“So, how was it?” Boggel slides a beer over the counter towards a tired-looking Vetfaan.
“Ag, all right, I suppose. Everybody was there – I even had to wait in a queue for a full ten minutes! It was quite busy..”
“Noted anything funny?”
Vetfaan glances over at Boggel, wondering at the little man’s curiosity.
“Well, yes, I did. Most of the whiteys wore sandals. Old, plastic sandals. But the farm workers all had shoes. But everybody was friendly and I even saw the officials assisting some of the older folk – that was nice.
“And, I must say, the DA table outside was quite busy while the ANC table only sported two dozing agents. Maybe that’s a good sign.
“But what struck me most, was the flock of sheep on the other side of the road. They couldn’t be bothered at all – just stood there grazing in the winter sun as if nothing would ever change for them. They are destined to be served during the Christmas season, but they don’t know that yet. And when the farmer stopped nearby, they rushed the fence, thinking it’s feeding time.” He pulls a face. “But that’s life, I suppose.”
“No, Vetfaan, that’s the way it works. Promise to feed you today, tomorrow you get slaughtered. Farms function on that principle…many countries too. It may sound crazy, but those are the facts.”
“You mean, if the sheep had an election they’d get rid of the farmer? That’s stupid. What will we have to braai on Christmas?”
Boggel shrugs. “That’s what worries our president today, my friend. He’s hoping the sheep will continue rushing the fence to feed – and not vote for a new farmer.”
Vetfaan downs his beer and stomps out. He came here to relax, not to be reminded of reality.