Like many present and former farmworkers of days gone by, my late grandfather, Oupa John Masilela, used to dish out instructions in the Afrikaans language.
And his more educated son, my dad and headmaster Reuben Masilela, took it to another level, when he perfected his command of the “taal”, to the extent that he often addressed the Kleinfontein Farm School morning assemblies in Afrikaans.
Pushing his spectacles to the bridge of his nose and swishing the cane, my dad was in the habit of scaring latecomers with the feared expression: “Broekskeur! Broekskeur!”
As for Grandfather John, he would take me along from the family smallholding in Klippan, on an ossewa (ox-wagon) ride to the Soutpan Trading Store, to barter bags of mielies for maize meal and other necessities, such as tobacco and illuminating paraffin.
All of grandfather’s oxen had Afrikaans names, such as the big black bull, Swartman. Serious!
Thoughts of my grandfather and dad came back to mind as I prepare to travel down memory lane to Klippan, and possibly for a walk through the pumpkin and tobacco fields, against the backdrop of Kleinfontein Farm School.
In Klippan my cousin Aaron and big brother Naughty have since passed on.
I just want to drive down there over the Yuletide, and walk around the farm, to check on things, such as grandfather’s age-old chopping block. That is, if the fine block of timber has survived South Africa’s present-day petty theft.
The last time I visited, cousin Aaron’s livestock kraals were still intact, as was the fowl-run, unfortunately without the presence of the crowing cock, the bleating goat and mooing bull.
There is a proverb in African languages which suggests that when those who own livestock die, they do so along with their fine herd.
Then there is the goat and cattle trails winding towards ol’ lady Mahlasela’s place.
At the old lady’s smallholding I have the pleasure of doing two things: place a bet on the Chinaman’s fah-fee game of numbers, and also guzzle whole pints of beer.
But then I also have to check on the Moches and the Nyamakazis and Letsoalos, who up to this day still till the land in subsistence kind of farming.
Since my boyhood, ol’ man river Sam “Krokodil” Letsoalo has been planting sweet potatoes, patches of wild spinach and tomatoes.
The late Khehla Nyamakazi, my uncle Lucas Masilela, and Letsoalo, used to run what was at the time known as “ibandla”, which when loosely translated means a tribal or community court.
In this court a boy who took too long to circle to Soutpan Trading Store for matches and candles, was made to lie face-down on an oil drum, and sjambokked (spanked).
Broekskeur! Broekskeur!
