Tjieng Tjang Tjerries and Other Stories

by Jolyn Phillips

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  First published by Modjaji Books 2016

  PO Box 121, Rondebosch, 7701, Cape Town, South Africa

  www.modjajibooks.co.za

  info@modjajibooks.co.za

  © Jolyn Phillips 2016

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording, or any other information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Editor: Karen Jennings

  Cover artwork: Carla Kreuser

  Author photograph courtesy of the Mandela Rhodes Foundation

  Production: Fire and Lion

  ISBN (print edition): 978-1-928215-17-2

  ISBN (reflowable ebook): 978-1-928215-18-9

  For my brother, Wapie, whose death shook me to life

  and for Mamma en Derra, the pulse of this book.

  Contents

  The Photograph

  Fraans

  Secrets

  The Fire

  The Pair of Glasses

  The Funeral Singer

  Hanna

  Lelik

  Senna’s Cricket Song

  The Fisherman

  The Big Box

  The Legend of Tjieng Tjang Tjerries

  Porlock and Abacus

  Acknowledgements

  The Photograph

  ‘I am. I am. I am.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Issie Liesie, my toe didn’t even touch the line.’

  ‘Is Jonie. You’re out!’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Ha a nee, you’re out. It is my turn!’

  Marelize and I were arguing about whose turn it was to play hokkie when Antie Pyma Hinkepink came through the yard. I was watching her hobble past us towards Antie Molla’s house and in my head I sang to the rhythm of her walking:

  Antie Hinkepink

  One two three

  Washing everybody’s dirty laundry

  Five six seven

  The dog runs loose

  Seven eight nine

  Her man is goosed

  And her poor children cries ‘There’s no more food”.

  Antie Molla was in the kitchen, I could see she was watching us playing through the window. Why is she looking at us like that? I thought. First she was looking at Antie Pyma, then at me, and then with her hands over her mouth. Then at me again. Antie Molla knocked on the kitchen window with her eyebrows pulled skew. Any child knows that means: ‘Get inside, or else…’

  I was too busy looking at all the women from Dahlia Street, Skool Street and Roos Street running towards my street, and I wanted to run with, to see what was going on. I was just about to skedaddle when Antie Molla grabbed me by my collar.

  ‘In met djou,’ she said, ‘daai is grootmens goed, you and Marelize must grate polony for the kosbakke.’

  I smiled because I knew she only cared, even though some­times she came across as strict. Sometimes I would ask Liewe Jesus if I could trade my Ma for Liesie’s Ma. I wished I had such a nice Ma like hers. Ma Emmie said she is a weglê eier from a white man. She has pitch-black hair like Sneeuwitjie’s and she wears her hair in a long vlegsel that hanged like a horse’s tail behind her back, and she is not brown like us, she was amper white like a real boer.

  I liked An Molla’s house. It was always full of laughter and they liked singing for Jesus and on Fridays, I would go to youth practice, and wear skirts and doekies that you tie like a bolla behind your head. Best of all is, they always had milk and Coke in the fridge, not like in our house where we drank powder milk in our cereal because Ma said milk was for madams and queens and we weren’t either. Sometimes An Molla even asked me to comb her hair when she came from work at the fish factory. I combed it carefully and handled it like something precious. Her hair always smelt like Colgate Apple shampoo. Afterwards, when I got home in the evening, I untangled my hair and combed it out and imagined I had hair like hers, but mine was brittle and kroes and had never grown past my ears.

  My head was full of thoughts and the polony I was grating with Liesie just rested there. How was I supposed to help Liesie grate polony when Antie Molla looked at me the way she does when something bad happens in her favourite soapies? Through the window I saw her cross the street to join Antie Pyma and the others outside our house.

  ‘Your mother is looking for you,’ said Antie Molla, entering through the kitchen door.

  ‘Ma, my Ma knows I’m sleeping over,’ I said, dikbek.

  ‘Man, moetie tee praatie,’ she said, her voice a bit louder this time.

  I nodded my head while I looked at my dirty feet, ash gray from all the games we played today. I was a bit sad that I couldn’t sleep over, but I would never answer back to big people.

  ‘Naand Oom Friekie,’ I said in a low voice. ‘Naand almal,’ I greeted everyone in the sitting room watching Bold and the Beautiful.

  When I got home our whole yard was full of people. Even people from HOP Land were there. It is probably that stupid brother of mine, I thought to myself. I wish he would just disappear, but Ma mos always take his side. I felt that she forgot that I’m also her child. As I walked through our yard, everybody was whispering behind their breaths. Aggies, I thought. They like gossiping about us, because Ma and Derra are always fighting, because he is always drunk. I stood in the door and watched my Ma sob really loud while Antie Zin and Antie Kêtie comforted her. Ma was looking at the ceiling mumbling, ‘It’s not him, it can’t be him.’ I was so confused because everyone gave me that I’m-sorry look, but no one said a thing. They just watched my Ma cry.

  I did not go to school the next day. Ma was up early, cleaning and turning out the house. The house became quiet, that made me feel restless so I got up. Our house is made from siersteen bricks, a fabriek huis, an ‘opskuld huis’ Ma would remind Derra. I could see the living room from my room. Derra was sitting next to the CD player, listening to Kfm, with his head almost resting on his lap. Ma returned from An Griet, the Funeral Antie. The moment Ma came home, she just looked at Derra, but their eyes were screaming, ‘It is your fault!’

  Later on I decided to go to Derra because I felt bad for hating my brother for dying. ‘Derra?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes Jonie?’ he said.

  ‘Is Derra and Ma angry at me?’

  ‘No kint, this is not about you.’

  He did not look at me once, like me being there made it worse. I knew he was lying to me. I left him there and went back to my room that Ma had cleaned by now, sweeping and dusting like her life depended on it. I lay on my pillow with my head at the foot side like Ma when she thinks about everything, hugging my teddy so tight almost like that would make it hug me back, but I became restless and so I walked passed Derra very quietly and pushed my bike out the tool hokkie.

  As soon as I got on the bike I pedalled so hard it felt like I was riding on the wind up Ridderspoor Street, Lelie Street and past Beverly Hills Plakkerskamp. The closer I got to the shore the more I could smell the fynbos, making my nose tickle a bit, and the smell of the sea, so familiar. It lingers in your lungs like the early morning mist resting on our roofs. The sea was my only sure thing. My backpack started to wriggle. I knew who it was. I was in such a rush, I took the bag my dog Suzie likes to sleep in. My back was wet and so was Suzie’s tail, shivering like jelly. I walked towards the shore to wash m
y shirt. The sea seemed angry that morning, the waves did not tumble forward and calmly rest on my feet like other days. She pushed forward a lot of bamboes, always a bad sign. I soaked my shirt in the water. I looked down at my body.

  I am the only one that doesn’t have tieties in my class. My older cousin told me that if I put chicken stront on it, it would grow faster. I put my shirt carefully on a rock and Suzie and I baked in the sun. I smiled because it felt like the sun was hugging me, and Suzie licked me on the nose. She knows when I’m sad. She loves me the most, just like that moment, quiet and calm.

  When I got home I gently rested my bike against the wall. My aunt, Antie Ragel, was waiting for me. She grabbed me by the ear. ‘Liepe Heiland! Waar was jy? Jou ma het genoeg om haar oor te bekommerg, gat in da so!’ My aunt scowled.

  I ignored my aunt while I took Suzie from my backpack. I wanted to see Ma, I was sad and Ma always knew how to make me happy. I was scared and it felt like our house was swallowing me. I walked in on her unpacking my brother’s closet, then packing the clothes back again. I didn’t know what to say. I just leaned my head against her shoulder, but she pushed me away. She looked at me very angry, her eyes and her glasses misty.

  ‘Go play outside,’ she said.

  I stood there frozen, giving her a dead stare.

  ‘Get out!’

  That was ten years ago and I still feel like that little girl when I come home to visit Ma from college. Nowadays Ma looks old. Her face is small and tired. I do not recognize her anymore. Everything about her irritates me. She snaps at everything I do and sometimes she just comes to my room and looks at me. I hate being here with her and our life. The house no longer smells like Jik and washing powder. The walls have turned yellow from all the cigarette smoke and the white ceilings are filled with specks of mould. It reminds me of stale bread. As a child, Ma would always tell me that stale bread gives you a nice voice. I see the cups are half washed and the cupboards are almost empty, just a bottle of fish oil, flour, a packet of yeast and pot of salt. The fridge is switched off and stands in the kitchen like an ornament. I am standing at the door observing our street, it is still as busy, with neighbours doing washing and gossiping.

  ‘Oumatjie! Jony! Jony Felicity Gibson! Antwoord tog?’

  It is Ma who is calling me. I walk towards my room.

  ‘Ja Ma. What is it?’

  ‘Don’t come and what me. I am still your mother.’

  She is scratching through my things. Sometimes it seems like she looks through my things hoping to find me there. She completely ignores me watching her go through my things. In my mother’s house, there is no such thing as private.

  ‘Look what I found!’ she says excitedly.

  She gives it to me. It’s a picture of my brother and me.

  ‘He was daarem a beautiful child,’ she says smiling.

  ‘Ja.’ I say, ‘Ma se oogappel’ in a resentful way.

  She turns with her hands making fists in her hips, ‘Haai! No child, I have never treated you children like vis en vleis.’

  I look at Ma sitting with her legs crossed on the tapyt floor laughing at the picture. I can’t help but join her.

  ‘Look Oumatjie,’ she says, ‘it’s you! Always a koddige kint.’ She sighs. ‘You know, when you were born you were so small you could fit into a shoebox. Pa said that it was a blessing, such children become clever children. Ai, that man was never wrong. Ma Emmie was very concerned. She was too scared to hold you. “Oe gotta kintjie, gat die dingetjie lewe,” Ma Emmie peeped. ‘You were two years old,’ she goes on with a smile on her face, the same sort of smile that I imagine she would have had the day the photo was taken.

  ‘Look, Antie Giena, she looks drunk,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ Ma says, ‘she is the biggest holy clown in Aster Street now, and there is Old Jim too, I miss the old devil.’

  ‘Why did they call Old Jim a duiwel?’

  ‘Loved women,’ she says simply. ‘And here stands Pa, your oupa,’ she continues. ‘Pa loved you, spoiled you rotten, tot in die afgrond in. I remember this one time, you were just starting to crawl, and we were living by Koekie-them on the hill when you fell off the blerrie steps. Pa could only think of one person to blame…’

  ‘Wapie!’ we say together.

  ‘When I got home the poor child was in tears and on top of that Pa only bought sweets for you, so I had to run to Andries Kafee to get Wapie some with my last pay. You know he really did love you, your brother,’ she says. ‘He would abba you on his back. The day I brought you home he looked at you all the time with his little legs hanging from the bed kicking, and he’d kiss you on your little forehead.’ She goes on talking. ‘Ai,’ she says, ‘you mos remember Annie Têtjiebek, nê?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘that lady with the voice that sounds like a hooter.’

  ‘That one looked after you,’ she continues, ‘she only worked for me for a week. I was so thankful at the time. I couldn’t stay home anymore, you mos know your pa was drinking, as hy mos syp, dan syp hy sy werk onder sy gat uit. I nogal paid her R20, die blêddie fool,’ Ma says. ‘Then one day, I come from work and as soon as I put my bag down she starts scowling like a crazy hoenner. Annie says, “This damn kli’meidjie tells ME that I’m too drunk to look after HER, can you believe it? Dê,” she says, “take your fokken kint, I will get my money later. Bye!”’ Ma laughs as she tells me about Annie.

  ‘What did I say?’ I asked, laughing.

  ‘You loved counting teeth. You must have overheard me talk to Giena,’ she says.

  ‘Ma, uhm, do you still miss him?’ I ask.

  ‘Who?’ she asks, fixing her eyes on the photograph like she is trying to copy every detail in her mind

  ‘Wapie.’

  ‘Ja.’ She says, ‘I miss you,’ rubbing over my face and Wapie’s face on the photo.

  Fraans

  God became a ghost when I came to work on the boats in Gansbaai. Boet Haas got me a job as a cook on Marlene. Marlene was the most beautiful boat I had ever seen. She lay next to Blougans and Kolgans in the Ou Hawe.

  The sea is a strange thing. If I wade in the water, she feels light, like nothing. When we were on sea it was a different thing. When we cast our nets she became rammetjie uitnek. Marlene had to bore through the sea like a drill machine.

  She sank the other day and I knew Marlene was tired of her beatings. We were on standby a lot those days because of the strong wind. I think the sea sank us on purpose to show us wie’s Baas en wie’s Klaas. But I’m glad the sea took her. I would not have wanted to bury her anywhere else. I came walking down Gousblom Street, my heart just as heavy as my wet clothes. Sophia was leaning over the door; she looked at me as if I make her sick. I’d almost died and she only had bitter words to spare.

  ‘Now can you see, Fraans, God is talking with you? It’s because that skipper is Lucifer himself that the boat sink. You work, work, work, but we are still poor and we are still hungry. You are drinking our lives away, gemors. Wapie can’t eat bread and coffee, people will talk, hy is kla so min en dun.’

  My thoughts quieted down her scowls. Why, God, are you punishing me like this? Every job I find I lose. Everything I touch dies. Once I tasted that bitter sweet wine it controlled me, but my Sophia doesn’t understand, my brother Japie doesn’t understand and his children are too dead to understand. I killed them with Japie’s car. It is my fault. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I am tired. Well God, if you’re not listening, then I am glad to die with the devil in my heart. It would not make a difference anyways.

  ‘Dit help nie jy kyk in my bek nie, lafaard,’ Sophia said.

  ‘Man fok jou en jou God, Sophia! Fo–’

  She pushed me out and locked the door. I fell backwards, my head spinning for a while, a deep anger burning in my chest. Lying there, I felt like I could lift that house from its roots and kill her with my bare hands. But I was too tired so I got up silently and left her.

  Just like the day Pêreberg turned its back on me and
I walked that orange muddy road like a dog with its tail between its legs. Standing next to the road, hoping for a lift, the air was clean and potblou and not a single cloud in sight. It will be a cold night, I thought, holding onto my papsak. A bakkie stopped. ‘Klim op,’ the driver said. I smelled the air again. It smelled of the fish maize Kallie-them made at the factory. It was a familiar smell that clung to our lives. It was the smell we endure to put bread on the table.

  The bakkie stopped at Stanford’s Cross. I got off and the bakkie drove towards Hermanus. I turned right towards Pêreberg. My vroutjie Sophia is the moer in with me, I thought while I walked Paardenberg’s road. How could I tell this stubborn woman of mine that I loved her? She’d become so hard. The soft voice that I fell in love with in church choir had changed into a thunderstorm. I had never cheated on her. But then when she smiled it reminded me of our wedding. It had been a simple one. Auntie Loesie had lent her wedding dress and Ragel had made her a veil of one of her finest curtains and had needled some pink sewejaartjies onto it to make it nice. The Ingelse call the sewejaartjie flowers ‘everlastings’. She is a sewejaartjie. I remembered the church stoep. It looked so beautiful that year, the grapevines wrapped around the afdakkie and the krismis flowers were in full bloom. There were blue ones and pink ones. It was the one moment I kept at hand for that just-in-case-out-of-the-blue sadness.

  My head beat from the pain. Sophia stabbed me with a butter knife in my head.

  ‘This earth will cartwheel before you lift your hands for me, Janwap. Isn’t it enough that you fok op our lives with your wine? I am tired,’ Sophia sobbed. Her eyes were so empty that I couldn’t recognise my wife.

  I hit klein Wapie so hard his little body was probably black and blue. I was so angry at the bogsnuiter calling me Oom. I grabbed him by the arm and showed him my veins. ‘You see this arm? This is Rooi blood running through these veins, running through your veins.’

  ‘My pa is by Jesus,’ the boy told me.

  I grabbed him by the neck. ‘You better call me Pa now or you vrek today, boetaitjie!’