The mere mention of the word conjures up images of my school classmates wincing in dismay as our Afrikaans teacher announced that the following week’s homework was to prepare a “mondeling” on some relevant topic. Kids would go to truly staggering lengths to get out of those classes. Even more remarkable was the number of suburban dogs that were partial to the taste of Afrikaans homework…
Personally, my allegiance falls on the love side of things. But then, I did get a lucky break when it comes to being “tweetalig”.

In the December of 1981, my family emigrated from Zimbabwe to South Africa. I was seven years old and had never heard a single word of Afrikaans. As fate would have it, we moved directly to Sasolburg in the Orange Free State. Afrikaans heaven, ne?.

My very first memory of the language sees me weeding the garden on our first Saturday in South Africa and the woman across the road (sixty-ish, buxom and an original Afrikaner) calling me repeatedly.
“Meisie! Meisie!” she trilled from across the street.

Of course, I had never heard the word before and so ignored her, assuming she must be suffering from dementia and talking to someone else. Eventually, she pushed open her garden gate and hurried across the road to our fence, all the while calling me “Meisie! Meisie!” She was holding a tart of some sort (turned out to be my first exposure to “melktert”: god, I love the Afrikaners) and she broke into a full speed account of what I now suspect may have been “Welcome to the neighbourhood! Etcetera, etcetera.”

Peering up at her from my crouching position in the flower bed, her looming figure and incomprehensible language seemed downright terrifying. So I did what any self-respecting seven year old would. I burst into tears and ran into the house, crying for my mom.

Needless to say, once our well-intentioned neighbour had figured out that none of us spoke Afrikaans, she immediately switched to English and all was well.

Luckily for me, things got a little easier after that. My entire family, parents included, embarked on a journey of extra Afrikaans lessons. My brother and I were also enrolled in a dual-medium school (two Afrikaans and one English class for each standard) and I think this must have been the crux for us, because we then made quite a few Afrikaans-speaking friends. And once you are happily playing with friends, learning a language is a natural byproduct.

As we had moved directly from a different country to a strongly Afrikaans part of South Africa, I was never exposed to the cultural differences between English and Afrikaans speaking South Africans. My parents never scorned the Afrikaans community, we were never made to feel like outsiders as English-speakers and so everyone was the same in my world.

It was only when we left Sasolburg for Johannesburg, three years later, that I became aware of the stigma that was attached to Afrikaans in the English-speaking community. When people heard that I’d lived in the Orange Free State for three years, their response was often a sarcastic “shame!”

Not being particularly street-smart at age ten, it took me a long time to work out why they felt sorry for me. I could see no difference between living in Sasolburg and living in Johannesburg. Well, except that in the Free State we were allowed to go to school barefoot (do you know how liberating it is to walk around without shoes on ALL the time?). Unfortunately, this was a fact that, when mentioned by me, served as the ultimate proof to my English schoolmates of just how backward the Free State was.

As my school career progressed, I started to cotton on to the fact that the Afrikaans community was viewed, certainly by the British-English community, as inferior (then again, and I say this with a strong British influence in my upbringing, to whom have the Brits ever not felt superior?). However, when I watched my teenage schoolmates sit in an Afrikaans lesson, trying their hardest to translate a sentence, or a poem, it was not derision or sarcasm that I saw on their faces: it was fear.

I subscribe to the widely promoted view that a lack of understanding produces fear, and fear in turn produces loathing.

Now if there’s one thing our society can do without, it’s more fear and loathing. So, if you’re afraid of Afrikaans (or Afrikaners, for that matter) why not take a fresh look? Having studied one or two more languages since my school days, I can now say with confidence that Afrikaans is beautifully expressive and often hilariously easy going. Where else would you find a word like “vleispaleis” to describe a gorgeously muscled guy? Where else do you find the powerful storytelling of Herman Charles Bosman and Andre Brink? Or the comic brilliance of Evita Bezuidenhout?

There is so much more out there that you’ll miss if you cling to your misconceptions.

Stop the fear.
En begin nou weer.

I was brought up semi-schizo, with my Afrikaans mother and very English dad and going to a super-conservative Afrikaans school while living in an English suburb. But that was nothing compared to what was going down a few years later, when the “struggle” really came to a head in urban environs. By that time I had gone forth and multiplied, had published verse in my beloved mother tongue, and considered myself one of the Afrikaans avant-garde (or avant-guano, as my friends and I preferred to call it, as most of our ideals had been shot to shit by the ardent right wing fools). And even then I saw the death-knell coming.

I still wrote in Afrikaans, doggedly, but found myself using English as a lingua-franca in my daily life. One was proud of one’s work, but disgusted at what our poor co-opted culture had been reduced to by a minority of blind idiots with big guns and bigger chips on their shoulders. So I became embarrassed by my culture. Not for what it really was, but for the hideous crimes that were being perpetrated “in the name of the Afrikaner”. So I started to draw distinctions. I was no Afrikaner, though I spoke and loved the language. Now really, when one is forced into that sort of nitpicking, then the stench over Denmark has spread much too far.

So how could I encourage my children to use the language of the oppressor? Their feelings were unformed. Not political, really, yet…. But still they were embarrassed by the language and chose not to speak it, and I chose not to embarrass them by intimating my origins (easy enough with a surname like Hawkins – who’d know a “filthy Dutchman” lurked beneath?). But this isn’t on. I could not sit idly by and watch the slow puncture administered to my culture by the rabid few, and so I kept writing, as I still do, and I still pride myself in my work in Afrikaans.

And I grow increasingly pleased to see and hear more and more people of all colours and creeds using, abusing and playing with the wonderfully playful and colourful language I love so much and which seems to be ready to survive the crippling blows dealt to it by it’s own people.

And so I would like to close this with a poem I consider quite iconic to my thinking at the time – around 1990.

witbrood (raak nou duur)

ek koop my oes kultuur halfprys
maar darem tuisgebak
my woorde ondeurdig met voorbedagte raad gepleeg
intens soos hartkloppens
deurdig die ruk van holtes voor my oog

ek hakkel tussen woorde deur die seer
die groot hartseer wat oor my aarde witbors maak
my ore dor van daardie hees gelag
vind slaap my moeilik soos ek dongas deur gedagtegange trap

want my trane loop hol oor jou bokkie
en los is al my snare

It’s not that I have anything particular against Afrikaans – I’m just glad I no longer have to speak it. I simply wasn’t built to get around all the difficult sounds. I can’t brrrei – it comes out all flat and horrible sounding. Although I can fully understand quite a lot, pronouncing the title of this piece sounds like I’m trying to speak with marbles in my mouth. In fact, I firmly believe that the whole language was created as a weapon against the British.

Stay with me for a moment – it does actually make sense. If you think about it, South Africa as we know it was colonised by various people at various times with the most well known being the Dutch and the British. If you’ve ever heard someone speaking Dutch or tried reading a book in Dutch, you’ll know how similar the two languages are.

If you imagine for a moment that the people in South Africa at the time may have been mildly annoyed at suddenly having to sing “God save the Queen”, you can imagine how they’d have felt about speaking English.

Quite unsurprisingly, many people flat refused to speak English – labeling it the language of the oppressors (how’s that for irony?). It’s not a great logical leap to say that they began constructing the Afrikaans language in earnest not because they needed a new way of communicating but rather as a result of a quiet rebellion and a lingering of Dutch. I can imagine all the khaki-clad mense sitting around their kitchen table having a good chuckle about the Rooinek in town who just tried to say “Hoe gaan did met u?” (How are you?) or trying to buy a dress for his lady and hesitantly stuttering out “rooi rok”. No wonder there was so little love lost between the nations.

Of course, I’m being a little unfair on Afrikaans. To many people it’s a language that conveys a ton of meaning and has subtleties that make it very special to them. There are many redeeming factors – one of which is swearing. Even a predominantly English speaking person like myself can make use of Afrikaans swear words. There’s something about them that just releases tension like no other language (with the possible exception of the German Scheiße at high volume). The wonderful “only-possible-on-the-internet” SwearSaurus has some excellent examples for everyday use from the fairly tame “poephol” (asshole) to the quite rude “eet kak en vrek” (eat shit and die) – I suggest you take a look at it, just Google “Swearsaurus” and you’ll find examples to sate even the dirtiest mouth.

Despite what it may seem like though, one day when I have kids I’ll be teaching them Afrikaans and making sure they give it as much attention as they can at school. I do honestly believe that it’s a useful language to have under your belt both for when you’re living in South Africa and when you’d like to say something that nobody understands on foreign shores. The language is an integral part of our culture and I don’t think there’s anything that will ever shift that – not the mispronunciations of a young man or the historical links to the sadder parts of South Africa’s past.

Plus, it’s a lot of fun to sing in.

Bobbejaan klim die berg, so haastig en so lastig; bobbejaan klim die berg, so haastig en so lastig; bobbejaan klim die berg om die boere te vererg.
Hoera vir die jollie bobbejaan!
O moenie huil nie, o moenie treur nie, die Stellenbosse boys kom weer.
O moenie huil nie, o moenie treur nie, die Stellenbosse boys kom weer.

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.

Some words and expressions just sound so much better/dramatic in Afrikaans – one of them being deurmekaar. That word sums up my attitude towards a language I grew up with.

My English speaking mom (from the Free State) was told it’s better to bring up your kids with a single home language and since we lived in an Afrikaans community with Afrikaans schools she managed to master “die taal” for our benefit. In hindsight we were lucky since most of the good kid’s TV programs were dubbed over into Afrikaans anyway. Even though we only spoke Afrikaans I quickly realised that our English mother earned us a “foreigner” status amongst my peers who insisted that I say our nightly prayers in English. I started to associate Afrikaans with narrow-mindedness and viewed Afrikaners as boring and conservative. So when my parents suggested that I continue my education in English I jumped at the opportunity.

Only armoured with a limited English vocab I entered a different world. One that taught me that there is a difference between English and Afrikaans speaking South Africans. Afrikaners might be viewed as a parochial nation responsible for apartheid, but the same time English do have the tendency to appear as being snobbish and having a better-than-you attitude*.

It was only at Stellenbosch, a University with so many language issues, where I started to feel at ease with the cultures associated with both Afrikaans and English. For the first time I could relate to the music we had to do volkspele to when I was little – “Afrikaners is plesierig dit kan julle glo”, transformed into one of my favourite Karen Zoid songs. But, it was while working on a demographics project for the US I realised that the Afrikaans youth is embarrassed to admit that Afrikaans is their home language.

As a lecturer I had to present a class in Afrikaans and English. I assumed that everybody understood English, but since we had a few international students I asked the following question in Afrikaans – “is daar enige van julle wat glad nie ‘n woord van Afrikaans verstaan nie”. I was overwhelmed by a sea of hands produced by a bunch of students who obviously had to pass their Afrikaans exam to get into University and who managed to understand the question without any difficulty. I asked the question again, but this time for the benefit of the non South Africans. Their attitude was remarkably different, they fully understood that they might have to master Afrikaans at an Afrikaans university and were perfectly willing to attempt this. I find that even though it opens them to ridicule, Afrikaners are always willing to communicate in their second language, but English speaking South Africans most often refuse to reciprocate that courtesy.

I understand that the world language is English. I thank my parents for providing me the opportunity to be comfortable to communicate in English, but I love the idea of speaking a language which is unique to my heritage without typecasting me. I enjoy the new wave of language preservation I’ve come across in Europe even if it means translating documents into Welsh. I hope that young South Africans will stop thinking of English as the “cool” language as I did once and that people will not be stereotyped based on the language they speak.

I am looking forward to seeing young South Africans being proud of their language regardless of what it might be. It means a future with brilliant music, TV shows and theatre productions in Afrikaans and hopefully regain that sense of belonging we seem to have lost.

* Expression provided by my German speaking South African friend.

First, the love part:

I love how expressive it can be. There are certain words and phrases that just can’t be translated. Words like padkos, dagga, soutie, even borewors. But my all time favorite word is; kak.
I love it. Short, sweet and expressively to the point. It’s kak! Fuck, it’s great I’m smiling to myself as I write it. KAK. LOL.

Unfortunately the love part of my relationship with Afrikaans is pretty short compared to the hate part.

I dunno when I first started to hate it, sometime in my early youth I presume. I don’t remember disliking it with such vehemence during primary school, this sour relationship really only blossomed in high school. I suppose one reason is that I associated Afrikaans with the government. The fact that I seemed to fail it every single term didn’t help either.

In fact, my Afrikaans was so bad that my evil stepfather decided to do something rather drastic. The bastard put an advert in the Farmers Weekly, asking if any family would look after two city boys for a week. In return, their children could come spend a week with us in the big bad city afterwards.

I was horrified that he could do such a thing, not that I expected anything less from him.
And so it was my step boet and I were shipped to a farm somewhere in the Free State. Apart from the resentment and the obvious learning I was supposed to be under going, a week’s holiday on a farm ain’t all bad. I got to see how milk was made, saw a sheep getting skinned, went hunting and did all kinds of farm-type stuff. I must add that I was a better shot with every caliber rifle than the entire family. This skill earned me a small token of respect from the boers. I would have been touched, but I was too busy listening to Duran Duran on my ever-so-cool city-boy-only Walkman.

Anyway, one night while sitting on the floor in front of the TV watching the news I completely forgot where I was and who I was with. A piece came on about Eugene Terblanche and the AWB, and without thinking I blurted out, “My God, these people are a bunch of idiots.” Instantly I could feel ice-hot rays of death boring into my back. I turned around to see the farmer and his kids glaring evilly down at me from the couch.
I honestly thought I was going to die that night. Seriously. I fucking kakked (shat) myself. So much so that I locked our bedroom door that night, and put a chair under the door handle like you see in the movies.
I don’t remember learning much Afrikaans that week, cause by the end of it the family were speaking to us in English. I guess we were mangling their language so badly they couldn’t bear it.

My second great opportunity to get to grips with Afrikaans happened when I went into the army. This is a time when most English speaking boys learn to praat die taal. However, because of a simple little lie (one I’ve been telling ever since) I never got the opportunity.
You see, one day shortly after basic training when I’d been transferred to a camp just outside of Soweto, one of the Sergeant Majors was barking orders to me.
It was a scene straight out of a movie. Red faced. Spittle flying everywhere. “Ek moet doen dis, en gaan hier, maar doen dat….”
On and on he went, shouting at me. I just stood there stiffly at attention nodding slightly every so often, waiting for him to finish.
Finally he did, with a questioning look on his face.
“Pardon?” I said meekly.

My God, I thought he was gonna pop a fuse. The lie came quickly and easily. I told him I’d been schooled in the UK, and had only just returned to South Africa to do my national service. The poor dude was stuck between been horrified that I couldn’t speak Afrikaans and totally impressed that this soutie would come back to do his national service.

I have no proof that he went to the officer’s mess and told them, but it seems likely, because after that day none of the officers spoke to me in Afrikaans again. It was all English baby!
I still tell that story about getting schooled in England to explain my pathetic grasp of the language. I’ve told it so many times, it’s almost become the truth.

Another truth is this: I no longer have an issue with Afrikaans, and sometimes wish I could speak it better, but truth be told there are far more useful languages for me to learn in SA. And I haven’t really bothered with those either.

Excuse the direct – bordering on rude – approach to writing this piece. I’ve spent the better part of six weeks trying to unpack how I really feel about the language. This self-inflicted anxiety was because, truth be told, I don’t feel anything for the language. It neither angers me nor inspires me. It neither alienates nor invites me. I’m numb to it.

Perhaps this indifference is the problem. I clearly remember reading a Beeld headline that claimed more than one million Afrikaans South Africans (or was that white South Africans?) emigrated post 1994. Don’t bank on my factual accuracy but I remember shrugging my shoulders thinking “as long as they’re happy”. Contrast that to hearing the cries of those who suggest stupid things like removing it from curriculums (or the extremists who call for it to be banned) altogether and thinking “that’d be dumb, and somewhat unnecessary”.

It’s someone’s language – possibly even yours – but it isn’t mine. Just like Xhosa isn’t my language, nor are isiZulu and tshiVenda and so forth. I just don’t think it’s anymore special than those languages. It isn’t anymore South African than any of those languages and, therefore, shouldn’t be placed on a higher pedestal. Any person who argues Afrikaans has greater heritage than any of the other languages is both ignorant and biased. It doesn’t. It may be better documented – for obvious historical reasons we needn’t explore here – but it has no greater legacy.

When this topic was announced, I was convinced I’d use the platform to express my annoyance at dual signage. I was also convinced I’d use the opportunity to discuss Stellenbosch University and chime in on their ongoing language debate. That’s sure to grate my buddy. Ooh, ooh, I also thought this would be a good time to go down the “name change” route, but there’ll be time for that later, I figure [hint, hint, ed].

Alas, I seemingly don’t care enough to even pucker up the energy to feel something for Afrikaans other than the usual: “if it’s your language, indulge. If it isn’t, ignore it”. Just, you know, don’t assume I speak it by speaking it to me and expecting a response. That’ll upset me.

I’m confident it’s special to someone. I’m confident it’s special to many. With the indifference of a weathered senior citizen sitting beneath a tree – or a young adult who’s convinced there are bigger problems in the world – that ‘someone’ isn’t me.

And you know what? That’s okay.

As an aside, the term”Rooinek” derives from the times of the Boer War when Afrikaner referred to immigrant Englishmen, whose white necks were particularly prone to sunburn. I have no idea where the term “Rock-spider” originated but sounded good as an insult at the time.

I’m afraid that with those inauspicious beginnings my introduction to learning this particular language was apathetic to say the least. Our poor teachers faced an uphill battled to convince a bunch of English kids that Afrikaans was a worthwhile language to learn, but learn it we did.

My biggest learning curve in mastering the language happened when I worked as a switchboard operator at a bank in a little town called Westonaria. It is a blip on the Far West Rand and English was only spoken by a few foreign miners. I very quickly had to learn to field staccato questions fired at me by customers who had no time for an inept telephonist who only spoke “Engels”. My favourite memory of that time is an old Oom who used come in once a week and systematically greeted each and every lady in the branch with a doff of the hat and a very serious “More Dametjie” (Morning little Lady). What a gentleman!

I have found that a lot of Afrikaans speakers think it is hysterically funny to listen to a foreigner trying to speak their language. I have lost count of the number of times I have tried to carry on a polite conversation with someone and they burst out laughing because my pronunciation or syntax is a bit odd to their ears. For some inexplicable reason, my English accent is more pronounced when I speak Afrikaans than when I speak English.

The worst case of this was when I visited and old uncle of my husband’s on a farm in the depths of the Free State. I had been told that the Oom did not speak much English so I did the polite thing and spoke to him in his own language. Imagine my embarrassment when after trying my best to have a conversation with the old geezer, he turns to my hubby and asked “Wat sê sy?” Well, the entire clan fell about with hoots of laughter. Needless to say, after that I gave up and only spoke English to the entire family and even now, my children and I are referred to as “Die Engelse Niggies” (The English Cousins).

These days I generally speak very little Afrikaans and if necessary, I start the conversation in Afrikaans and then switch to English as soon as I can with a gentle “Ek’s jammer maar ek kannie so baie goed Afrikaans praat nie.”

Let me start off by setting the record straight. My exposure to Afrikaans was very short, yet extremely odd. The government, in all its wisdom, decided that teaching Afrikaans to black children was counter-productive or against the spirit of the National Democratic Revolution or something. They gave some oily reason, and just like that, I stopped learning die taal in Grade 7. But I remember very well the few years of exposure that I had.

There was Meneer Van Rooyen in Grade 4. Massive, slow and sunburnt, he would have made a formidable prop or hooker, if he wasn’t such a softy at heart. He had a particularly soft spot for Israel, and would give us free periods if someone piped up, “Meneer Van Rooyen, ek het lief vir Israel!” He cried like a baby whenever the Palestinians killed someone in Israel. He also had an awful habit of stalking through the class with a large ruler in his hands, yelling “die punt!” Yes, I learned all about the uses of the full stop in my Afrikaans lessons. Another favourite of his was “Hoof letters!” He left the school after an ugly incident involving a supporter of Yasser Arafat.

In Grade 5 and 6 it was Mevrou Ogterop. She was my own 9th circle of hell. I got more detention hours from her than from all my other teachers combined. I think it’s because I refused to take her seriously. She was short, old and very shaky. She never spoke normally. She was of the you-must-shout-for-the-children-to-understand-you disposition, which really didn’t endear her to her pupils at all. She taught us silly Boer march songs about Oom Paulus Kruger en die rooinekke. In a moment of sadism, someone appointed her to teach us art. Mevrou Ogterop knew as much about art as I do about the bedroom habits of the Archbishop of Canterbury. I spent the last hour of every Thursday painting big, fluffy clouds on paper plates and absolutely hated it.

My last Afrikaans teacher was a bucket of fun. She was pushing 50, still unmarried and had an amazing gold tooth that sparkled whenever she smiled. She would waft into the class every morning, smelling of chamomile tea and scented candles singing, “Is dit julle wat die wind, is dit julle wat die wind, is dit julle wat die wind laat waai?” To which we had to reply, “Ag, nee!” I have no idea what that song was in aid of. Someone recently pointed out to me that her song might have been a snide reference to breaking wind. Being the mad teens that we were, we quickly substituted that “ag, nee!” for a suitable expletive. Thank goodness no one ever told our teacher. My last Afrikaans teacher made me love talking in Afrikaans. Instead of doing stupid exercises in our books, she made us plant a vegetable garden so we could learn the names of all the veggies, tools and farming practices. We would also sit in a big circle on a lawn somewhere, and she would tell us the most amazing stories… in Afrikaans. Then the government put an end to all that.

Due to the fact that as friends we exclusively spoke either English or Zulu, die taal slowly faded from my memory. I can barely speak it now, let alone read or write it. But there are some things which are best done in Afrikaans. There is nothing like a well placed Afrikaans swear word to spice up your sentences. It lends you the air of quirkiness and eccentricity. Most importantly, it makes you sound so South African, and I absolutely love that about Afrikaans.

The next time I met you was in grade one where I was taught how to sing “Die Stem” and “Ek borsel my tande taritz tarotz”, or something like that. I didn’t like you. You were hard and you were foreign and you were forced on me. I had to learn all your stories about some blind girl who ‘verdwaaled’’ and got lost and died, about some man who saved even the horses off a shipwreck but then died, about “Kringe in die Bos” where of course, all the elephants died. Why, my dear Afrikaans is there always death around you? Why so sad, so depressed, so victimised?

Why when I got my only Afrikaans friend, Aunty Alta, (who spoke English to me) to write my speeches for me, did you still always give me a C or a D? Why do your verbs go at the end of the sentence? Why?
Why did I hate you so much?
I don’t know.

And now?

Now, my dear Afrikaans, now, I love you.
I cannot say exactly when this surprising transformation of emotions happened or why. But as I write this, my heart goes all warm and fuzzy thinking about you. Yes, now, more than 20 years since we first met, I feel a deep and sincere affection for you. I think it may have started when I got my first ever B grade in Afrikaans for my final Matric exam. Or, perhaps it was when my friend, a playwright, started doing all this wonderful stuff with you because as he said, “Dit klink net beter in Afrikaans”.

And you know what? It does sound better in Afrikaans. Swearing in Afrikaans is just so therapeutic, so cathartic, so expressive. Why say shit, when kak is just so much more powerful? Who wants to say marijuana, when dagga just rolls off the tongue so beautifully?

I love you so much, that I even threw myself into some crazy workshop where I taught you to a room full of foreigners in Japan. The Japanese battled with your guttural “ge” sound and were shocked that I dear to teach them the dagga word, the Americans lapped up the lekker, remembering “laquer” even two years later. After my evangelical foray into teaching you, spreading your word worldwide, I realised I have much to learn, after reading one of the feedback comments: “I never knew that Afrikaans had so many English words in it”. But my dear, I will continue to use you, to swear with you, to talk about the shop assistants who are irritating me and continue to roll your r’s off my tongue.
Long live Afrikaans!
Your biggest fan,

Nev

ps maybe not as big as the tannie in Klippiesfontein, but you get my (klip)drift… soentjies xxx