respect of people as far away as Vosburg and De Aar. As a confirmed bachelor, he has had the run of all the fillies in the district – and if one of them pegged him down at last, there’ll be many a satisfied smile on many faces. People will say it was a matter of time before sniggering at the man’s loss of freedom.

“What’s in Ireland? It’s cold and wet up there, isn’t it? And I don’t think you can go hunting there, as far as I know. Why would someone go there?”

Vetfaan shrugs. “They say it’s the politics. The guys at the Co-op say the Cronje’s were worried about the way things are in the country.”

Kleinpiet harbours a dim view of political matters. “I always said the Progressive Party will bugger things up. Them and that United Party. Far too liberal, if you ask me. Vorster was the last good leader, and when he went, everything turned sour.”

“Remember the Info Scandal, Kleinpiet. Oom John wasn’t exactly innocent.”

It is common knowledge that no political debates are allowed in Boggel’s Place. It’s not because they tend to disagree so violently – it’s simply a matter of them not being up to date with latest developments. No TV or newspapers and an erratic reception of RSG cause Rolbos to be a bit behind the rest of the country when it comes to current affairs. And Hosa Radio, on Precilla’s computer, only plays music. It’s up to Gertruida to lecture them occasionally to keep them informed.

“The situation is far worse than that, Vetfaan. More than a million South Africans have fled the country since 1994, and half of them have university degrees. And it wasn’t just crime and corruption that forced their decision to leave, either. The governments policy of ignoring skill and promoting individuals of a certain background,” and here she pauses for dramatic effect, leaving the emphasis to convey the message, “made it impossible for some to stay. The result is not only the loss of numbers of our countrymen, but also the inevitable shrinking of the pool of schooled and skilled innovators.  There are many opportunities overseas – why would they hang around here where their skills are not recognised or used?  Then there are the noises the government makes: land grabs, nationalisation of the mines, and the songs the president sings about machine guns. Look at our police force: the two previous top cops got sacked. And don’t forget the rife corruption, theft, and murders. It is a sad state of affairs.“

“So, Gertruida, you’re saying we must leave and build Rolbos elsewhere, like in Canada or Australia?” Vetfaan is teasing, despite his serious look.

“Ag, Vetfaan! Nobody wants us overseas. Boggel won’t be happy unless he can run a bar. You and Kleinpiet are sheep farmers: you know the Kalahari – you want to try that in Dublin? Precilla will have to compete with pharmacies that have multiple outlets and do you think Oudoom will fit in, in Perth? Or that Sammie’s Shop can compete with Harrods?  No, we’ll just have to stay right where we are.”

“So how about you, Gertruida? They can use you in the United Nations or somewhere. And I never believed the Americans know enough – you can advise their President; I heard the world’s economy is taking a dive because he’s from Kenya.”

“Jeez, Vetfaan, sometimes I wonder about you. He’s not from Kenya at all – he even had his birth certificate circulated to prove that.” She watches as Kleinpiet draws a dollar sign on the counter with the foam on his beer.  “Besides, I don’t want to go there. When the Mayans take their revenge, it’s better to be as far away as possible.” She is immediately sorry that she said this. Now she’ll have to explain it to them.

It takes three beers and a long-winded lecture, but in the end, the Rolbossers become the world’s newest experts on what the Mayans predicted.

“Maybe that’s where Oom Siener got all his information. After all, he was surprisingly accurate in his predictions. If he had a calendar like that, it’ll explain his abilities.”

Gertruida does her hippo-snort. “It isn’t like the girly calendar behind your bathroom door, Vetfaan. it’s a stone. And it wasn’t discovered until long after Siener van Rensburg’s death, you fool.”

Vetfaan thought that almanac was his secret, and lapses into an embarrassed silence. Boggel, however, peers over the counter. “But the Mayans predicted nothing, according to what you say. Their calendar simply stops on the 21^ST of December, when all the stars of the Milky Way line up with the solstice. And people guess that means we’ll have earthquakes and comets all over the show?  And…that afterwards a – how did you put it – new age of peace and wisdom will start? “

“Boggel, you know how people are. They go crazy when they start trying to figure out the future. Fact is, our year ends on 31 December – look at Vetfaan’s girly pictures, and see if you find a 1^st of January 2013 on it? Of course it isn’t there. But that doesn’t mean Vetfaan will stop looking at breasts in 2013; it simply means it’s time for him to get a new calendar – if he wants to know the date, that is.

“But, because we don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow, people tend to guess what the future will bring. That’s why the Cronje’s moved to Ireland – they most probably thought it is safer there.”

Oudoom walks in for one of his rare visits to Boggel’s Place. Gertruida knows it is because Mevrou has gone to Upington to attend the yearly Knitting Fraternity Circle meeting, sponsored by some fastfood franchise.

“You good people seem to be discussing something serious?  A beer, if you please, Boggel?”

“Ja, Dominee, we’re talking about pagans and magic. Nothing much. Oh, and the end of the world, as we know it.” Kleinpiet smiles. “But that won’t interest you. Did you hear about Hieronimus? His secretary proved Confucius spoke the truth.”

Oudoom sips his beer and sighs happily. “Oh? How’s that?”

Kleinpiet  uses his fingers to draw his eyes into Oriental slits, and says in a sing-song voice: “Confucius he say: secretary not part of office furniture until screwed on desk.”

For a second the other patrons are stunned into an embarrassed silence, but when Oudoom smiles, they all relax. “Now, Kleinpiet, you know I am not supposed to laugh at such jokes.” He tries to suppress a giggle. “But that is funny. So, the lawyer finally lost his freedom, did he?”

“Yes. And the Cronje’s emigrated to Ireland. That’s sad – we’ll miss them.”

Oudoom nods. “It’s all about the future, isn’t it? Somebody expects a baby. Someone thinks there are safer places with better work. And I know about the Mayans and their incredible accuracy in predicting solar and lunar eclipses.

“However, the only times we know anything about, are the present and the past. And decisions – all decisions – are about what we guess the future will hold. You know what that implies?”

Kleinpiet laughs. “Avoid desk furniture and bring on the Cactus Jack?”

“No. It tells us to live the best life we can, while we can, because that will give us the best future, when it comes.”

Only Gertruida gets it. “So if you order another beer now, before Mevrou gets back, that’ll be a good decision? Like: because you know what’ll happen if she catches you in here, you can predict the future and avoid problems?”

“Exactly, Gertruida. Boggel?” Oudoom swings his empty bottle in the air. When Boggel complies, he lets go a contented sigh. “That’s been the essence of all my sermons. Making the right decisions. That’s what it’s all about. People will emigrate, have babies, drink beer, close cafes – based on their prediction of the future. Sometimes they are right, sometimes not.

“The Mayans predicted nothing. They chiselled a very clever stone, that’s all. What they did do, was to tell us time is something that never stands still. And time, like you well know, passes. We don’t have unlimited amounts of days available to us. Every second counts.”

Vetfaan peers out of the window. “So true, Oudoom, so true.”

The pastor looks up in surprise. “What Vetfaan, you actually agree with me? It took me coming to a bar to convince you?”

“No, Oudoom, it’s not that at all. But I can see some dust on the horizon. I predict that you’ll have trouble if Mevrou finds you here. I also predict that you’ll finish that beer in a hurry, and that’ll you’ll leave shortly. I see you sitting at your desk, working on Sunday’s sermon, when Mevrou gets home.  Oh yes, and that you’ll brush your teeth before you kiss her hello.”

Oudoom smiles sadly. “Vetfaan, sometimes you amaze me. I think you are more accurate than those Mayans.”

After Oudoom leaves, Gertruida orders a round of Cactus Jacks. “Okay, Vetfaan, you’ve sorted Oudoom out. Now what about our government?”

“Impossible, Gertruida, impossible. You can only predict events which are supported by a certain amount of logic. For the rest, you have to have faith. That’s why we have Oudoom around.”

Framed

“Ag you know, Boggel, things turned out all right for you. In the end, I mean. Look at you now: you’re the hub of our society. If we had a chamber of commerce, you’d have been the head honcho.” Kleinpiet draws a smiley on the counter top. “Sinatra sang that song about how it’s not important how you start, but how you finish. And that’s the way I see it.”

“Yes. Suppose they sent you to an orphanage in Brakpan, man. They really had mean role models on the East Rand back then. You’d either be in jail or parliament today if they did. You can thank your lucky stars they tried to hide you in Grootdrink.”

“Vetfaan, you can be so insensitive if you put your mind to it! Boggel just told you the saddest story, and you start talking about Springs and Benoni. Sis, man!” Gertruida does her hippo-sound in disgust. “I’m just glad that Boggel saw this opportunity in Rolbos. He could have chosen a bigger town like Keimoes to settle in. No, I think everything worked out well in the end. Rolbos would have been dead if it weren’t for our barman.”

Boggel smiles as he wipes the smiley from the counter. If it weren’t for his father’s stubborn gene, he might have considered the opportunity to join the diamond smugglers. Who’d have suspected an orphaned, deformed child of hiding the parcels, anyway? He could have made a million by now.

He looks up as Sersant Dreyer walks in, and tries to ignore the fleeting feeling of guilt. He didn’t do much wrong, did he? And yet, there will always be the lingering sense that he had been very, very lucky.

“Gimme a beer.” Dreyer has the look of a troubled man. Despite his abrupt way, he smiles at Boggel. “They’re at it again, Boggel. The main guy got discharged from prison a few weeks ago. Presidetial pardon, nogal. And it didn’t take long for the scum to drop under the radar again.”

Gertruida doesn’t know the story, so she moves over to insist on an explanation.

*

It’s ancient history, Gertruida. I didn’t want to talk about it – ever… But if that man is roaming the area, I suppose I should warn you guys. It’s my duty…

He first contacted me when I was fifteen, there in the orphanage. I didn’t have many friends, unless you consider Mary Mitchell – but she was more than just a friend, anyway. I didn’t get on with the other boys; they always made remarks about my back, calling me Hunchy Bunchy, the funny little man even the king’s horses couldn’t fix.

The result was that I spent most of my time alone. I found a spot under the big willow, next to the river, where I would read and study…and do the exercises that didn’t help. That’s where he contacted me, see? Just walked up to me and said he could change my life. Offered me more money than I ever dreamt of – a whopping fifty Rands! Said they’d give it in change, so nobody would become suspicious.

Now, that was a lot of money back then. An orphan in Grootdrink? We never got pocket money or anything like that. I asked, and the man explained.

He was a big bugger. Built like a boxer, with a broken nose and scarred forehead. He said he’d bring me something and I had to hide it for a while. When the time came, he’d get me below the willow again; I’d get the thing I hid, give it to him and I’d get the money.

Well I was fifteen, broke, parentless, friendless and lonely… and I jumped at the chance. The man said it was just a way of providing safe passage for important documents they were smuggling out of the country. Said I’d be helping the country like that.

I felt like a hero.

The packets arrived at irregular intervals: sometimes twice a week, sometimes only once in two months. Always in a metal box, flat, about the size of a Ouma’s rusks carton; always padlocked. Mister Boxer was the one friendly face I could look forward to and I was helping to free our country. What bigger adventure when you are on the brink of adulthood?

Eventually my curiosity got the better of me. Boys – especially in an orphanage – can be extremely inventive. You ever tried to lock a pantry in a hostel? Might as well save yourself the effort and buy a Rottweiler. Anyway, I sat looking at the box one evening and started fiddling with the lock. I stole a paperclip from the office, straightened it, and inserted the one end in the lock. After a few minutes of this, the lock sprang open! I wanted to read what they were smuggling around, see?

Of course there were no documents. Inside, carefully folded in bubble-wrap, were a number of stones. Shiny stones. Big ones. I was a kid, man, but I didn’t need an expert to tell me those diamonds were worth quite a bit of money.

By then I understood I was busy with something that could land me in a lot of trouble. What to do? Go to the police? Tell Mister Boxer I didn’t want the money anymore? Refuse to hand over the boxes? I found myself in an impossible situation…

*

“So what did you do, Boggel?” Gertruida leans forward, completely absorbed in the story. “I’m sure you did the right thing, though. Those diamonds must have been stolen in Kimberley, smuggled to Cape Town, and sold there? What happened?”

*

Soon after that, the police caught both of us, just when I was handing over the box. Apparently Mister Boxer used me as a halfway station- he’d get the diamonds to Grootdrink, allow a week or so to pass, to allow everything to cool down. That’s in case the theft was noticed, see? Then, when he was sure it was safe, he’d pick it up again and take the diamonds to wherever he had a buyer.

Well, the police apparently were just waiting to join the dots. When they were ready, they nabbed us just when I was handing over the last box.

I was in deep trouble. But you know what? Mister Boxer told the police I was an innocent participant in his scheme. Said I was the perfect patsy. I had to look it up in the dictionary to understand. He got sent to jail, I received a stern lecture and a caning, and that was that.

Well, if Mister Boxer is at it again, he might pop up here. I owe him my freedom, see? He knows it…

*

“You owe him nothing, Boggel. He used you. A man like that has no conscience. It was nice of him to tell the truth about you, but you certainly can’t feel you are indebted to him. If he rocks up here, we’ll sort him out.” Kleinpiet tries his John Wayne drawl, causing Vetfaan to snigger.

“Boggel, if that man contacts you in whatever way, you tell me about it, you hear. You can’t play with these guys. They’re dangerous…”

*

It’s way past midnight when Boggel wakes up, sure that he isn’t alone any longer.

“I have a packet for you, Boggel. The last one I’ll give you, I swear. This is my last run – the big one. After this, I’m off to Mauritius. This is for old time’s sakes. Bye, Boggel. You keep to the straight and narrow now, will you? You were a good kid back then – I’d hate to see anything…untoward…happen to you.”

As quietly as he came, he leaves. Boggel waits sixty slow seconds before he switches on the light. The room is empty; only the flat, Ouma-size box glares at him from the little table next to the door.

He gets up, filters some coffee, and sits down next to the box. It is exactly the same size, similar to the previous boxes. Then he notices: no padlock! The box is unsealed, inviting…

*

“Have you heard anything, Boggel? Headquarters are desperate – they had somebody trailing that man, but now he seems to have disappeared completely. They need all the help they can get.”

Boggel polishes a glass behind the counter, a deep frown on his forehead. How can he tell Sersant Dreyer about his midnight visitor? Especially after he read the note in the box?

I’ve lied a lot. About the documents and the struggle. About converting to faith in prison. About being sorry for what I did. And that I didn’t know what happened to the money. I’m tired. I want to get away from the lies. I told you I’d pay for every time you took care of a parcel; and I lied about that, too. When they caught me, I didn’t give you your money. I’m sorry about that. Really. So, here is the fifty bucks I owe you. You were honest, innocent and you trusted me. Before I go away, I want to make things right with you. I’m off now. Take care…

Boggel looks up, meets Dreyer’s eyes, and smiles.

“If ever I see that man again, you’ll be the first to know. Trust me, I’ll tell you. I swear.”

And, like Peter lied three times to his Master, Boggel managed to do the same in one breath. If, indeed, it matters not how you started, but how you finished, Boggel believes something has changed in Mister Boxer’s life.

If he’s lucky, Sersant Dreyer won’t ask why he went to the trouble of framing a single fifty Rand note to hang behind the bottle of Cactus Jack

The Confession.

Whenever he climbs up the stairs to the little lectern, Oudoom pauses right at the top to bend his head. The congregation thinks he says a short prayer in that moment; a request for guidance and strength. It is, however, a confession. And an apology.

On the September night in 1962, when the students attended the formal ball in the hall on the campus, Albertus Viljee dressed in his finest. The school blazer, university tie, pressed flannels and church shoes, blended in a statement of serious intent: he wanted to make an impression. A man doesn’t go hunting without a gun, after all. The target of his meticulous planning was a certain Miss Cromwell (Connie, to her friends), who could bring the campus to a standstill by merely walking from the library to the cafeteria.

Now, Albertus new his prospects for success were limited – and that even assuming he had a chance, was optimistic. Young men will play this game till the end of time: they aim for the impossible. Defeat means they move one rung down the ladder to attempt a more attainable goal. They work their way from the top to eventually reach the girls that tell them how wonderful they are. Maybe Darwin was right: that’s why the rich and the beautiful rule the world. That’s why we learn to follow, with  the others at the bottom of the ladder.

But Albertus was too young, too inexperienced, to know that. The world was his oyster and his pearl was waiting…

He did get to dance with her that night. Afrikaner boy met English girl. The Nationalist government chatted with the United Party. Calvinist and Catholic sat down to coffee, looking into each other’s eyes – and wondering why the heck society drew boundaries between people. For some reason, (and who can explain the intricacies of Love?) they developed a fascination with each other. The lively Arts student fell for the dour Theologian.

He was, of course, the envy of the men on campus. The student men, that is. His professor, the honourable Horatio Holiface, didn’t share in this admiration. Miss Cromwell was too well known. Flowers in her hair; short skirts and her love for the new way of dancing separated her from the other young ladies. She was a wild one. She was English. She had the audacity (or stupidity) to criticise the government. She even drank beer…from the bottle.

Holiface called Albertus in. This affair with the liberal, English, Catholic girl has to stop. The church does not tolerate such things. What will it lead to? People would say the Church had lost its way and that the faculty now condoned progressive and liberal thought. And where would that lead to? I’ll tell you, Mister Viljee: it’ll destroy the credibility of the faculty and what we’ve built up over the years. It’ll make a mockery of the church. You will not – not – see her again. Is that clear?

The choice was simple: either he continued in his studies, or he continued seeing Connie.

He knew there was no way out. His entire family suffered to get him this far. Sheep farmers in the Northern Cape weren’t all rich people. His father had to borrow extensively to realise the dream of a Dominee amongst the Viljees. Dominees were important people; men that commanded respect. To have such a man in the family would be the crowning achievement on years of toil and hardship.

Whenever he pauses on that top step, before opening his Bible on the lectern, he’d look down at the small flock he leads. He’d see Gertruida with her Dake’s Annotated Bible; Servaas with his hangover; Precilla, who always has a sad look on Sundays; Vetfaan with his collar undone (no tie, for goodness’ sakes!); and Kleinpiet, fighting to keep his eyes open. Always late, Boggel will shuffle in just now, to sit in the chair next to the door – last in, first to escape. He has a bar to open as soon as the service is over.

And Mevrou. The Afrikaner girl from Keimoes. Right politics, right church, right family.  Always there, right in front, right in the middle. Now well past her prime, she still retains the haughty look that Professor Holiface found so appealing. A capable help meet, a bedolach in Hebrew, as Genesis calls it. He looked it up one day. The word means something in pieces, or a fragrance  – something which wholeness is never complete.

Gertruida says there are two types of people. Those that run towards pleasure…and those that run from pain.  Pleasure is something you forget easily and makes you want more; but pain makes you remember and makes you want less.

That’s why Oudoom confesses every time he reaches that step. He has been running all his life, but all he’s found, was pain. And then he apologizes to the one true love in his life. The love he had to kill to please his family and society.

After that moment, he always decides to end the farce and tell everybody to stop running – even if it is just for a second. And every time he knows he won’t do it. He’ll sigh, open the Bible, and deliver a sermon on Love or Hope or Faith – the things he had to leave behind, way back in 1962.