His mom glances over at him with a cautionary eye; she sees everything. It feels like forever, this tea arrangement, and he’s eaten all his toast; only crusts are left.
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"I can only tell you things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows." – Oom Schalk Lourens
We arrived at an estate in the bush after driving for hours. It was a private event. We were to serve food (a potjie that had been cooking for hours) and drinks to around thirty guests—cool, no problemo. Except…
We brought the crabs home and loaded some into the garden pond but there were so many that others were offered a bucket-style motel for the evening.
But the best was my uncle’s bakkie – white with a three-tiered rail attached to the back rim, no canopy. The purpose of the rail was to stop stuff from falling out. Way more fun, though, than the safety of the bakkie’s bakkie, was the top of the rim.
Fat Baobabs cast shade in dusty daytimes, giving way to drawling Acacia silhouettes and bright orange sunsets. Before the evenings succumbed to bright starry skies that expanded for eons, we went foraging.
We sit down on some concrete steps to turn my face into the South African flag.
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I was 13. It was the Rugby World Cup—the opening game at Ellis Park, in Johannesburg. South Africa vs Australia. Let me paint a picture…
She swishes over to Party Pink, hips swaying to the rhythm of her luminous pink hula skirt, “Hey girl, you wanna go to the parrrdeee?”
There was only one proviso with Inecto—never ever spill it. Like, ever. On your face, on your clothing and especially not on your boyfriend’s parents’ cream lounge carpet.
Mike’s Kitchen—a necessary rite of passage into the utopia of growing up, where you could stay up late, eat sweets all the time, watch too much TV, live at your friend’s house and never do any times tables.