WILD GARDEN
Collection of short stories written in conjunction with FMI Masters Painting. 2020.
Wild Garden is a collection of stories that mixes memory and fiction to create a picture of the author’s complicated relationship with his identity as a white Afrikaner South African. The stories take the form of small vignettes that delve into the past, some long ago and some recent. They all pull together through threads of place and history. An anthology wading through murky feelings of belonging, Wild Garden is filled with images of the natural world in all its different iterations, be it farms, safaris or gardens. Humans and animals play together in this landscape of strange realities where stark images of death and inequality shape the experience.
“These are stories of my shame and nostalgia. My relationship to ignorance and insight. They speak from my voice but are not about me. Please enjoy.” Kruger, 2020.
O’Boereplaas
O boereplaas, geboortegrond!
Jou het ek lief bo alles.
Al dwaal ek heel die wêreld rond,
waar so gelukkig, so gesond?
O boereplaas, geboortegrond!
Jou het ek lief bo alles.
O moederhuis, waar ooit so tuis?
Jou het ek lief bo alles.
Die wêreld, rykdom, prag en praal
kan jou verlies my nooit betaal.
O moederhuis, waar ooit so tuis?
Jou het ek lief bo alles.
O moedertaal, o soetste taal!
Jou het ek lief bo alles.
Van al die tale wat ek hoor,
niks wat my siel ooit so bekoor.
O moedertaal, o soetste taal!
Jou het ek lief bo alles.
C.F. Visser
[Visser, C.F., 1979, ‘O, Boereplaas [Translation: “Oh, farmland, cradle of my birth! You I love above all.”]’, A.C. Hartman (a.o.), FAK-Sangbundel, Johannesburg, 550-551.]
- Kraal -
Fine dust covers every surface. We are driving in two cars. My brother and I are in his new second-hand 4x4 and trailing behind my parents. My father is driving too fast for this road and we struggle to keep up. We laugh imagining my mother getting angry at him and calling him a maniac driver. The landscape is dry as a bone, mostly covered with rocks and dirt and the odd Karoo bush. In the rainy season, for a short time, these grey shrubs will become green and covered in flowers. The entire valley will be filled with colour before the sun beats down against the rocks once more.
We arrive at the old farmstead. It can’t have looked too different from when it was first built. The only modern comfort is a struggling gas-powered fridge. The farmers who once lived here are buried not far from the house. Three gravestones surrounded by a rusty barbed-wire fence contain what’s left of the Pretorius family. They were probably voortrekkers trekking all the way from the Cape but not knowing there were greener pastures and fertile land to the north. My mother looks out at the view and tells us how they used to call this the knersveld. She seems to be mourning their struggle and always speaks of how hard it must have been to live here. She grinds her teeth for the namesake of the place.
There are no other forms of human life that can be seen from the house. The horizon stretches far into the dried-up pans. Sometimes in the distance one sees a group of springbuck silhouetted in the dust. The house has thick walls to insulate against the heat and rickety windows that squeak as you open them to the warm breeze. Right next to the house a large windmill stood slowly turning and pumping a small stream of water into a round concrete dam. At night when even the insects keep quiet the steady whining of the windmill lulls me to sleep. On the hot days we would brave to swim in the dam. The walls are thick with algae and you did not want to touch the bottom. Disturbing the water too much brings up clumps of brown sediment and the odd water scorpion.
It was our first time here and I was growing frustrated with the heat and bored of the isolation. Only later would I come to appreciate these same qualities. I tell my family that I am going out for a walk. Yes, only along the main road. The one we came in on. No, I won’t be long. As I set off, I smell the smoke of a wood fire. My father must have lit the donkie so we will have hot water later. The sun is beating hot against my front, but strangely it feels comforting now. The only sound is that of my flip flops whipping against my feet. Each step flings a small rock or two against the back of my calves. I put my hand down my shorts and feel myself.
I walk like this until I get to the old kraal built from piled up stones. One corner is completely caved in but most of the other three walls are still standing. Farmers used to herd their sheep and goats here to spend the night. I walk around the stone walls till the house is out of site. The sun is now on my back. I push my pants down to my ankles. The sun feels raw on me. My hand gripped tightly as I came onto the hot rocks. Still out of breath I look around guiltily but only see the vast openness behind me. I turn over the sharp rock to hide its now stained surface. It’s so hot it burns my finger and I drop it. It lands out of site, so I make my way back to the house. My father asks me about my walk, and I mumble something about it being too hot outside.
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The Freestate, or as locals call it, the Oranje Vrystaat is flat and empty.
Expanses of tall grass bows down in waves.
Sweet rooigras grows densely over the soft sloping landscape.
Cattle farmers swear by this grass, it fattens them up!
Rooigras is groen wanneer hy blou is.
Red grass is green when it is blue.
The grass it sweetest when it is blue.
This is the highveld, the grassy plains where mielies grow.
Giant circles and rectangles thick with green stalks.
They will become dry and brown like sun bleached newspaper.
Then they will be ripe for reaping.
A sign next to the road says Dis mos Mielies!
It tells passers-by that this farmer is more of a farmer than his neighbour across the road.
Mieeeee Lieeeees!
Women yell in the streets carrying cobs of corn on their heads.
Their high-pitched voices lilt, drawing out the word into a song.
Their husbands work on a dis mos mielies farm.
Broken stalks stick out the ground.
It’s a wasteland of toiled earth and dry leaves.
The grooves from the plough are no longer pronounced.
It has done its deed, given up its nutrients.
The rooigrass has been cut and bailed.
Large circles of grass balled together, tightly spun with blue and orange twine.
They will become dry and dusty by the end of winter.
The sweetness in the centre.
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