Delft
Die klippe innie pad
sit soes laities oppie sypaadjie
en vra die heeltyd vi jou virre rand.
Die wind kom en gan
soese man wattie oo sy laities worry nie
’n wind wat net vi homself liewe.
Die lug se mon stink na wyn.
Die son wêk nine to five
omdat dai is wat hy doen.
Hyt nog nooit consider
dat hy iets annes kan doen nie.
Die boeme hang heeldag oo hulle miertjies
en hou anne mense se biesagheid dop.
Die sand het vyl voete en lang naels,
maarie sand loep van dee tot dee
en sit in ammel se hyse.
Die mense is cigarette-toppatjies
opgestop in metjieboksies.
Woensdag, 16 Februarie 1988
Ek is nog klein.
Ek staan allien innie agtejaat
by my ouma-hulle hys en ek voel sad
omdat ek wiet vandag isse boring, unimportant dag.
Ek wiet die dag het niks gedoen
wattit worthy maak om onthou te wôtie.
Ek voel sad omdat ek wiet daa was al dysende dae
soes dié wat ek al kla vegiet et.
’n Mens kyk trug op jou liewe ennie goed wat ytstaan,
dai is vi jou jou liewe.
Maa dai issie die liewe nie.
Dai issie highlights reel.
Jou liewe isse klom dae wat niks gebee nie.
Ek stap narie wasgoed wat oppie lyn hang,
ek sit my hand tien ’n nat handdoek
en ek dink ek gan nooit die dag vegietie.
Hammie
Ek et dié gedig twie kee geskryf
wan my ma hettie eeste een gelies
toe sê sy vi my: “Jy kannie al dai goed skryfie,
hulle gan my innie tronk opslyt.”
It is by haa wat ek gelee et
hoe om te hustle.
Nie dai gangsta-hustle ie,
ma dai vrou-allien-sôg-vi-ses-kinnes hustle,
dai righteous hustle.
My ma het my gelee
ommie sentimental te wiesie.
Die eeste ding wat sy gepawn et
was haa trouringe.
My ma groet gangsters en kêkmense dieselle
wan sytie kêkmense geken
voo hulle gangsters geraak et
ennie gangsters voo hulle
hulle harte virrie Here gegie et.
My ma respek nieman te veel of te min nie.
Sy roek drie pakkies êntjies ’n dag as sy het
en as sy nie hettie, dan tel sy toppatjies op
en swai vi ôs pilletjies mettie phonebook.
As jy heeldag nie geroekittie
dan voel elke puff soese man-sized hit.
My ma gloe in niks én sy gloe in alles
en jy sal nooit wiet of sy liegie.
Syt vi my gelee hoe om te lieg
en hoe omme storie te vetel
en hoe om te worry:
die secret is om te gan slaap.
Jy worry bieter as jy ytgerus is.
Esprit
Riefka het vroeg gelee
dattie way na ’n man se hart
dee haa mag is.
Sy wasse druggie op dêtien
enne prossie op vyftien.
Riefka wasse mooi meisie.
Ammel was mal oo haa oë
wat somtyds blou was
en somtyds groen.
Mense praat nou nog vannie goed
wat sy innie boys toilet gedoen et
en baie up-and-coming-meisies
gebryk haa career path asse blueprint.
Haa niefies en niggies wat saam haa op skool was
het simply na haa refer as “hai jintoe”
as hulle van haa gepraat et.
Riefka was confused oo haa niggies en niefies,
oo haa familie in general.
Sy was confused oo wie haa pa was.
Ammel het gewiet wie haa pa was, behalwe sy.
Haa ma het hom gelos net na sy gebore was
en vi haa gesê dat Mr Piel haa pa is.
Riefka kanittie onthou nie
wan sy was nog ’n baby
Maa haa ma
het eenkee met haa pa gestry
toe wôd sy soe kwaad
dat syrie man mettie baby gooi.
Later het haa pa heeltemal befok geraak
en somme ’n ayaman gewôd. En gefokof.
Maarit wassie all bêtie
wan haa ma het altyd vi hulle gesôg.
Riefka sallie dié onthou nie
wan sy was nog baie klein.
Maa een Christmas, sy was sieke vie,
en haa broe en haa suste was twaalf en tien,
toe koep haa ma vi hulle ’n Krismisboks:
vi Faheem en Sieda
’n kis bier enne borrel whiskey,
en vi Riefka, omdat syrie baby was,
’n borrel Esprit liqueur.
Toerie kinnes klaa gesyp et
lê Riefka innie jaat innie sand en swem
en allie grootmense staan en lag
vi hoe oulik sy lyk as sy dronk is.
uit Chokers en Survivors
Nathan Trantraal
Listen to "Hammie" and "Esprit" read in the original Kaapse Afrikaans by the poet:
Nathan Trantraal writes in the vernacular or “Kaaps” dialect, a variant of Afrikaans spoken almost exclusively on the Cape Peninsula in the Western Cape province of South Africa. His poetry deals with “die liewe annie anne kant vannie kantlyn” (life on the other side of the margins), specifically the bleak social environment of the Cape Flats, an historically “Coloured area” created by the apartheid government.
Trantraal uses phonetic spelling, conveying how Kaaps is articulated (there is no official Kaaps dictionary and few published examples of Kaaps, especially in a literary context.) Certain words particular to Kaaps—absent from the “standard Afrikaans” lexicon—are generally examples of local slang; terms derived or appropriated from other languages, including Malay and Arabic, and dating back to the origin of the dialect.
The first lines from Nathan’s poems that I read and translated were “My ma het my gelee / ommie sentimental te wiesie. / Die eeste ding wat sy gepawn et / was haa trouringe.” (My ma taught me / not to be sentimental / The first thing she pawned / was her wedding rings.) It’s this kind of affecting matter-of-factness that makes Trantraal’s poetry so compelling.
In the English versions I use contractions, phonetic spelling, and colloquial grammar to translate the sound and attendant impression of social context contained in the original poems.
Trantraal’s poems highlight what could be described as “common” and translate it into what is extraordinary in the everyday.
Trantraal uses phonetic spelling, conveying how Kaaps is articulated (there is no official Kaaps dictionary and few published examples of Kaaps, especially in a literary context.) Certain words particular to Kaaps—absent from the “standard Afrikaans” lexicon—are generally examples of local slang; terms derived or appropriated from other languages, including Malay and Arabic, and dating back to the origin of the dialect.
The first lines from Nathan’s poems that I read and translated were “My ma het my gelee / ommie sentimental te wiesie. / Die eeste ding wat sy gepawn et / was haa trouringe.” (My ma taught me / not to be sentimental / The first thing she pawned / was her wedding rings.) It’s this kind of affecting matter-of-factness that makes Trantraal’s poetry so compelling.
In the English versions I use contractions, phonetic spelling, and colloquial grammar to translate the sound and attendant impression of social context contained in the original poems.
Trantraal’s poems highlight what could be described as “common” and translate it into what is extraordinary in the everyday.
Nathan Trantraal is a comic book artist, columnist, screenwriter, and poet from Cape Town. His work includes the graphic novels Coloureds, Stormkaap, and Crossroads. He has also done weekly cartoon strips for the Cape Argus, Cape Times, and Rapport. He writes a biweekly column for Rapport called Sypaadjies. Nathan has published two collections of poetry: Chokers en Survivors (2015), which won the ATKV Prize for poetry and the Ingrid Jonker Prize, and Alles het niet kom wôd (2017), which won a SALA award. In 2018, he published Wit issie ‘n colour nie, a collection of columns and essays. He is the 2018 Jan Rabie Marjorie Wallace bursary holder and has a master's degree in creative writing from Rhodes University. When he’s not working, he spends time with his wife and daughter or watches old Italian neorealist films and, when that feels too much like work, he watches unrealistic American action films.
Alice Inggs is a writer, editor, and translator from South Africa. She has contributed to a number of publications, including Asymptote, The Arkansas International, EuropeNow, Critical Arts, Ons Klyntji, the Sol Plaatje EU Poetry Anthology, VICE, and Rolling Stone.
