However, back on topic – As I grew older and more cognitive, my naïve sense of the world caused me to not notice the fact that blacks and coloureds weren’t allowed at the same restaurants, shopping malls and parks that I went to. It was only later on in life that I realised things were very different. By that time, 1994 was just around the corner. It took this event to unfold to cause my metamorphosis to unfold. I emerged from my cocoon and soon realised the world really wasn’t such a nice place. It was anything but.

I still remember my early years of high school – Post 94 – The racial divides still in force even with the newly elected ANC in power. The black students would all socialise on the one side of the field and the white students would gather on the other side of the field. We didn’t mix. I didn’t know why really but it seems people just found it impossible to mingle. We were very different I was told but I didn’t understand why. They seemed to be just like me. In fact from an early age my parents had told me all people were to be treated equal. I just didn’t understand. What was going on? The signs I had heard of marking certain areas “WHITES ONLY” were long gone yet the feeling behind what those signs meant was still very much in play.

We might have all finally been allowed to be together yet at the early stages of this unison it was anything but harmonious. It was as though we were the oil and water. Trying to get us to mix wasn’t an easy task.

It was only towards the end of my schooling year and my progression into the working world that things seemed to make more sense. I began to notice that people were closing the gap and forming friendships across racial lines. Things for what I could see didn’t seem as awkward as it use to be. My original sentiments passed down to me by my parents, turned out to be factual. We were different at all. We were the same. It wasn’t petty apartheid anymore… It was just petty!
Petty to see colour in a country as colourful as the rainbow.

How can you say that about our beloved language you shout? Die taal!
One word springs to mind and will answer all your vraagies… Steve Hofmeyr!

Yes that’s right! ‘Pampoen’ man himself. The fault for my total intolerance lies firmly at the feet of Kurt Darren, Patricia Lewis and the like. I cannot for the life of me take the Afrikaans language seriously due to the Afrikaans music industry itself.
It still to this day amazes me that, “Sokjol Treffers” flies off the shelf with such speed, that it manages to catch a speed wobble as it hurtles out the doors of music shops around the country. Why? Why do they insist on producing music like ‘Loslappie’ and ‘Leeuloop’? Is this really all that South Africa has to offer? ‘Ek wil huis toegaan na mamma toe?’ Roughly translated to ‘I wanna go home to my mommy?’ Are you kidding me? This must be some sort of joke. Dit spty my, ek verstaan jou nie!

I say this with 100% conviction when I announce that my 12 year-old cousin is more lyrically inclined than all of them put together. In fact, I dare you to prove me wrong on the subject. The quasi-intellectual lyrics written by the musicians that inhabit this genre leave a lot to be desired and don’t say much for our country. The infamous American country music has more appeal than any boetie or bokkie ever could. I would opt for Rascal Flatts hailing from Columbus, Ohio any day if given the choice.

Another gem of the Afrikaans gravy boat is ‘Egoli: Plek van goud’ Wow that was bad acting even if I say so myself. The moments of love and passion followed by the lies and deceit all set amongst the backdrop of some crumby JHB coloured woman’s flat. I was absolutely delighted when M-Net announced they would be ending the show. I am astounded that it even lasted the 10 or so years that it did. It was mind numbingly boring but then again what soapie isn’t? So with that said and fair being fair, I’ll let Afrikaans slide for that little faux pas.

However, undoubtedly the most embarrassing Afrikaans moment for me happened only a few short months ago. Pictures of Joost Van der Westhuizen snorting cocaine with supposed prostitute were published courtesy of Heat Magazine. Affectionately dubbed ‘the Joostgate saga’, his name was forever tarnished as he tried to defend himself. His defence you wonder? “It wasn’t me, it was someone who looks like me’ Now that’s a pearler!

One thing is for certain when it comes to Afrikaans. It provides a barrel of laughs to anyone who happens to be standing on the outside looking in.

God bless Afrikaans! I wouldn’t change it for the world. Hell! At least the Afrikaaners are friendlier than the English.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Up until that point in my life, I had never been a fan of rugby, as I much preferred the drama of WWF. Even the Springboks did not capture much of my attention for that matter but today was different. Today was more than just a game of rugby. I felt compelled by curiosity to switch on the TV, as I had heard the media hype and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I must be blatantly honest and admit that I was on the edge of my seat from the moment the whistle blew. Each time the Bokke scored, I erupted from my seat like Mount Etna during a volcanic splurge. This was so unlike me I thought.

South Africa was leading 9-6 by half time. The stadium was buzzing with excitement as everyone clung to the hope that today would be the turning point in rugby history. The buzz was soon drowned out by the mighty All Blacks who levelled the score with a penalty goal in the second half. The crowd fell silent, fixated on the celebration unfolding in front of them as the team in ominous black celebrated their comeback. They had levelled the playing field. What would the Bokke do now? I rose from my seat only to be brought crashing down as Andrew Mehrtens failed to kick a late drop goal. The score remained unchanged forcing the game into extra time.

How much more could I take? How much more could any of us take? We were all united by one dream, one passion, and one lingering glimmer of hope that; today South Africa would show the world we could be victorious in the face of darkness, or in this case the towering shadow of Jonah Lomu.

As time whittled away, both teams gave it their all, scoring penalty goals in the first half of extra time. Would this never end? Were the rugby gods toying with us? Finally…breakthrough! Victory presented itself in the form of Joel Stransky who sealed the deal and landed a drop goal to win the final.

The crowd roared and cheered as the siren went. I danced around my living room energetically. We had won the Rugby World Cup! South Africa had done it! I sat on my couch and watched the festivities unfold and felt overcome with emotion and a sense of pride. The same pride and emotion you feel when your child or niece/nephew walks for the first time. Yesterday our team had crawled and today they were walking before my very eyes. It was extraordinary.

Nelson Mandela, wearing a Springbok Rugby shirt and cap presented the trophy to South African captain Francois Pienaar to the delight of the capacity crowd. We all shared in the glory of what it meant to be victorious. We shared in what it meant to be South African on a new dawn of democracy for all. In that defining moment years of bitterness, racial divide and strife suddenly seemed petty and insignificant. People of all colour celebrated the monumentous occasion and for the first time in my life I cried as our new National Anthem “Nkosi Sikelela” ran out around the grounds and echoed through the speakers of my television.

That day marked the first day that I realised I was a South African and would always be South African. Our country had become united and I had forged a bond that will never be broken.