Gertruida’s Journey (# 1)

Gertruida switches the laptop on and stares at the keyboard. Maybe, she thinks, she can try to make sense of her life if she writes down her story? Surely there must be more to life than stagnating in Rolbos? And with Doc’s prognosis still uncertain, she really feels terribly alone and lost.

It’s worth a try. At least the writing will keep her mind busy and stop her from feeling so depressed.

Look at Vetfaan, she thinks. Who would have guessed that he, the burly and sometimes introverted farmer, would get hitched with such a vivacious beauty? And what about Kleinpiet and Precilla? They’re not only deliriously happy, they’ve even got a live-in butler and a housekkeper as well. Servaas is in a good mood these days and Boggel…well, he’s just Boggel: always the good listener and phenomenal friend.

And yet here she is, dejected, alone and unhappy. Surely her life should amount to more than just saying goodbye to every man that ever loved her?

She taps dejectedly at a letter on the keyboard. Where must she begin? Her first memories are those of their house in Calvinia; a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. Her mother was an avid reader, and little Gerty would spend enless hours playing with her dolls at her mom’s feet. Her mother always said that books were the key to happiness. Books teach the reader to experience the unusual in the common events of every day. And, she said, reading is the most noble sport of all, for it exercises the most important part of human anatomy.

When Gerty was four, she could read almost anything in the house. Enid Blyton no longer fascinated her – she had discovered Alestair Maclean and later progressed to Wilbur Smith by the time she went to school.

Her prodigious intelligence caused problems at school, of course.  Her teachers often had to silence her when she started taking over the lessons of the day. If you know so much, I’m wasting your time, missy. Go sit in the library and shut up for a while! And don’t you dare come back until I called you! Understand? No punishment was ever so sweet! Little Gerty would skip happily down the corridor, pull a book from a shelf in the library, and lose herself between the pages of a book. Teachers were boring, but the library provided almost unlimited challenges – and pleasures.

At the age of eleven, she accompanied her father to a political meeting. Gerhardus van Rensburg, a staunch Nationalist, had challenged John Harrison of the Progressive Party to a debate on the eve of an election. Calvinia being what it was, everybody agreed that Harrison was wasting his time – there was no way anybody would vote for him.

Truth be told: Harrison didn’t do too badly in the debate. He even managed to silence van Rensburg on several issues concerning human rights, reminding the Nationalist that everybody was equal before God. When the chairman saw the debate swinging the wrong way, he invited questions from the floor – in the hope of finding something to counter Harrison’s arguments.

Nobody dared pose a question. Harrison – a local lawyer – was known for his sharp wit, and nobody wanted to look foolish in front of the other farmers attending the meeting. So, when little Gerty put up her hand, the chairman pointed at her and told her to ask Mister Harrison anything she liked.

“No, sir. My question is to Mister van Rensburg. I’d like to know how he and his party are going to improve the living conditions of their servants. And my second question: why do they deny other people from voting? Surely they can only expect revolt? It happened in Russia, Kenya, the Congo – why do they think it won’t happen here?”

Van Rensburg was furious. Not only did Harrison get the better of him, but now this …this child wanted to rub salt into the wounds as well.

“Your questions,” he said with a heavy sarcastic edge, “are an embarrassment to the country. I refuse to answer them.”

“Then, I have to answer you they way Helen Suzman said in praliament: it is not my questions that embarrass the country, sir. It is your answer.”

Of curse the Nationalists won the election. That’s the way things were in those days. There was one positive that came from that meeting, though: John Harrison made an appointment to see her parents.

“This young lady has a bright future ahead of her. She needs to go to a top school and later attend a university. I know you struggle to make ends meet, but I can arrange a bursary. I’d like to see a mind like hers develop and grow.”

Her parents objected, of course. Afrikaners are not beggars and they certainly don’t accept hand-outs; especially not from an Englishman and a member of the Progressive Party. Harrison knew the game, and said he was sorry, he didn’t want to embarrass them. Gerty’s mother held up a hand.

“Mister Harrison, we thank you for your kind and generous offer. Let me discuss this with my husband, and we’ll tell you tomorrow what we’ve decided. More tea?”

Now, we know Gertruida as a clever woman, and it is only natural to accept that she got those genes from her mother. That night Gerty’s mother took her father to the bedroom, closed the door, and indulged in one of the old man’s fantasies by dressing up as a nurse. (He had the dream of becoming a doctor in his younger days.)

The next day Harrison made a few calls and a week later Gerty left on the train to Pretoria, where she was enrolled in Girl’s High, one of the most prestigious schools in the country,

Gertruida stares at the keyboard. No, she can’t write that, can she? It’s so insignificant!  Surely it has no bearing on her current situation?

And then, as fate decrees sometimes, the unexpected happens. The phone rings, waking Gertruida from her reverie..

“Gerty? It’s me. Paul… remember me? Paul Harrison. We were friends a long time ago. I was your friend in Boy’s High.”

Gertruida sits down quite suddenly, as if her legs didn’t want to carry her weight any longer.

“Yes…?”

“I’ve got a problem, Gerty. And I was wondering…”

Prayers for Madiba

Please join the Inhabitants of Rolbos in prayer for Nelson Mandela. We salute his contribution to our beautiful country, his statesmanship and his guidance. We need him now, more than ever.

May present and future politicians not only pay lip-service to this great man, but actually make a real effort to understand what he tried to accomplish.

So far, they have failed.

Viva Graca, Viva!

Graca Machel (AFP)

“I quite agree with Graca Machel,” Gertruida says as she puts down the newspaper. “People – worldwide – see us as a violent nation.  Time had that horrible statement about Oscar being a gunman, and we all felt it was a bit much. But here Graca says: South Africa is an angry nation… We are on the precipice of something very dangerous with the potential of not being able to stop the fall. The level of anger and aggression is rising. This is an expression of deeper trouble from the past that has not been addressed. We have to be more cautious about how we deal with a society that is bleeding and breathing pain, 

“I believe she’s right. The amount of bloodshed in our country is unacceptable. It’s not just the farm murders – that’s bad enough already – but the country is losing it’s grip on reality. We’ve a president with enough children to fill a classroom. He still has to explain his role in the Arms Scandal. He’s getting rid of the voices of opponents in his own party. I don’t think he is a good example for other politicians.”

“It’s not just that, Gertruida.” Vetfaan reaches for a new beer. “It’s the way the criminal elements rules the country. I hear you mustn’t stop if a police car flags you down. The chances are that you’d be robbed or raped. They say you have to drive to the nearest public spot, like a petrol station, before stopping. Sure, some policemen are honest, hard-working guys; but others find creative ways of filling their pockets. Maybe that’s why Oscar didn’t phone the police: most burglaries are inside jobs and it is an open question whether you’ll get a prompt and honest response. We stopped trusting the people who must protect us.

“And Mrs Machel hit the nail on the head when she said society is getting more and more violent; causing the police to act in kind. It’s a vicious circle.”

“Well, there’s no such thing as peaceful protest any more either. People seem to think the only way their voices can be heard, is by destruction. Burning buses, trains and buildings are apparently the only ways to get the government’s attention. If service delivery is poor, you ransack the municipal offices. That’s on local level. What’ll happen if these protests become a unified, national movement?” Boggel takes a reflective sip, thinking on the chaos that will follow such events. “But maybe that’s what the government wants. Maybe they think these protests are the way to divert attention from the bigger picture. They can’t govern fairly, and there are deep feelings of distrust amongst large segments of society. Soo…create chaos and make people worry about their own safety, rather than allowing government to get involved in a debate they can’t win.”

Gertruida nods. “It’s an old trick. The Nationalists did the same with the Right Wing in the seventies and eighties. They used the Right Wing to scare people into submission. Remember Mafeking? Even after all these years, we don’t know everything…but sure as nuts, that was an orchestrated event. And don’t forget the lies about the famous Third Force in the nineties. Destabilise and rule. It worked in other parts of Africa, why not use it here as well?”

“It’s sad, isn’t it? In the old days, the Nationalists had a lot to say about the Black Danger and the Communists. Now our parliament has a new way of using the exact same tactics. Only the danger is now multicoloured and the Whites are everybody’s favourite scapegoat. It’s us, they say, who are at the root of all the problems in the country. Shoot the farmer, kill the Boer, indeed.”

“It’s going to get worse.” Servaas rests his chin on his folded arms. “We better know that. I can’t see the government getting a grip on this mess. Look at the cock-up in the Congo. What the hell were our soldiers doing there, anyway? And where was their support?

“It’s a sign, guys. Our rulers don’t plan. They do. And if it doesn’t work out, they appoint a commission of enquiry to point fingers at some poor sod who didn’t take the initial decision. More than likely, it’ll be swept under the carpet, like everything else.”

The group at the bar falls silent. Rome is burning. Nobody can stop those flames… Maybe, just maybe, the plaintive voice of Graca Machel will reach beyond the borders of our devastated country.

Human Rights – You’re Joking, Right?

“They went about it the wrong way.” Servaas is in his black suit again, the heavy frown changing his eyes to slits. “There’s no such thing as Human Rights. It’s nothing to celebrate, anyway.”

For once, Gertruida looks up in surprise.

“Really Servaas? Where does this come from?”

“Here.” He thumps his chest. “It comes from in here. Human rights are the ultimate oxymoron. It says you have certain rights, and others must respect that. It’s wrong.”

“Come on, Servaas, of course we have rights. Education, protection, medical care…” Vetfaan’s list peters out when Servaas interrupts him.

“Exactly. That’s my point. Now you go tour the country, Vetfaan, and see what the government did with those rights. Schooling is in shambles. The hospitals are understaffed, under equipped, and badly run – in fact, most governmental hospitals do not have the facilities to function properly. As for protection….we have had a slew of senior police officers and commissioners who embarrassed the country.” Servaas sits back, eyeing the ceiling. “And then you get to BEE – do you think white people have the same rights as blacks? Pull the other one, my friend.”

“So, what do you suggest, Servaas. You must have something in mind?”

“We must stop this harping on about rights, and rather look at Human Requirements. What is expected of you rather than what you can expect of society. The requirement to be responsible, versus the demand to have rights. It’s a complete shift in understanding John Doe’s position in society.”

“Ah…I get it!” Gertruida’s face lights up. “You’re saying you can only have rights – or earn the right to have rights – by respecting your fellow man?”

“Exactly. Look what’ll happen: with enough respect going around, you’ll have no more raping, no murders, no crime, no corruption. Those things exist because some people imagine it is their right to take what is not theirs. They embrace their rights and deny others theirs. Why? They have no respect, and therefore no responsibility.” He lets out one of his famous, long, drawn-out sighs. “It’s a social disease. It started long before Apartheid and won’t stop until we – everyone of us – start rethinking what it means to have human rights. And that won’t happen soon. The template for future generations is wrong.”

“But that sounds rather drastic. It implies that people who disrespected others, should be denied their rights – or at least, the human rights as we understand them now.”

“Exactly. That is the punishment needed. Now, if you get caught – and only 6% of criminals get convicted – you have the right to a fair trial. That, I agree with. A fair trial means no dockets going missing, no technical points to throw cases out, no medical parole for healthy friends of the government, no fancy dodging of the law. Once you have been found guilty, you forfeit your rights. It’s harsh, but that is something criminals will respect. They thrive because they can depend on their rights to protect them.”

“Servaas, that is rather radical, you must admit. No responsible government will ever pass such laws. They’ll be rejected by every free country in the world, because it will pave the way for dictatorship.”

“Ha! You see? That’s where the picture gets warped.” Servaas smiles for the first time. “A society whose prime aim is kindness and respect to others, will elect a kind leader – somebody fighting for their rights. It’s as easy as that. In the meantime, we have the right to be raped, murdered, lied to and be served by corrupt officials.” ”

“Well,” Boggel opens a new round, “it won’t happen in our lifetimes. I think I must declare my right to have a beer. It’s a holiday, after all.”

“And that,” Servaas is serious again, “may be the only right left in the country…”

Mugabe…The Juggler

“He just keeps on making the world look foolish. Now he thumbed his nose at all the clever politicians, and has gone to the Vatican, despite the ban on his travelling. At the age of 89, he’s still a very creative character”

“Gertruida, I just don’t understand it. Do you remember that one guy…what’s his name…Machemedze? He worked under orders from his president. There was an article about how he enjoyed hacking limbs off the people he tortured. The list of questions Mugabe has to answer is endless – murdering farmers, killing opponents, torturing people, bankrupting the country, destroying the once-vibrant agricultural economy. Why does the world still tolerate him? How does he manage to control so many puppets?”

Servaas mumbles something about the anti-Christ. “Listen, Vetfaan, we know too little. Here we are in Rolbos, which is but a speck on even the best maps, What do we know about the Illuminati? Or the Freemasons? Even Gertruida doesn’t know much about those types of organisations. But let me tell you: that guy didn’t get to be president for more than 30 years without some serious backing. I remember Kissinger praising his virtues, and ever since then, nobody can touch him.”

“I hear he’s rather charming.” Precilla rolls her eyes before going on, “quite a ladies man. People say he acts much like a teacher, and has a way of swaying arguments his way.”

“That may be true. Now Zimbabweans also have to opportunity to wear his clothing range. Apparently quite popular. You can buy a cap with ’1924′ – his birth year – for under a hundred Rand. Fortunately they got rid of the Mickey Mouse money. “

“Well, I’m worried. If he is the senior statesman in Africa, other leaders will want to know the secret of his success. Look what’s happening here? Our president is slowly getting rid of his opposition. He disbanded the Youth League’s top structure, and is ‘cleaning up’ the Limpopo region. Our currency is worth less and less. Farm murders are the order of the day. Strikes are common and the police haven’t been an example to us lately.” Servaas sighs as he gets up to go. “It all sounds so terribly familiar.”

“Yep. That’s true. We have the master juggler in Africa on our doorstep.” Vetfaan joins the old man as they walk out in the sunshine. “Let’s hope he keeps his secrets to himself.”

The Impossibility of Everlasting Happiness.

“Did you see the Daily Prompt from those WordPress guys?” Gertruida has managed to connect to the Internet via her new cellphone, and now spends long hours visiting her two favourite sites. “They want to know about six impossible things.”

“Well, for one: you can’t tickle yourself.” Vetfaan sips his beer thoughtfully. “And elephants can’t jump.”

“And you simply cannot lick your elbow,” Precilla adds. “I tried it in front of the mirror.”

“Yeah, and how about finding words that rhyme with orange…or purple?”

“Eternal love and happiness are also impossible for humans. Somebody dies, or goes away, leaving the other one grieving.” Siena has been on Servaas’ mind lately. “Even the most precious things get lost, or broken. “

“Well, then the ultimate impossibility must be hidden in the words ‘human rights’. In our country it means that a convicted prisoner – say a serial rapist or killer – has a vote worth just as much as mine, or the President’s. How is it possible to justify that? It’s impossible. We’ve become so involved with human rights, that we’ve pulled the whole picture out of shape. We preach equal rights for all, but how do you justify people being refused promotion, just because of the amount of pigment in their skins?” Gertruida sighs. “Maybe Servaas is right. We were so happy in 1994. We were ecstatic. It couldn’t last…”

 

The Riddle – Sunday Flash

Credit: News24.com

“A chicken-and-a-half weighs a pound-and-a-half, plus half the weight of a chicken-and-a-half, how much does a chicken weigh?”

Gertruida has a million of these little riddles to spruce up the conversation when they get tired of telling the old jokes over and over again. Servaas finds it especially irritating because they are so convoluted; like the one about the man held prison by the two guards. His prison door opens – and the corridor facing him has two ends: freedom or the gallows. He has to find out which way to go, and may ask only one question. His two guards alternate, and the prisoner does not know which one is at the door. The one can only tell lies, the other only speak the truth. Sooo…what does he ask to know which way to run?

“Come on, now, Gertruida, lets talk about the drought. Or even politics. This is way too hard.” Servaas snorts and orders a fresh beer. “What does it matter what a chicken weighs, anyway?”

“You miss the point, Servaas. We have to learn to think again. People in Upington simply Google anything they don’t know on their computers. In Cape Town, they have even smaller devices, they call ‘Pads’.  Those things are so clever, people have stopped thinking for themselves.”

“Yes, that may be true. But that one you asked…. Can a man legally marry his widow’s sister…that was a low blow. Of course he can’t. But we didn’t figure it out, either.”

“Yeah, and what about that other one you sprang on us: Brothers and sisters I have none, but that man’s father, is my father’s son? That was wicked.”

Boggel serves another round. “Come on now, chaps, concentrate. Gertruida is right, everybody has stopped thinking for themselves. We get fed nonsense every day, so we end up thinking nonsense. I can tell you this: If we had a country full of thinking people, we would have had a better place to live in.”

“You may be right, Boggel. But how do we fix 50 million people? It’s impossible…”

“No, it isn’t. They have to learn to ask the right questions, that’s all. The answers might be difficult, but once you understand the question, you find out it’s not so hard at all.”

Gertruida sits back with a secret smile. Now, if she could only find a way to get a few other heads thinking…

Vetfaan gets up to go. “The answer is two. A chicken weighs two pounds. That’s a little less than the weight of a human brain. Now let me ask you one: somebody gets involved with Nkandla, the Arms Deal and showers to prevent AIDS. How does he become president of a country?”

“It’s simple. People have stopped thinking, like I said. Garbage in, garbage out. It’s elementary, my dear Vetfaan…”

Can we now stop apologising for the past? Please?

The Most Honourable Minister Xingwana

“Jaaa..Boet.” Even Vetfaan sounds depressed. “Now a minister; a Cabinet Minister of our Fatherland nogal; goes and tells the Aussies they can blame everything on us – the Afrikaners. I’m getting sick and tired of it.”

“Oh, you’re talking about the honourable Minister of Women, Children and People with Disabilities, Lulu Xingwana? I heard she said ”Young Afrikaner men are brought up in the Calvinist religion believing that they own a woman, they own a child, they own everything and therefore they can take that life because they own it”.  I think she lost the plot.” Gertruida sniffs loudly. “This is the same woman who heads a corrupt department, I’ll have you know. You can’t expect too much discretion from her.”

“But wait a minute, Gertruida. The present government has been in charge of the country for almost 20 years, and still they blame everything that goes wrong, on Apartheid and Afrikaners. It doesn’t matter if the argument makes no sense ; they play the race card or say it’s due to Apartheid. What happens? Everybody shuts up because if they argue, they’re racists.” Servaas is clearly upset. “Now, I’m not defending Apartheid, although it used to be a world-wide phenomenon. Show me a country where it didn’t happen, and I’ll buy you a beer. But…surely blaming Whites for everything must stop at some stage? Obama doesn’t harp on about the American South, does he? The British Prime Minister apologised for the massacre at Amritsar almost a hundred years back, and he wasn’t stoned for it. Life goes on; people must get over the past”

“You’re forgetting one thing, Servaas. A strong, honest government doesn’t have to prop up it’s appeal by reminding voters of the past. They’ll concentrate on the future.” Gertruida tilts her head in mock sadness. “It’s because they seem to be unable to sell their policies on merit, that they keep on reminding the masses they are Black and the Afrikaners are White.”

“But that’s nonsense, Getruida. We don’t live in a Black and White world any more. We can’t continue to see all Whites – or all Blacks – as a unified race. Pigment has nothing to do with it. For goodness’ sakes: Chinese are now officially accepted as Black. Indians are Black. People of mixed decent are Black. There is as little logic in that as saying the Irish and Scots are the same. Or that there is no difference between a German and an Italian.”

“That’s my point exactly. What do you think will happen if the ANC were to tell people to embrace their own culture? If they encouraged Zulus to be Zulu, and Vendas to be Venda, they’ll generate a polarisation like you have in Europe. Dutch people are European, but they revel in their own language and own culture. So do the Swiss and all the other countries you have over there. The ANC’s biggest nightmare is that the separate cultures in the country recognise the fact that being ‘Black’ or ‘White’ isn’t going to cut the cheese. They desperately need to remind a certain section of society that another section of society is the enemy. In unity is strength, remember? So their only hope of survival, is to convince the masses they are this cultureless group fighting a common enemy.”

“Well, I’m through. I’m not saying sorry any more. I voted for change. I stood in those long queues in 1994 and celebrated with the rest of the country. I saluted Madiba for what he stood for. And by drawing my cross on that ballot paper, I prayed for peace and stability.” Servaas has to stop speaking to get his emotions under control. “And what did we get? Look at our country, man…it’s burning! The racial divide is growing by the day because the government is fanning those flames. If our ministers tell overseas audiences the Afrikaners are bad people, I refuse to respect them any more. I’m angry and hurt, man, humiliated.” By now, he can’t hide it any more – the tears well up and Vetfaan has to offer him a hanky.

“We’ll just have to find a way of managing this, Servaas. There’s an election coming up next year…”

Vetfaan holds up a hand. “That’s what the government is preparing for, Gertruida. And I share Servaas’ sadness. Now, more than ever, the ANC must find a way to keep the different cultures in one little basket, believing they act on the basis of skin colour. It’s worked well for them so far.”

“You know what, gentlemen?” Gertruida sits back with a secretive smile. “You mustn’t make the same mistake as the government. They want all Blacks to be united. But…there are more and more voices – some small, some not – calling out in the dark. Many, many people are starting to feel the way Servaas does. Poor people in shanties. Unemployed masses. Middle-class white-collar managers. Mineworkers. Farmworkers.The petrol attendant at the filling station. The waitress at Wimpy. They don’t want to drown in the toxic waste of the past; they want to make sure their children get a proper education, live in proper houses and enjoy a more prosperous future. They want functional municipalities, service delivery, effective policing and honest administration. These are the voters who must make up their minds about who they’ll vote for in 2014. And even the mighty ANC can’t fool all the people all the time, either.

“I can tell you what’ll happen. The ANC will win again – but not with the majority they currently hold. They are saying the things they do, to try and avoid the humiliation of accountability. They love the situation where they can silence the opposition by the democratic process of voting in parliament. Absolute power…remember? But after that election they’ll face a formidable opposition, one that will hold them accountable for the atrocious way they managed the country for the last 20 years. They won’t be able to hide behind Afrikaners any more. The tide, my friends, is turning.”

Servaas leaves quietly. In his cottage, he rummages through the old records until he finds the one he’s looking for. Tonight the rest can bury the past, but he needs to return to an earlier age, a happier time. A time when he could still believe in a bright future where he and Siena would grow old together.

“Siena, I need you now,” he whispers as he places the needle gently on the old vinyl record. “The future, Siena, has become a memory. Like you, it isn’t here any more.

A Parade of Fools

“Despite everything in the past, we used to have a good police force. They had special branches for special types of crime. Then the new government abolished some. Now they’re bringing some back. They did the same thing with the training of teachers and nurses. First they scrapped previous departments and programs, now they don’t have enough people in the right positions. And, of course, they blame Apartheid.”

“Well, Kleinpiet, this time I think they surprised even themselves with the level of stupidity. If you know this is a high-level case, why don’t you appoint somebody that has the sense to wear overshoes at a crime scene? This chap makes statements in court and has to retract them because of their inaccuracy. To top it all, now it’s reported that the investigating officer is facing attempted murder charges himself. Seven of them, no less. He shot at a taxi, for goodness’ sakes!” Despite her usual control, Gertruida’s laugh sounds bitter and disillusioned.

“Look, we have two opposing forces at work in this country: Crime and Policing. And the police are the guys that suffered the most in the new democracy. What happened was that the government kicked out the guys with expertise  because they served the previous government, and – sadly so – because of BEE. Some segments of society can forget about getting promotion in the new SAPS. There seems to be a pattern here: appoint a commissioner, then spend millions on a court case to try – and fail – to prove his non-involvement in crime.

“In the meantime, the criminals are getting more and more expertise. Drugs. Abalone. More than 100 rhino’s this year. Corruption. Rapes. Murders. And how many convictions? Less than 10%? That means the odds are in your favour. If you have a 90% chance of getting away with a million or two, won’t you bay a ticket?”

Vetfaan sighs.

“It’s all a mad scramble, guys. Musical egg-in-the-face. It’s like the boy stopping the ocean from overwhelming the dyke by holding his finger in the breach. We may as well give up.”

“No, Vetfaan. It’s time for the world to take notice. We used to have our problems, that’s true…but we can’t go on accepting this sort of bungling and continue blaming it on the past. It’s time for the government to acknowledge the scale of their problems – and that they’re responsible for them.”

“Oh they will,”Vetfaan smiles ruefully, “they will. Once they notice, they will. And that won’t happen until their faithful supporters see how they are being conned. Maybe Dr Ramphele must team up with Helen Zille…now, won’t that be a foundation for the future?”

“And in the meantime?”

“Why, the parade of fools will just keep on marching…”

Snake Eyes – a Striking Characteristic

Credit: Land Rover

“Now when !Kaggen made everything, he made a big fire, so the animals could see each other in the night.” Vetfaan doesn’t tell !Ka that he is confused. In some of !Ka’s stories, the Sun is supreme. In others, Mantis is revered as a god. Mostly, !Kaggen features as the most divine of beings. !Ka once said that the true name of the Creator may never be spoken – or even thought of. Some of the names mankind is allowed to use, tend to be baffling, as they seem to be the same being; but with different appearances.  He’ll have to ask him about it sometime.

“Some of the animals weren’t afraid of the flames, and sat quite near too the fire. They liked the fire and the light, because they had nothing to hide. Others, like the snake, disliked the fire, and stayed far away.  When the flames died down a little, !Kaggen said: If you like the light, you’ll have to get wood to put on the fire. So the ones near the fire went out in the darkness, got logs, and fed the flames. These brave ones were rewarded, and !Kaggen gave them their own flames – and you can still see that in the eyes of some animals at night. They are the ones with the burning embers in the darkness, which stop glowing when the sun is up. These animals were very proud of their gift, and walked around all night to show how bright their embers were.

“The fearful and lazy snake got very angry. Why did those animals get night-eyes, and I got nothing? they asked. I demand to get our own ember-eyes. So he tried to steal the fire, which made !Kaggen very angry. The snake saw he wasn’t going to get past !Kaggen alone, so he went out and gathered the lizards, the scorpions and the spiders to help him. While snake was keeping !Kaggen busy, the small animals crept up to the big rock on which the fire burnt. Carefully, quietly, they dug and dug under the rock, meaning to lift it up and carry it away. But !Kaggen, he wasn’t to be fooled. When he saw what was happening, he took the rock himself, and flung it in the air. The embers scattered far and wide in the sky, where they still are. Now the snake and the small animals can never get ember-eyes.

“And !Kaggen, hai, he was very angry. You like to dig under rocks, you miserable creatures? Well, that’s where you’ll live for the rest of your time. If man wants to kill you, he can lift any rock, and he’ll find you. That is your curse. Snake can try it, too, but he won’t find protection there. I will have man hunt you wherever you are. And as an added punishment, I shall remove your legs. You will, from now on, have to make do without them.”

Vetfaan claps his hands together in appreciation.  “So that’s where the stars came from? And why some creatures hide under rocks? And why a snake sails around on it’s belly?”

“Just like that.” !Ka flashes a smile of appreciation: Vetfaan is a good student. “But there is more.”

“!Kaggen knew Man can make his own fire whenever he wanted to, that’s why he didn’t give men night-eyes. He said: you can make your own light at night. But I will give you something else: I’ll give you lights in your eyes during the daytime.

“Now, some men are like the scorpions and the spiders. They want to steal other people’s light. I saw such men in Upington, when we visited my wife in hospital. Some were dressed in fancy clothes and rode around in new cars. Others were always looking to take what wasn’t theirs.  But all these men and women have dead eyes – there is no light of laughter in their eyes. They don’t sparkle when they talk to you.

“That’s why I’m telling you about ember-eyes, Mister Vetfaan. I see the way your people live: they don’t look for the eyes anymore. You shake hands with everybody and talk long stories – but you should look at the eyes. Some people have snake eyes. Others are like spiders: they have eyes that look everywhere. And some, like a scorpion, will make you look away so they can sting you. And the lizard! He is so fast you can almost not catch him. Tell me, Mister Vetfaan, when last did you really look at a lizard’s eyes?” Vetfaan shakes his head. “You see! They don’t give you a chance to do so…”

“And these are the people who demand what they don’t deserve? The lazy ones? The cowardly people? The belly-crawlers with no feet to stand on?”

“Hai, Mister Vetfaan, I am a good teacher… “ His smile is shy, but the sparkle in his eyes is unmistakable…