My Children Have Faces

by Carol Campbell

  I remember her telling me, “Joseph (that’s my church name), you dig a hole and I will make you food that will make your stomach so happy,” she said. I dug a hole and she built up the fire and, when the coals were red hot, she scooped them in the ground with the spade and then rested the sheep’s head in them. I covered the hole and the next morning, when I dug up that head, it was pitch black. I put it on a flat rock to cool and then I chopped it open with my hammer. Inside, the soft brain was cooked like bone marrow and with a little salt we spread it, lekker hot, on roosterkoek. It was the nicest food a hungry man could imagine.

  Ag ja, my ou Mina. She died from the TB. In Mina’s time the grass grew thick on the sides of the track and the springs in our secret places always had a little bubble of water I could dig out to make a drinking place for the donkeys.

  Then it was, let me think now, Vaaltuin and Oortjies. Now those were good pullers and they could plough too. Ou Baas Steyn was so impressed when I ploughed his lucerne lands for him with my donkeys. “You did all that with those blerrie donkeys?” he said. Heh heh!

  “Die kant, Oo-oortjies. That’s good. Ja!”

  “Kom Vaaltuin, maak klaar. Nee, nee, vorentoe.”

  At the end of the day I rubbed their grey bodies with a rag and they groaned with pleasure. Heh heh! Ja, Vaaltuin and Oortjies were good donkeys.

  Where has the grass gone? When we stop at Heuningvlei now the spring is dry. It was never dry when Mina was alive but the water is gone and I can’t dig to it anymore.

  It’s these changes every year. A little less water in the springs my father and grandfather showed me when I was a child. “Boesman secrets,” my passed-away father said. He showed me where the bees hid their honey and how to make honey beer with just a few scoops of bran. Those beehives have gone too.

  It’s because the Karoo is changing that we have to go back to Leeu Gamka. No matter what Muis says, we have to. Pantoffel and Rinnik are just ribs with no strength to pull the karretjie. All we eat now is what the boy finds and it is not enough. We are all slowly starving, Mamma, Pappie, children, dog and donkeys. All of us, always so hungry.

  All day the boy is out in front running with his dog. When he comes back to the karretjie with a bokkie or a rabbit his black eyes look in mine in a way that makes my heart go soft. His face is open, even with the scar on his cheek from that time he fell off the roof of Ou Piet’s pigsty.

  “Pappie, can we eat it?” he asks me.

  I tell him he mustn’t ever bring a tortoise. A tortoise cries only one tear and that is when it dies. I don’t want to be the one who makes that one tear even if we are hungry.

  When he can, he catches something, but most often it’s a road kill that he finds. “Hayi!” I said to him the other day. “It’s just as well these blerrie Boere drive like maniacs otherwise we wouldn’t eat.” That was the day we scraped a duiker off the Prince Albert Road. That’s one road that always gives us something to eat when our stomachs really talk.

  For the first time I am thinking I am going to have to sell the donkeys and the karretjie and find fixed farm work. I can work with sheep. I can make fences. I will find a job where there is somewhere to live and then we can eat afval and sheep’s head every day.

  But now this woman wants to go to blerrie Oudtshoorn. Instead of being invisible, like she wanted all these years, now she wants birth certificates and an ID book.

  After all this time I don’t think Miskiet will still carry hate in his heart. I know I wouldn’t. Mind you, she does have this way of making a man very angry and every now and then one has to give her a klap to stop her mouth. She is sure he will kill her and take our children. Going to Oudtshoorn will be protection from him. Ja, maybe she is right, but it won’t protect us from our hunger.

  7 FANSIE

  Rinkhals finds it. But I get it out. An aardvark hiding deep in its hole. It is a baby and we are going to eat it. I grab it by the leg and pull. Rinkhals is barking and barking and I think the thing is going to hurt me with its nails. Unlucky for him his hiding hole is shallow and I get him out easy. I know what an aardvark means and I am scared I will lose it because my hands are wet and slippery from sweating. When I have it out the gat I flip it on its back and it goes mad hitting at Rinkhals with its claws. Rinkhals tries to bite it but the aardvark is too fast even with me hanging on its tail.

  Lucky for us Pappie hears the shouting and barking and comes running. When he sees what we have he shouts: “Hold tight, hold tight.” He stands on its head with his thick boot shouting all the time: “Don’t let go, Fansie, don’t let go my son.”

  I am so excited and my heart is beating fast. I am so happy he says I am his son, even though it’s not true. Mamma told me my blood father died protecting her and then Pappie saved her life by taking her away. Both ways I am lucky.

  I hang on to the aardvark, feeling the tail twisting and turning in my wet hands. Pappie kills it with his panga, chop-chop, one slice across its throat and I can let go.

  When it is all over I can feel my heart gallop like a donkey being whipped. I hold my hand on my chest until I can breathe and Rinkhals stops barking.

  What this means is that tonight we are going to eat lekker! Mamma says she is going to braai it on the coals.

  “Fansie, there is a lot of good meat on an aardvark,” Pappie says. Jissie, I am so hungry I want to braai a piece now but Pappie has taken the thing and made Witpop sit by the fire with a razor cleaning the hairs off its body. Pappie says he thinks he can make Sponsie nice shoes from the skin. Aardvark skin is strong, but this one is a baby, so it’s still soft enough for her little feet.

  Mamma is cooking the heart and liver for us to eat now. Lekker. When Witpop is done Pappie will soak the rest of the meat she cut up in a bucket with vinegar. After it has finished soaking, when we have settled down in Leeu Gamka, we’ll rub the leftover meat with curry powder and Karoobossies to keep the brommers off and hang it on the fence to dry. I am so happy that aardvark showed itself to Rinkhals so we can eat.

  When I am alone I talk to the animals in the veld and ask them to show themselves to me. I don’t tell them I want to eat them but I think they know that anyway because they always run when they see me. Early in the morning, when the sun is looking up over the veld, is the time the animals show themselves. Not the snakes and likkewans. They like the sun in the late afternoon. Nobody in my family likes the snakes and likkewans but I don’t mind them. They always get out of my way if I shout at them.

  “Go snake, go. Voetsak!” If I meet a cobra by surprise he always stands up and looks cross. Then I stand still as a tree or a rock. His black tongue goes in and out and his black eyes watch to see if I move. If I can stay still then he just goes down and slides into a bush as fast as he can. Puff adders I don’t like. They are so fat and lazy and they don’t like waking up for anybody. If you stand on them then you are finished. I just go around them. Puff adders are windgat.

  The snake that makes me most afraid is the rinkhals with its black shiny body and white collar. If that snake bites you, you will be dead. Straight away. When I got my dog Rinkhals he was black with a white stripe on his neck and I knew his name was going to be Rinkhals. He is clever and he always helps me catch food. Once he even took a lamb. Pappie was very cross when I brought it back, but he still ate it.

  “It’s dead now, what must I do?” he said. “But pasop. If the Boere catch him killing their sheep they are going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  After Pappie said that I was a bit scared but, if I know the Boere aren’t in the veld and I am alone, I let Rinkhals catch a lamb. Then we make a fire and we eat it alone, just the two of us.

  Last week I saw kudus that had come down from the mountains. That was when I wished I had a big shotgun like the Boere because I aimed and fired five times with my kettie before they galloped away. There was a bull, with long horns, watching me from the top of the koppie, and five cows. The meat on that bull would have fed us for weeks and weeks. Pappie coul
d have made biltong and we wouldn’t have had to come to Leeu Gamka and Mamma wouldn’t be so quiet.

  We are here now. She kept us away from this place and, in the end, it turns out to be a nothing place with just a few houses, much smaller than Prince Albert. Of course there is a big church with a high steeple and a bell. It’s Sunday today and when we come in from the veld we hear the bell ringing. Pappie says it’s calling the Boere to come pray.

  I don’t know why Mamma hates this place so much. It is okay here with the Ultra City and the big trucks. I never saw so many big trucks before, so I tied a string around Rinkhals’ neck to keep him safe. Pappie says they come from all over the world and they are taking loads of food to people in Cape Town. Maybe one day I will ride in one of those trucks and also go to get some of that food in Cape Town.

  We came in on the dirt track through the lokasie to the uitspan. It was early when we arrived and people were sleeping but the dogs still barked and chased us. Mamma said she wanted to get through the lokasie and set up camp before the skinderbekkies were on the street. There was one man watching us. He looked in my eyes, like he knew me, and I didn’t smaak the feeling he gave me. I didn’t say anything to Mamma. She’s not talking anyway, so what’s the use.

  8 WITPOP

  Sponsie was born in Rietbron under the donkey karretjie. We didn’t know she was going to come on the night she chose, so I was sleeping at Didi’s place and watching 7de Laan. I love TV. My Aunty Diksop says when I watch my mouth hangs open and they could hit me over the head with a spade and I wouldn’t notice. On the night Sponsie came I didn’t tell Mamma I wasn’t coming home; I just curled up on the floor by the TV and fell asleep. It was too dark to go back to the uitspan anyway, so I stayed, even when Didi’s brother, Kobus, kicked me and told me I was a stinking karretjiemeid.

  When Pappie came the next morning to tell everyone Sponsie was born I was so sad I wasn’t there because I really wanted to see how a baby is born. Tears just jumped out of my eyes and everybody laughed at me.

  “Ja, you don’t want to go back to your donkeys, stinking karretjiemeid, then that’s what happens,” Kobus said. Aunty and Oom were talking to Pappie so they couldn’t hear him. I walked to the tap and drank water so I could get away from him. I didn’t chirp him but I thought, ja, you come with us Kobus, come with this karretjiemeid into the veld and see how useless you really are.

  The next day my bleeding started and Mamma said it was the shock from hearing my sister had come and me missing the birth. Now I want soft pads wrapped in pink plastic. This business of making balls out of Die Son and sticking them in your broek is not lekker. The whole day all a person can think about is what’s in her broek because it’s so uncomfortable. No really, I want a pink roll-on, a lappie and soft pads. I think you can buy this stuff in Leeu Gamka. There are shops, although there is no Pep like in Prince Albert. I like Pep; you can buy everything at Pep, even hair extensions. Once Mamma bought elastic bands and made my hair into little balletjies called popcorn. It was sore but at least I didn’t have grass growing out my head for a few weeks. I know I am a stinking karretjiemeid. But even a stinking karretjiemeid can like shops, can’t she? I like the smell of soap and roll-on. I also like pads. When we are in Prince Albert I smell the stuff in Pep. I don’t care that the Boere complain about me. There’s a nice aunty working in the Pep in Prince Albert. She lets me smell first and then she chases me outside.

  Fansie caught an aardvark yesterday so we are all feeling strong today after eating last night. If he hadn’t caught that thing I am not sure we would have made it into Leeu Gamka. But still the donkeys look as though they are about to vrek from hunger. Can we eat the donkeys? No really, I do think about eating them. There have been days when I have had dreams about braaing Pantoffel and Rinnik. S’true. Ja, but Pappie would die before he let us eat his donkeys.

  Mamma says I must shuddup about pads and pink roll-on because we don’t have money for flour and yeast so she can’t worry about me nagging for stupid stuff. I know that. I know we are starving but a stinking karretjiemeid can dream. Dreams are free.

  We came through Leeu Gamka this morning when people were sleeping. I saw one oom fast asleep in his yard holding his papsak in his arms. I think he was dreaming about a woman because he was doing the sex move with his hips. Ag wat! Like I said, dreams are free. Fansie and me laughed and laughed and then Fansie shouted “Dronkie! Dronkie! Dronkie!” to wake him up but Pappie told him “Shuddup!”

  That’s the one thing I don’t like when we come to town. Papsak. First thing Mamma and Pappie want is a wyntjie. No matter how hungry we are Mamma sends Pappie around looking to get her a dop. I hope they don’t give away the rest of Fansie’s aardvark for a papsak. That’s why I didn’t go home that night Sponsie was born. They had a papsak and they were going to be happy or they would be fighting. Also there was nice stuff to watch on TV. When they fight Pappie klaps Mamma in the face and tells her, “Your bek moves too much. Shuddup.” Once Mamma ran after Pappie with the spade and klapped his kapok leg. Eina! Many times. When Pappie can’t move his leg then Mamma runs around for him, bringing him coffee and chopping wood while he sits and watches. She feels bad, s’true, I can see that.

  We are in Leeu Gamka now with the fire burning and some of our aardvark on the coals. Pappie has gone to look for a doppie for them. When he comes back the party is going to start, that’s for sure. Maybe tonight it will be a good thing. Maybe a doppie will make Mamma talk a bit and feel happy again.

  9 MUIS

  There was a stone pressing into my cheek when he held me on the ground. If I touch my cheek I can feel the spot, even after all this time. It didn’t bleed but it must have hurt the bone on my face so that I can still feel the pain easily. That time of year in Leeu Gamka, when he held me down, the heat makes waves, like water, in the air. If you look over the veld you see water moving even when there is nothing there. It was late afternoon when it happened.

  I walk from the red brick house on the hill to the highway. The new blue plakkies Jan bought for me when he got his pay are hurting my toes but I can’t stop looking at them. They are the first shoes that are all mine, from new.

  “They’ll take the shape of your foot in a day or two then they won’t hurt,” Jan said.

  The hot ground doesn’t burn me now when I walk and I don’t have to stop all the time to pick duwweltjies out my feet.

  “One of these days I will buy you real sandals with straps,” Jan said to me. “The plakkies are just for now, so you can come meet me when I finish work.”

  When I came from Fraserburg, three months before with my brother Danie, on our father’s donkey karretjie, I came with nothing on my feet. All I had was my spare doek, my mother’s white comb and a half a jar of Vaseline. Danie dropped me at the side of the highway in Leeu Gamka and pointed to the houses where I should look for a job. We had left Gansvlei, the farm where we were born, when Meneer Van der Westhuizen told my father his adult children couldn’t stay anymore.

  “There are too many of you here now,” Meneer Van der Westhuizen said. “The big ones must go to town and find jobs.”

  The big ones. That was Danie and me. My mother cried and my father gave us his karretjie and told Danie to bring it back when he found work and had money for his own wheels. Nobody told Danie to look after me, even though I was a silly girl. So now I was alone in Leeu Gamka looking for a job.

  Danie said he was heading to Beaufort West, but that was too far from my mother for me.

  “Leave me in Leeu Gamka, I’ll let Mamma know where I am and that I am not too far,” I told him.

  I thought Danie would stay to help me but he didn’t. He just dropped me off on the highway and then sloered on with my father’s karretjie. For a long time I watched his round back on the karretjie. He never looked back, he never waved good-bye. In the end, when I couldn’t see him anymore, I walked into the lokasie and asked the first person I saw the way to the church. It was a plain, white little building with th
ree steps in front. I sat on the steps until Sister Nina saw me. It was a Pinkster Protestant Church, and I knew they were kwaai. She was glad for a new soul, she said.

  That first night Sister Nina gave me a place to sleep and food. “Leeu Gamka is no place for a dom plaasmeid,” she said. “You had better stay here in my safe arms until we can find you a place of your own.”

  I was so grateful that I did all her washing and turned her house out every day for three weeks until Jan noticed me. He gave me my first job. For a R5 and a plate of food I had to clean the house he shared with his brother, Miskiet, and do their washing every day. Also I could sleep on the kitchen floor, which was off the street. Jan was a kind man with a good job as a petrol-jokkie at the Ultra City. Every day he bought me little treats. It was with Jan, under the pepper tree in their yard, that I drank Coke for the first time.

  “You mean to tell me they don’t have Coke in Fraserburg?”

  “We were on a farm, far from town,” I laughed.

  “Was there no Coke in the farm shop?”

  I thought about it for a while. There were bright red bottles of Groovy but no Coke.

  Miskiet, Jan’s brother, hung around in the yard, listening to us talk but he never spoke to me. I was afraid of his silence but I made his bed and washed his clothes. All the time he watched me. When he smiled, it was to himself, but I kept my head down and worked hard. The best part of the day was when Jan arrived home from his shift at the petrol station.

  “Hullo Muisie, come see what I have for you,” he would call and I would come running like a child for the treat he brought me. Sometimes it was half a packet of chips, or wine gums or a blikkie Fanta.

  And then I started walking to the Ultra City to wait for Jan to finish work. We would walk hand-in-hand, laughing and sharing what he had bought with his tips.