White isn’t a colour. White issa religion. Like religions rounda world it’s fed te you, lika Purity pot, when you’re still a child. One day, when you’re old enough te understand, you open the book an onna first page you reada story of how Jan van Riebeeck shaped the Cape. If you reada book furtha you learn bouta great war, gainsta Inglishman, an bouta great war thas coming, gainsta blak man: wenna blak man desides te destroy the white man an his works, everything that’s beautiful an good, once an for all.
Inna book you learn bouta great prophets: Malan, Verwoerd, P. W. Botha (in some apocrypha Eugène Terre’blanche is also an anointed prophet). The prophets teach you that “the whites are the chosen people.” They describe the volk as “people whose hair is not kinky and whose skin is pale.” The book teaches us that “black people are animals and therefore you should treat them no better or worse as any other animal.” The book says “black people don’t want houses, they like to live in huts and have you ever seen a dog complain about living in a kennel?” The book says “all the most beautiful beaches are for the exclusive use of whites.” The book says that “there are particular benches where only white people may sit.” The book contains strict taboos: “You may not drink from the same cup as your black servant.” “It is an outrage for a white man to do kaffirs’ work,” etc. The book also containsa whole lotta archaic customs, mong others: “Pay a coloured with wine, he chooses it above money.”
That issa Old Testament.
Inna New Testament, which was written in 1994, you read about Nelson Mandela “who gave his life for our sins.” The other great prophets inna New Testament are Desmond Tutu, Oliver Tambo, an F. W. de Klerk, the latter being a figure a lotta historians think actually belongs inna Old Testament. Inna New Testament we learn that forgiveness issa way forward, not land redistribution an reparations. Inna New Testament Mandela teaches us that “old laws no longer apply” an that “everyone, rich and poor, black an white, may walk through the same doors.”
White, like all religions, is transmitted fromma parents te the chilren an fromma chilren te their own chilren. Thera those people that belief one thing forever, bu thera also people that shake off the stuff they learned as chilren an begin thinking for themselves. Bu like many people who were once devout, white people bend their knees an sniff out the old belief wenna world outsyde becomes te dark.
I don’t hate people with blonde hair. I don’t hate people with pale skin. I don’t hate people with blue eyes an green eyes. I don’t hate colours. I hate white. White isn’t a colour, white issa religion.
Little Master
One day, wenna corpse of apartheid was still lying onna slab inna morgue, my parents decided we goin te have a bit o beach time. My ma wanned te go te Clifton because she’d only ever seen halfa beach an always wonnerd about the otha side. I think she wanned to know what made it so special that it was off-limits te her. Fo me, it was a novel experience because I had never been so close te white people, I think that was actually the first time that I’d seen white people up close. My ma an pa walked around onna beach an me an my bruthas an sistas went an played onna swings that were inna kiddie park by the beach.
Afterwars my ma came te sit near us onna bench while my pa went te swim. Not te long when a small white girl, a bit younger than me, I reckon she was prolly round six or sevan years old, waltzed over. She stopped, looked at us forra coupla moments, her confusion apparent on her face. Butta confusion didn’t last long.
“You coloureds aren’t allowed te play on this side of the beach, this is our side,” the child said indignantly. My ma fogot that it wasa small child that obviously hadn’t got the memo that legalized discrimination was a thing offa past an told her that she would kick her back up into her mother’s cunt. The girl’s parents, who were sitting nearby, essentially deserted her. They didn’t tell my ma that she couln’t say that toa child. It sort of half created the impression of two liberal parents that had suffered fo years under the oppressive thumb of their conservative, racist toddler. My ma an pa were never political people, bu I am still surprised that not one of them had been locked up during apartheid cos I gotta impression that most offa time they behaved like people that didn’t realise it was apartheid. Ma prided herself onna fact that she’d never in her life called ennyone “master,” “little master,” or “meddem.” She once almost fucked up my brutha because he called the white woman she worked fo “meddem”. My pa prided himself again onna fact thatta boere with whom he worked at Spoornet could never face him.
My ma an pa have now been divorced forra coupla years. He lives in wunna those bad ghettos where you’re in constant danger if you don’t know erryone who lives there. In my pa’s street there wassa white man that neglected all the opportunities that institutional racism gave him an ended up inna township, like someone who hadda whole question paper before the exam bu still always refused te study. I dunno if anyone knew his real name bu erryone simply referred te him as The Boer. The Boer, like most offa other people in my pa’s street, wassa alcoholic. No one cared that he was white. You could anyway only jus hear from his accent that he was white, The Boer was so haggard that he looked like a poor coloured with blue eyes. One day I helped my pa paint the exterior of his house, an The Boer walked over an asked my pa of he didn’t have a screwdriver he could lend him. My pa had known The Boer for years, so I dunno how he decided that today was going te be the day he remembered that The Boer wassa white man.
“I hava screwdriver bu I don’t wanna give it te you. Go ask de Klerk forra screwdriver,” he said te The Boer.
“Ice,” said The Boer, deeply offended, “I’m not asking you a bullshit thing, man, I’m asking you a proper thing.”
I dunno how they heard the conversation, bu suddenly a bunch of neighbours began te pop out, like characters in a Disney animated musical, an shouted things like:
“Brotha Ice! You must give respect te that man, the otha day he would’ve been your master.”
“Show respect, thassa white man!”
“If this was apartheid then you’d ha been locked up already!”
Erryone stood an laughed atta powerless white man, who forgot he was white. I stood onna ladder an kept painting an felt sorry for The Boer, an thought, “These people are being like this unnecessarily.” Bu then I remembered that little white girl on Clifton beach an I thought: “Fuck The Boer.”
It was a day that I will never forget
It was a day that I will never forget.
I’m talking bout those essays that we wrote inna exams when I was still in stannad 8. I was pretty good in Afrikaans at school. Afrikaans an English were, in fact, the only subjects that I always passed. I sit inna examroom an flick through my memories lika photo album an look for something that’ll satisfya teacher. Inna end I decide te jus write a note toa teacher an explayn that all my “days that I’ll never forget” are going te entail some form of violence or psychological abuse an I don’t think I hava strength te write another essay abou how great it was at the beach an how atta end of the day my pa had te rescue Buks, our dog, who was bowled over by an enormous wave. Cos we didn have a dog called Buks, our dog’s name was Mange, cos he had mange on the regular, an inna unlikely event that we would’ve taken him toa beach, an he ran inna water an began drownin that woulda been the end of him, cos I can’t swim an my pa would just sit there an say: “If he can get in he can surely get out.”
The nice thing bout deciding you’re no longa gonna participate, is that you can lie with your head onna desk an iffa teacher whose invigilating’s back is turnd, you can quietly ask the analphabetic cunt opposit you if you can see their essay. The kid opposite me was Warren Fowler, bu we called him Mr. Fowler or “Father” because he turned 21 in stannad 6. Mr. Fowler fayled Afrikaans every yea an if you fayl Afrikaans, then you can pass all your other subjects, bu you still fayl the yea. Te fayl your home language was, te quote our Afrikaans teacher, “an abomination in the face of God.” What was of course ironic was that Afrikaans wasn’t our home language. In fact, the Afrikaans that we did at school had jussa passing resemblance toa Afrikaans that we spoke at home. I jus had te think about Mr. Fowler speaking proper Afrikaans an I started having a laffing fit that made the teacher turn round an look at me as if I always laffed in the examroom, bu I hang my head an hold my laffter in, cos I’m not looking forra teacher te be on my case now, I firs want te read Mr. Fowler’s essay, cos then I relly won’t be able te hold my laffter in, and then maybe they’ll tear my question paper up an kick me out the examroom. Then I can fuckoff home early.
Mr. Fowler looks at me all suspicious when I call him, bu I promise him I’m finish with my essay an I want te help him, I’m gonna write a few lines for him. Mr. Fowler is desperate te pass stannad 8 this time so he gives me his essay, with such a defeated look on his face, which makes me decide I’m relly gonna write him a few lines. Then maybe he’ll get 10 outta 100. I read Mr. Fowler’s essay.
A day I’ll never forget
Our neybor people. Our neybor people is good people. We offen play tegether. Our neybore people braai alot then we all eat the goodstuff. I really like our neybour people. Our neybor people have 2 suns we laff togher wile we play on the beech. That was a day that I will never foget.
Outa possible 400 wors he managed te produce 64, bu each line issa faultless manifestation of stupidity, like le mot juste fo morons. Mr. Fowler can sense he made a mistake in giving me his essay cos I’m lying with my head on my arms like someone sleeping, bu my body is shaking uncontrollably like someone crying or laffing. I know he wants te tell me something bu the teacher is standing between us.
When the teacher walks towards the front row, Mr. Fowler softly calls te me: “Hey, you fokker, whatyu laffing at?,” bu he also has laffter in his voice, cos he knows he’s dumb as shit. Then he says, again half-laffing: “You fokker, you mus know a man can’t do this shit, write a few bits there, you ma’s cunt, don’t be like that.” I was once at Mr. Fowler’s house, cos we bunked school together. His neighbours whom he’d written about inna essay couldn’ta been the people who I met, unless Mr. Fowler led a double life. They wera bunch of alcoholics an druggies. They played loud music an drank a case of beer onna Wednesday morning, the whole time shouting at us over the wall: “Come drink you fokkers!” The woman of the house told us:
“Come, come, you fokkit up that side then we fokkit up this side.”
Their one son was dead, the other three inna jail for murder so I dunno when they an Mr. Fowler had such a good time playing an laffing onna beach. I sit an stare atta page an decide, okay, I will write something fo Mr. Fowler, cosa cunt is sitting an looking at me like he’s begging money forra bread. Fo some reason it’s easier for me te write Mr. Fowler’s essay than my own an I jot the whole thing down inna few minutes.
A day I’ll never forget
When I was little my family often went to the beach, all the cousins and aunts and uncles.
My mother’s brother, who is a Rastafarian, was usually tasked with keeping an eye on the children. My Rastafarian uncle always sat on his heels, far enough away that the water couldn’t touch him, but close enough that he could quickly pull us out, if necessary. I never thought it was strange that he could sit so stock still while all the kids ran in and out of the waves, because I was young, and I naturally thought I was immortal, but also because I believed that the grown-ups were always in control.
Between the rocks, where the water was shallow, there was always a watermelon and a case of beer being kept cool. I can still see myself: bare-chested in my underpants, my nose full of salt water and snot, my toes full of wet sand, out of breath from running to get another slice of watermelon. The latter was always the high point of the day, even better than the braaied meat. Unfortunately, there was also a low point. All the grown-ups apart from my ma, and one or two others, were always blind drunk from early on. People began fighting and then someone looked for a knife. I never thought it was strange that my pa, my aunts and uncles always drank so much on our outings to the sea. Because I grew up with grown-ups who drank a lot it was totally normal. An hour or so later everything would be completely fine, then an uncle would play music really loudly in his car while everyone drunkenly slow danced.
On one outing there was a family that partied even harder than our family. When it was almost time to go home my uncle told me: ‘Look, that drunkard is going to dive off the rocks.’ The young man landed directly on his head and was dead before the waves could wash him away.
I pass Mr. Fowler the page, he looks at it fo five minutes, then he asks me: “My brah what shit is this?” I don’t give him an anser. I rest my head onna bench, I know they’re gonna give him nil fo that essay, they’re not even gonna care that it’s impossible Mr. Fowler wrote it himself. Bu thas cool cos I hate the Afrikaans teachers. I hate how they force us te read books by Dalene Mathee an poetry by D. J. Opperman. If I see those names then I wanna ask the teacher, “What has this shit got te do with me, I don’t give a fuck bout Ogilvy Douglas, Ogilvy Douglas issa cunt.”
Every time the teacher turns his back Fowler calls me, “My brah, make this shit right man.” I think te myself: “Fowler, you dumb cunt, you was perfectly happy with the shit you wrote, how can what’s on that page be a problem?” I suddenly become annoyed with Mr. Fowler, I want him te recognise that I wrote something that should mean something te him, I want him te be moved. Bu the ungrateful cunt is just thinking bout how he must repeat stannad 8. I snap an tell him loud, so that evryone can hea: “Fowler, you dumb fuk, giv the cunting thing bak if you’re not ganna use it.” He says, “Nah, is orite is better as nuthing.” I stan up an walk te his desk an grabba page an say: “I’m ganna tear this shit up now,” bu Mr. Fowler says, “Nah my brah, leava page, don’ be fuk,” bu then the teacher arrives an without saying anything, he takes my question paper an he takes Fowler’s question paper an draws two huge red lines across both an throws them on his table. Then he turns round an says: “Right gentlemen, you can go, I’m giving you the rest of the day off. You might as well stay away tomorrow as well, say I gave you permission.”
Years later, when I taught Afrikaans an English at my old high school, I said te my Afrikaans class one day: “Write me sommin bout where you come from, an write it how you speak.” They just looked at me as if I was befucked. It took bout three classes te convince them te do what I fucken told them, that they don’t need te understand why I told them te do it. I was amazed at the shit that the kids wrote, horrified an saddened by mos ofit. Later, when I sat marking with my head of department, I told her bout the essays my class wrote, bouta drugs anna sex anna violence, bouta abuse anna trauma, an she said if a child wrote stuff like that in her class, she would fayl them immediately.
“If you write then you must use your imagination, if you want to talk about that stuff you must speak to the guidance counselor, the Afrikaans class is not the place for it.”
Around the corner from anywhere
I’m walking te Auntie Betsy’s shop, an like always Charlie first asks me forra fi’bob an if I say I don’t have then he asks me forra five rand. Charlie is a buttonhead, an his head looks like quicksand that’s sucked inna rest of his face. It’s hot bu Charlie’s wearing a woollen beanie that makes you hot jus looking at him. He’s put on a yellow, fake Calvin Klein sweater an jeans so dirty they look like leather pants. He’s gotta pair of safety boots on, which is ironic cos Charlie doesn’t werk. He gets disability. That’s Charlie from prick te toes, as he would say.
I tell Charlie, “Ya, I’m gonna quickly go sell myself, then I’ll bring you the five rand.”
The habitual loafer in his imitation Calvin Klein T-shirt, the scrap collector behinda trolley witha worn out bu genuine Adidas, the girls that walk inna street with iPhones while the drains inna road overflow; these incongruities are as striking as they are commonplace. Is funny how the two worlds meet; how the profit motive makes all meetings possible.
I arrive atta shop, anna queue is long. Well, tisn’t really a queue, jussa small crowd thas standing in front offa window. Onna one wall there’sa big sign that says “Betty’s Tuckshop” onna one side an “Coca-Cola” onna other side. One thing bout Coca-Cola, their hustle knows no limits. They realised long ago thatta ghetto offers all sortsa opportunities fo free advertising. Wherever you walk inna township you see misspelt names onna red an white signs adorning the houses of people who think Coke is doing them a massive favour, cos they also want their shops te look lika proper business.
My brother an I always laffed when we got offa train atta Lavistown station. Because there wassa massive Virginia billboard there (“The wine for men who enjoy being men”). It wassa only billboard in Lavis, a wine advertisement so big that it qualified assa eighth wonder of the world. That wassa biggest waste of marketing money, though. If Virginia did their homework they woulda realised that no one needed te convince the people of Lavis te drink.
“Two breads, a litre of milk, anna pack of Rothmans,” I say te Jethro.
Jethro’s wearing Nike an Adidas. His ma’s shop money; big money for poor people. Jethro issa eager participant inna one-upmanship of logos. He issa true believer inna unholy gospel of name brands, the sort of person that makes other kids so insecure bout their own appearance that they begin selling drugs forra dealers so that they too can afford overpriced leisure wear.
I look at Jethro in his navy blue Nike hoodie witha celebrated tick above his heart an I think, despite myself, “Thassa shit hot top.”
