It was a Sunday afternoon. My dad had taken me out walking in veld; the pale winter Transvaal sun on our skin, the tickle of tall, dry grasses around our legs. At some point I dropped my blankie but sounded the alarm too late. My dad turned around just in time to see two young black boys run off with it. When we got home, I burst into the kitchen, flung my arms around my mom, shrieking, “The flater-boys stole my blankie”. I was two and couldn’t quite get my tongue around “native”. It could have been worse. It could have been coon or kaffir.

The thing is; I had always considered my parents to be liberal, certainly more liberal than the Afrikaaners. They treated our maid well. Sarah was one of the family, except that she was only allowed to use the peppermint-green enamel plate, bowl and mug. She lived on the property, except it was a back room, and her shower was in the toilet. She could come and go as she pleased, except she had to use the service entrance. And, she couldn’t really come and go as she pleased, could she?

As a young South African growing up in the late 70s and 80s there was a lot I didn’t question, there was a lot I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice that there were only whites on the beaches in Durban in the Christmas holidays. I didn’t realise that the bomb drills at primary school were because there was a State of Emergency and we were too close to Alex for anyone’s comfort. I did know there were toilets for whites and toilets for blacks at Eastgate, but I didn’t know there were different coaches on the trains, different rows on the busses. I only heard about the pencil test well into my twenties. Ignorance is bliss.

And now?

I rebuke my parents who exist in some sort of racist overdrive. Words like kaffir, coon, and native aren’t tolerated anymore; black doesn’t feel PC, so now it’s just “they”. “They” broke into the neighbour’s house. “They” shot the guy down the street. “They” are causing trouble at work. “They” give shit service at the mall. You know the drill. They won’t say it, but we know what they’re thinking. The signs aren’t there anymore, but the words are. Perhaps that was the dialogue all along, when the adults were talking. And I’m ashamed.

A few months ago, my car was broken into, in my secure parking lot, in the middle of the night. I called my dad and shrieked down the phone, “the flater-boys stole my car radio, my gym bag, my Havaianas …”

My life lesson.

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.

I started packing the night before I left. Textbooks and trinkets disappeared into deep cardboard boxes. The packing tape strained and squawked, their fates sealed. Wiping my hair from my eyes I turned to my backpack gaping hungrily on the floor. I pushed up my sleeves, again, and studied the checklist stuck to my cupboard door. Rolling and folding became squashing and squeezing and within minutes I’d reduced my life to 75 litres. The night-time hours crept.

In the morning I was left with a quiet house and time to soak up the familiar. I wandered from room to room, to smell, touch and remember. By the afternoon I fidgeted, held captive by my departure time.

One by one, my parents arrived home and I teetered downstairs, blood racing, stomach churning, careful not to crush anything with my load. As we waited for my brother, I passed a South African flag to my mom to sew onto my pack—to be attached. My passport secretly tucked, it declared to the world that I belonged. My mom stitched, my dad paced. I sat.

The telephone’s rings pierced the waiting room. My brother’s car had been stolen from campus! South Africa: your legacy, my heritage. Dad made plans to fetch Roger from UCT and meet us at the airport. Mom cut the thread. Good-bye dog-log, good-bye house, good-bye street.

I stood in the SAA check-in queue, fumbling and staggering under the weight of my bag. Eyes wide, voice small I asked for a window seat. My family huddled on the other side of the stanchions, smiling encouragements, waiting patiently. We sat at a coffee shop until it was time to go. Time to go. And the tears came thick and fast, hot on my already-flushed cheeks, tumbling into crumbled tissues. A girl divided, I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

I bear-hugged them, shaking in my Docs. Good-bye mom, dad, Rog. I slung my daypack onto my shoulder and shuffled forward with a syncopated heart. I wanted to go but I wanted to stay for just a little longer. The guard, cloaked in indifference, thumbed my passport. I smiled bravely and sniffed, and wondered whether he’d ever left home, his country.

I looked back one last time. There they were, waving, grinning and blowing kisses. I returned them all, smiled and turned the corner. Good-bye Cape Town. Good-bye South Africa.