Girl in Progress

It is now June, the winter wind is blowing chaotically, the sheep are crying recklessly as from a faint noise blocked only by the window pane; and my cold feet sting. I am at the brute four-walled shelter of my mother’s bedroom gazing at the chubby, spotless, bronze figure beyond my mirror plane. The eastern part of the country always suffered dry and windy winters ever since I can remember. They were scorching during the day and petrifying during the night so when I returned home during winter break I knew my skin was to bear an involuntary tan. The nights and mornings were as cold as I had anticipated and the soil had almost become stone. I had always to be prepared to feed the pigs, chickens and dogs, work the soil or to shepherd the cattle to the veld. It was as if we owned a farm. Even I had not adapted to this manual routine; 17 whole years and I had not gotten used to it. One thing I have learnt is that people conform very easily to what suits their comforts and rebel to what shifts their state of equilibrium. The prime example being how I had adapted well to my life in the Western Cape.

My home is situated near hills and valleys, amidst dongas and fields, in open land that lacks sky scrapers or tall trees to obstruct the view of the blushing curvy horizon and the rosy sunset. In what seems to be ancient time, when a black man’s heart pumped goodwill and never gave in to greed and selfishness, we fostered and ploughed lush fertile lands, treated strangers as family, work was our best friend, and wealth was only determined by how full your kraal was. I don’t know much about it – life back in the day, but I imagine it was wonderful as from the beaming eyes of our elders when they tell stories.