Old Takkies Indaba

1994

I sat curled over my notes and cried. Every night it was the same; my hand stiff from hurried scribbling, eyes strained from pouring over the scrawl, head buzzing with too little understanding. I slammed my Tweetalige Woordeboek shut and threw my pen across the room. I stared past the midnight garden to a flickering street light and squinted; fuzzy, sharp, fuzzy, sharp, “The country is changing but Stellenbosch won’t … Die Taal’s final outpost … What am I doing here?”

Focus.

Sliding out of my chair, I went in search of my pen and collapsed onto my bed. Four years loomed. I tried to swallow my resentment by taking a long, slow sip from a glass of half-full.

At least your textbooks are in English.
But the lectures are in Afrikaans.
And you can write your exams are in English.
But the lectures are in AFRIKAANS.
There are loads of English-speaking students …
This wasn’t MY CHOICE!

Silence.

I had to keep going. There was a plan. There were parents. I scratched for my pen under my bed, rubbed my eyes and skulked back to my desk, my future.

Vasbyt.

1997

I took the stairs outside the Van der Ster Gebou two-by-two. My skirt slapped my ankles, my heart pounded with excitement as I reached the double doors. Sauntering into the tiered lecture hall past a gaggle of first years, I found a seat midway and thumped my bag onto the hard wooden bench.

The rest of the class filed in. These are the people I’ll spend the next year with, my competition. I recognized a few but kept my distance. Anticipation heightening my senses, I didn’t want distractions.

Attention.

The Prof. swept into the room and cleared his throat, “Welkom by Sielkunde …” I pressed open my new exam pad, reached for my pen and started doodling. A few months earlier I’d posed for photographs, giggling in my white dress brilliant underneath my grad gown. Back for another year; I was more than ready, I was hungry.

“Will all the English-speaking students please raise your hands?”

I started, shifted against the rigid seat and slowly raised mine. Glancing around the room I counted four, no, five others.

“This is the only time I’m going to say this.” His steady gaze scorched each of us, “You have chosen to come to an Afrikaans university, and therefore your lectures will be in Afrikaans. There will be no discussion.”

Shock!

I couldn’t speak even if I’d wanted to. Dismissed, I stomped out of the room, biting back the building rage, head buzzing with too much understanding.

That was unnecessary!
It’s okay, your textbooks are in English
And my exams are in English, but still!
But you can understand Afrikaans.
But I won’t speak it. That is MY choice.

Sterkte.

2009

Stirring a pot of bolognaise sauce Die Nuus caught my attention – I’d been watching 7de Laan and had forgotten to change the channel. I held the wooden spoon over my hand and shuffled closer to the TV, fumbled with the remote and flicked over to 3.

“Minister gets tough on university language policy …”.

I raised my eyebrows and smiled. My thoughts drifted to a conversation I felt like I’d been having for years. Like a recurring dream, it appeared out of nowhere and I struggled to make sense of it because it always came after a few minutes of effortless conversation.

“ … do you understand Afrikaans?”
“Ja.” Then by way of explanation, justification, “Ek is ‘n Maatie.”
“Really? You studied at Stellenbosch?”
I stifle a sigh and then satisfaction gives way.
“Ja, vier jaar. Verstaan dit maar kan nie goed praat nie …”

Easy.

Some things change. Some things stay the same.