The Keeper of the Kumm. Sylvia Vollenhoven
outside the church. The children loosen their clothing and make plans for elaborate games in the foothills of the mountains.
“Can I go with them, please?” I ask, tugging at the sleeve of Ma’s twinset.
I give up getting my grandmother’s attention as she and Auntie Rachel talk away with the dominee and slip away with my cousins. Ballie, the ringleader, takes us down the gravel road, across the railway, past the white people’s houses and through deep dongas to get to his favourite places in the Langeberg foothills.
“Up there near Waaihoek there is a hut that belongs to the bosbou people who use it during the week.”
Soon we’re on a farm where the district’s legendary youngberries grow wild. We attack the youngberry bushes with relish. Our hands find the shortest route to our mouths, heads buried in the foliage. Some berries are overripe, almost black. Sweet bubbles of pure sunshine explode between my teeth. Others are still bright red and I almost cry with delight as the tart taste tugs at my tongue.
“Jissie, Sylvia, kyk jou rok,” says Ballie.
My grey and pink nylon frock with the embossed silk flowers has assumed a drastically different colour scheme.
“Jou ouma gaan jou moer,” says Ballie laughing.
Where I’ve grown up, side by side with my grandmother in the genteel kitchens of rich, English-speaking white folk, words like moer are entirely absent. Ballie is eager to show off his grown-up language.
“That’s okay,” I say, “I’ll take Ma some and she’ll be happy.”
The children around me are awed because I can speak English.
“Hei Sylvia,” says Ballie, stopping to show off a bit, “praat Engels vir ons.”
It is a constant request. Few people in Swellendam use English and outside of the classroom the children hardly ever hear it spoken. There are hardly any books or newspapers and on the radio everything is in Afrikaans. Ballie likes having a cousin who makes the other kids sit up and take notice.
“Kom Sylvia, spoeg vissies9,” he says, laughing.
“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?” I begin in my best accent, reflecting the combined influences of white neighbourhoods and my mother’s years of elocution lessons with Irish nuns.
Nobody understands a word I’m saying. The children laugh and clap their hands, asking for more until Ballie gets bored with the adoration. We head off further into the forest.
Inside the bosbou hut they start an elaborate game of house or huisie-huisie. As usual, I am the baby in the game. My older cousins, Siena and Leen, are our parents. Ballie and his friends are the children. English cabaret over, I’m automatically sidelined.
The children go off to ‘work’ with instructions to bring back food to eat. It’s Ballie’s favourite game and his licence to raid the surrounding farms and kill pigeons.
“En toe sê daai skollie vir Mary, ‘Ek sal jou naai tot die bloed loop,’ en sy hardloop toe daar weg.”
Sienie and Leen are gossiping while I pretend to be playing a game of pick-up stones with some round river pebbles. I’m glued to the adult words coming out of their mouths as they discuss the latest village scandal.
On the way home one of the notorious child gangs from Lemmetjiesdorp stops us. It is the usual ritual. First they trade rich insults, then the boys start shoving each other until there is a fight that everyone can cheer.
“Kom jy wat Ballie is, staan jou man.”
Ballie is slow to respond. The boy challenging him is older and tougher. To buy time Ballie takes off his shirt, slowly. I am blissfully unaware of the order of things but I feel left out. So I shout an insult I’ve just heard. In my naïve mind the Afrikaans means purely, “I will stitch you up until you bleed”.
“Ek sal jou naai tot die bloed loop,” I shout loudly at the opposing group. Most of them have not noticed me until this moment. All aggression stops. They stare at the skinny eight-year-old in the stained nylon dress with giant pink bows on her thick plaits that jut out Pippie Langkous10 style.
Not even the rough youngsters of Lemmetjiesdorp have heard a girl say such a filthy thing. My older cousins Sienie and Leen look vaguely guilty but sense the odd advantage this has given us. It is not often that kids from Railton muster up a surprise tactic in an encounter with a Lemmetjiesdorp crowd.
While the opponents are gobsmacked, my cousins saunter off. Ballie looks at me with absolute horror but he recovers quickly. He turns to shout at the little group we are leaving behind:
“Sy’s vannie Kaap en sy kan dit in Engels ook sê.”
I feel victorious but at the same time there is an uneasy sensation in my stomach. It gets worse as Ballie shoots off ahead shouting; “Ek gaan vir Ta’ Sofie sê.”
We walk home quietly and I know that whatever just happened is not good. As we reach Auntie Rachel’s house in Railton, Ballie is pouring out the story to a group of adults with arms flying.
“En toe sê Sylvia, ekskuus tog, Mamma-hulle. Ek sal jou naai tot die bloed loop.”
From a distance I see my grandmother go inside the house. She reappears with the long leather strap she uses to hold her suitcase together. It is twisted around her left hand.
When adults attack young children, many emotions fly around … anger, disappointment and sometimes enjoyment. Sophia Petersen, who has never before dished out a hiding to anyone, is sad and overcome with embarrassment.
Nobody says anything about the swearing. They pretend it is the stained Sunday dress that is the major cause of the punishment. The adults have neither the words nor the courage to respond to me having told some roughnecks I would fuck them until they bled.
My sobs are more for the pain in my insides than for the welts rising on my legs. A defiant sadness settles in my soul and in the days that follow I cannot dislodge it no matter how hard I try.
When innocence goes as it always does, it leaves softly, steps out lightly. And in its place is an open space, a well of sadness that points us home but has no name.
When I grow older, my childhood in Swellendam becomes those halcyon days, more magical with each recollection. It is an inner refuge when things become too difficult. A place where I can still smell the leather bridle of the kapkar buggy, Auntie Rachel’s famed ginger beer and Oomie Abraham’s strong moerkoffie.
One day when I’m doing an SABC outside broadcast in Swellendam, I meet the town’s first black mayor.
“I have named a road here after you. A section of the street where I live,” he says casually.
I look it up and sure enough, there it is. A tiny section of the Ringstraat that I know and that is around the corner from Treustraat where my Auntie Rachel lived is now called Vollenhoven Street. A piece of Google Maps reality with my stepfather’s family name.
After the broadcast, I return to the Overberg on my own. But I discover that my longing all this time is not for Swellendam. It is for a place that is more me than any other in which I have lived. It is for a place where my ancestors lie buried. It is for a place I have yet to find.
My husband is fighting for king and country
At night the Guardians sing the songs of The Calling by the fire. Strains that dissipate when they cross the great river.
“Ophou my so baie goed vra. My kop is soms so deurmekanner ek weet nie of ek kom of gaan nie.”
“Mama, it’s very simple. When was Ma born? Where is Ma’s birth certificate?”
“Haai, raai ek het nou vir jou skool toe loop stuur sodat jy vir my kan kom cross-question soos ’n wafferse magistraat. Ek hou ga van kinners wat vir hulle so ouderwets staan en gedra nie.”
“But