Book Excerpts | Sunday Times Books LIVE - Part 2
Read an extract from Francois Smith's The Camp Whore, shortlisted for the Barry Ronge Fiction Prize
by Jennifer on 20 Jun 2018 Tweet
Rock. Above me and around me. I am in a cave, I know that now. On the rockface eland are leaping over me, and between them are little black men with knobkerries in their hands. I also know what that is.
On Bosrand there was a cave with Bushman paintings. Yes, Bosrand. Now things are coming back to me. Pa had shown us. Pa. Ma. Neels. Me.
There was also a face in front of me. I remember now. And the shock. He sat on his haunches next to me, and I saw the grains of sand on his pants and on his hand. Then I saw that the hand was black. I closed my eyes. Shut them. Later on, I again tried to work out where I was but all I could see were these mud clouds and the only thing that existed was this terrible fear.
It’s also him talking now, that face.
It’s like rocks tumbling down a mountain from up high. It is a sound that I know. I understand what he is saying. Kgotso, Mofumahat-sana, he says. That is how they greet one. The good ones, that is their greeting. But he just wants me to believe that he is one of the good ones, what he really wants is a white woman to do with as he pleases.
I can see him clearly now. He sits with his knees pulled up and holds a knobkerrie between his legs. His head is turned away, but I know he is watching from the corner of his eye. Metsi. That is what I need to say. Water. I want water. He must give me water, that is all I want, and then I can die. He must just kill me quickly so that I cannot see or feel what he is doing.
He puts the knobkerrie down and stands up. I’m scared half to death. But all he does is dip his hand into a calabash next to me – I’ve only just noticed it – and brings his hand to my mouth. Cupped.
I stick out my tongue and can at least taste the water. He lets it drip. I try to swallow, but my tongue won’t move. Luckily, more comes, and then more. The water is bitter, tasting of leaves, something like aloe or sage. My whole face is wet, and so are my chin and throat.
There is something wrapped around my head, I can feel that now. Why am I lying here under a blanket? Am I naked? What has the herdsman done to me? What is he going to do to me?
O mang? That is what I should say. Who are you? But the words refuse to come out. I can’t speak. Like Ma, when she tried to pray but couldn’t find the words and stretched her hands out towards me. Lord, watch over us, and let your light shine upon us.
My lips crack when I try to open my mouth. Only prayer will prevent darkness from descending on the land. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, sayeth the Lord. There is a priest sticking his hands up in the air, straight as an arrow up at the clouds and he looks down at me, and I look away from his terrible face, away from his eyes glaring at me like a glowing furnace, seeing only evil and wretchedness. Where is that herdsman who is always sitting here, next to me, where is he? His name is Tiisetso. He doesn’t call me nooi. But then he looks away and says ke sôno. It’s a great pity, he says. He says I must sleep again so that I can become strong again. He says I was hurt badly at Balla Bosiu. With his knobkerrie he pounds the ground between his feet.
Balla Bosiu. The camp. The place where they weep at night, that is what they call it. That I do remember. The camp. That is where I have come from. I know that now. But if I close my eyes and think, then all that comes to mind is the feel of a sheep’s hoof in my hand, how hard the bone is under the skin, and the prickly wool, and the kick that jerks my arm right up my shoulder. Then I see someone pull back the head and swiftly draw a blade across the throat and cut, cut, cut as the blood bubbles and the windpipe bursts, and I cannot look away even though I want to and the man who is slaughtering looks at me, his nose is thin and skew and his lips are dry and the same colour as his skin, not red, and he says something to me, but I cannot hear what he is saying.
Instead, I keep my eyes open. But how did I get here? This man must tell me. What is he going to do with me? If only I could ask. What is he going to do with me?
Irma Venter's Sondag has been translated into English as Blue Sunday
by NB Publishers on 08 Jun 2018 Tweet
"Djulle moet wys raak dat hulle force allie tyd hulle valse Afrikaans byrie skool." Lees ’n uittreksel van Jeremy Vearey se Jeremy vannie Elsies
by NB Publishers on 05 Jun 2018 Tweet
Hier volg ‘n uittreksel van Jeremy se merkwaardige verhaal:
In Junie 1976 het ek begin kwaad word vir die wêreld, maar dit het min met die politieke onstuimigheid van daardie maand te doen gehad. Was dit die ontnugterende sameloop van te veel grond wat te vinnig onder my dertienjarige voete geskuif het? Daar was die skielike trek na ouma Galant se nuwe, eiesoortige huis in ’n eenvormige Uitsig waar die betekenis van die pleknaam niks met ’n vallei van hemel en aarde in gemeen gehad het nie. Miskien was die skielike aanslag van geraas en straatlewe op die Kaapse Vlakte net te veel. Om my onsekerheid te hanteer het ek begin optree op die enigste manier wat die straat my geleer het. Ek het begin baklei.
Ek was terug in Elsies, nog net so onvoorspelbaar soos altyd en slaggereed om enige vyand op die strate van Bishop Lavis, Elsiesrivier, Tiervlei en Uitsig te trotseer. My tweede vyand was die steilhaarleier van ’n bende Holy Trinity Laerskool-leerlinge wie byna elke middag wanneer ek en Merle van skool af huis toe loop, my op die Bishop Lavis-Elsiesrivier-brug in Haltweg geteister het. Ek kon seker die sypaadjie aan die teenoorgestelde kant van die pad gebruik maar het ek verkies om direk deur die klomp Holy Trinityleerlinge te stap. Hierdie uitdaging het gewoonlik gepaardgegaan met vuishoue en skoppe van alle kante terwyl ek vergeefs terugveg en vloekend wegloop onder hulle gespot en gelag.
Dis nou tot ek eendag met ’n passer en vulpen my weg deur hulle gesteek het. Die volgende dag het van hulle ouers by die skoolhoof meneer Majoos gekla maar hierdie keer was daar ’n les saam met die gewone ses-van-die-bestes. Die trant van sy les was oor hoe die braafste ding wat ’n man kan doen, is om ’n geveg te vermy tot hy ’n ander manier vind om die konflik sonder geweld op te los.
Maar toe kom 16 Junie 1976, en ek leer eerstehands hoe onvanpas daardie les is as jou teenstander nie ook daarin glo nie.
Dit was my oudste neef Louis wie my aan die politiek van 16 Junie voorgestel het. Louis het nooit gewerk nie maar elke dag sy suiwer daggaslowboat gerook. Hy was ’n beginselvaste man wie gereeld ons jonger newe vermaan het om nooit eendag bottelkop of witpyp soos skollies te rook nie want hulle bemors die dagga deur dit met sigarette en buttons te meng.
Eendag in Junie 1976 toe Elsiesrivier en Tiervlei se strate woes aan die brand is onder verlate busse en afleweringstrokke met gebreekte vensters, terwyl polisie se Land Rovers en Ford-vangwaens tevergeefs die onskuldiges probeer vastrek, kom Louis met sakke vol brood by oupa Vearey se djaart in Tiervlei aan. Nadat hy dit aan al die anties en die bure uitgedeel het, kom staan hy om die ghellieblik by ons en rook sy Rizla Blackie-daggaslowboat.
Ná ’n lang, diep trek deur dungeperste lippe hou hy dit eers binne vir omtrent ’n minuut. Toe eers blaas hy dit beheers en egalig uit en verklaar in ’n piepstem, terwyl die daggawolke saam met die woorde uit sy mond seil: “Ôs hette Duens-broodlorrie by Tiekie-stage vedala. Djulle moet gesienit hoe al die voovensters tot daa by die driver se knieë sametime stukkend spat. Vêrre gryp die driver saam met ôs die brood en ôs brand saam die lorrie in sy moer.”
“Vi hoekom?” vra Ricky.
Louis trek nog ’n diep skyf van sy slowboat en antwoord: “Sien djy, djulle sal eendag wys raak dat daai Duens-lorrie behoot aanie Boere ennit gaan oo hulle wat ôs wil force om hulle Afrikaans te praat.”
“Ma ôs praat dan oek Afrikaans! Dêrrie en Ma oek allie pad,” stry ek.
“Issie dieselfde Afrikaans vannie Boere nie. Ôs Afrikaans is original. Djulle moet wys raak dat hulle force allie tyd hulle valse Afrikaans byrie skool,” verduidelik Louis.
Ma het ook ’n soortgelyke trant gevolg in haar pogings om Junie 1976 te verduidelik, met dié verskil dat sy gemeen het Afrikaans is deur die Boere van ons gesteel en in ’n vreemde apartheidstaal verander om ons te forseer om die wêreld deur hulle woorde te verstaan en aanvaar. Sy het ons manier van Afrikaans en Engels praat as ’n vorm van rebellie teen hierdie apartheidsafrikaans beskou. Dis met dié dat ek en ’n groep standerdvyfleerlinge eendag in Julie 1976 geweier het om ná tweede pouse na ons klasse terug te keer.
Nie eens die skoolhoof se pleidooie, bangmaakstories van die mees gevreesde onderwysers oor lyfstraf of dreigemente van polisieoptrede kon ons daai dag stuit nie en die skool het stert tussen die bene verdaag.
Maar die volgende dag, toe bring die skoolhoof hulle geheime wapen. Niemand anders nie as ons ou sub B-onderwyseres miss Biscombe nie. Nog voor die oggendklok kon lui, het sy ons op die skoolterrein toegespreek en verduidelik dat sy dit eens met ons is oor apartheidsopvoeding maar dat dit in die lang termyn oor meer as net die gebeure in Soweto gaan. Ons klasboikot was onvolhoubaar en sou niks in die langtermynvryheidsstryd bereik nie. En só is Junie 1976 se politieke rebellie van die standerdvyfklas by Greenlands Primêr summier gestuit. Miskien is dit ironies dat dit wel meneer Majoos se les was – om ’n geveg te vermy tot ’n vreedsame oplossing gevind kan word – wat ons hier op ’n slinkse wyse gepootjie het.
Read an excerpt from Lesego Rampolokeng's Bird-Monk Seding, shortlisted for the Barry Ronge Fiction Prize
by Jennifer on 04 Jun 2018 Tweet
Fiction Friday: read an excerpt from Sue Nyathi's The Golddiggers
by Laura on 01 Jun 2018 Tweet
"Barbetje had helped me with the first two births - the unsuccessful births. Motherhood had never been my desire." Read an excerpt from Maxine Case's Barry Ronge Prize shortlisted novel, Softness of the Lime
by Jennifer on 31 May 2018 Tweet