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.

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

Historically it has always been the upper class that has the luxury to sit and discuss political issues, laws and whatever else may tickle their fancy. On the whole the working class is far too busy dealing with the reality and trying to survive from day to day. So my parents lived the reality so that we may relish the fantasy. I enjoyed a childhood the way any child should. I had friends of all different races and I would attend their parties and even go to the odd sleep over. I grew older and I discovered women. Looking back I notice that I actually only had white girlfriends and they ranged from Italian and Jewish girls to Afrikaans girls.

Of course there were incidents that could have tipped me off, such as stay aways, the constant police harassment, marches and the occasional ‘toy toy’. Even when Nelson Mandela was released, I didn’t truly understand the magnitude of it all. This would all change because we would soon be studying South Africa in History…

Up until now my life read like a happy E True Hollywood Story. I had come from nothing, but because of opportunities made available by my parents (through immense sacrifice) I was now a quasi-TV Star. With appearances on KTV, Kids Cooking and Kids Can, I was earning good money, loving all the attention and I was re-defining the term ‘living it up!’ Every circle I socialized in was within its own bubble and this kept me ‘protected’ from ‘the truth’. These were the days when I was just another teen having a great time. Things were less complicated because we were all just ‘Redhillians’, playing together, learning together and sticking together. Unfortunately for us, things were about to fall apart!

I recall the day when I was sitting in History and we began tackling the subject of South African History. With each lesson, layer after protective layer was being peeled off and the truth was beginning to rear its ugly head- and it was hideous! I remember how we (the fortunate black students) began talking amongst ourselves about how messed up the country was. Some of our peers began feeling superior to us. We had no right to be treated like this because we were South African dammit! Thus began the rude awakening, which also marked the departure of a new journey of self-discovery…