Môre, Pa

A Rhyme for Father’s Day

Môre, Pa (Morning, Dad) is a Father’s Day rhyme in Afrikaans for my dad, for every other dad and especially dads who had already stepped across to a a Heavenly Dad. 

Hierdie is ‘n Vadersdag rympie vir my pa, vir elke ander pa en veral vir pa’s wat al oorgestap het na ‘n Hemelse Pa

Video of a Father’s Day rhyme for my dad, Hendrik Albertus Daniel Kirsten.
Full text in Afrikaans

Môre, Pa

Oudste het Pa se ligte gelaat en welige donker hare, 

Jongste het Pa se fyn postuur – ’n mens  nes Pa met fyne snare.

Ons almal speel met woorde, soos Pa het in my jonge jare.

Ek sien Pa in Oudste as hy uit die bloute woedend raak, vir net ’n bietjie stout.

In Jongste as hy sê: “Ek proe iets anders in vandag se hawermout,”

In myself as ek wonder: “Waar’s die trek? Dis dan skielik so koud.

Soos Pa, sien Oudste reguitpraat as die beste kommunikasie.

En nes Pa, ken Jongste reg en verkeerd in byna elke situasie.

Ons almal ag alle mense waardig, ongeag hul nasie.

Pa kon nie hare vleg nie, maar wel dorings uithaal, so sekuur!

Al was Pa nie altyd reg nie, het Pa my reggestuur.

En Pa is nie rêrig weg nie, want ek sien Pa orals hier.

Môre, Pa

Ons sien Pa in ons maak en bou en speel, ons oplos, regbuig en herstel.

Vir Pa was kreatief wees baie goed; nou’s dit in ons bloed, skyn deur ons vel.

Speel was vir Pa die lewe, en die lewe ’n immer skeppend’ spel.

Tot weersiens, Pa

En hoor jy die magtige dreuning? ‘n Triptiek in vyf dele.

Rympies vir Jeugdag, 16 Junie, deur Petro Janse van Vuuren en Monica Bosman

This is all five sections of a trilogy in five parts for Youth Day on 16 June. With an original sound track created just for this moment. The rhyme is a play on a patriotic youth song from the old South Africa days called “Die lied van jong Suid-Afrika” (The song of young South Africa)

A little about how it came about…

I was visiting my mom in Stellenbosch (see this rhyme about that moment). We were playing with words as I often do with people who also like to do so (most of my family). We were playing with ideas that talk of hope and promises of better times – melk en heuning (milk and honey); kelke vol seëning (goblets full of blessing); geld sonder lening (money without a loan) etc. And from the side Mom says “En hoor jy die magtige dreuning” (And do you hear the mighty rumble?). It was a little out of the blue, but still, recalls a song that spoke of such hope and promise to the Afrikaner of the old South Africa. I knew immediately this was a seed for something important.

Part one came quickly in direct response to that playing with words. But it felt glib. IT needed the darker more critical side of where we are now in South Africa. Thus was born part 2. My sister then got wind of it (since she is my language editor, Monica Bosman). She offered Part 3 as a further development of the flip side of the rumble – die striemende stilte (the searing silence).

From there we went back to the milk and honey, but no longer as a sure promise, rather as something to be sought again. Listening to this Mom said she now misses the hope. That is how part 5 came about as a rhyme of critical hope.

It was truly a family affair.

Rhymes by sisters: Petro Janse van Vuuren en Monica Bosman…

Drawings by my son: Benjamin

Tunes by my cousin: Lara Kirsten

Video editing by my other son – who does not yet want to be named.

Image of the first part of the rhyme with its picture of honey dripping from a honey spoon.

Rhyme text in Afrikaans

En hoor jy die Magtige Dreuning?

I – Petro

Deel 1 

Vat my hand

Dan lei ek jou na die land

            van melk en heuning

            kelke vol sening

            geld sonder lening

            vir elk se ondersteuning

Hoor jy die magtige dreuning

die kragtige kreuning

die smagting na mening?

Oor die veld kom dit wyd gesweef

Die lied van ’n nuwe ontwaking

Wat harte laat breek en herleef

Deel 2 

Van Kaapstad tot bo in die Noorde

Kruip sluipend en stil prewelwoorde 

Styg spytige, gebroke akkoorde

Dis die verdriet van ’n stom Suid-Afrika

Dit is die krediet van honger Suid-Afrika

Dis die gebed van krom Suid-Afrika

Die geweld van grommende Suid-Afrika

Die ontsteltenis van jong Suid-Afrika

Dit is die lied van ons Suid-A-fri-ka

Hoor jy die magtige dreuning?

II – Monica

Deel 3 

En hoor jy die striemende stilte

Van só baie goed ongesê

Van slagtings en menings 

klagtes en steunings 

die sagte smekings

waarop die sluier van swye swaar lê?

Verhale diep in harte en kaste begrawe

Wat nêrens op sosiale media rondlê nie

Wat komediante nie van verhoë af wil sê nie

Tonge gebyt vir die vrede

Stories van lank terug tot hede

Wat buite die narratief lê

Hoor jy die striemende stilte?

III – Ons albei

Deel 4 

Vat my hand

Lei my na na die land

            van melk en heuning

            kelke vol sening

            geld sonder lening

            vir elk se ondersteuning

Boesmanland? 

My Liewe land!

Vat my hand!

Lei ons déúr die bedroefte land

Behoefteland

Omgeploegde land

Onbeskofte land

Ons beloofde land

Deel 5

Ja, jy wat so sinies en afgemat kreun

Sien jy die tekens van hoop om jou heen?

Van Clifton tot bo in Musina

Hou tog op soek na jou Dina

As Wilhelmina

Katerina

Gesina

            Marina

                     Én Karolina

Hier is om nou op te leun

Luister aandagtig vir ’n beter bedeling

Sien jy deur smart ook die seëning?

Proe jy die melk en die heuning?

En hoor jy die magtige dreuning?

The next rhyme?

Is coming out on Father’sday 19 June…

Title: Môre, Pa (Morning, Dad)

Here is the one for Mother’s Day too: Perlemoer (Mother of Pearl)

Working on a rhyme for Youth Day 16 June

I am not posting a rhyme this week. We are working on a three part rhyme in five sections for Youth Day on 16 June.

The plan is to release the video of Part I next week Sunday 5 June, then Part II on Sunday 12 June and the full rhyme on Thursday 16 June.

We also plan to release them with an original music track that plays with the three songs referenced in the rhyme:

Die Lied van Jong Suid AFrika

Boesmanland vat my hand en

Ek soek na my Dina.

Hier is a sneak peak of Part I, Section 1:

En hoor jy die magtige dreuning? ’n Triptiek in vyf dele

(rympies deur Petro Janse van Vuuren en Monica Bosman)

(vir Jeugdag, 16 Junie)

I – Petro

Deel 1 

Vat my hand

Dan lei ek jou na die land

            van melk en heuning

            kelke vol sening

            geld sonder lening

            vir elk se ondersteuning

Hoor jy die magtige dreuning

die kragtige kreuning

die smagting na heling?

Oor die veld kom dit wyd gesweef

Die lied van ’n nuwe ontwaking

Wat harte laat breek en herleef

Ontmoet my Antie Depressant

Lookong at the green and cream-coloured capsule in my hand, I wondered what an anti-depressant would be like if she was an Auntie Depressant…? (Thanks, Welma, for the idea)

Ek kyk na die groen-en-roomkleurige kapsule in my hand en ek wonder hoe ‘n antidepressant sou wees as sy my Antie Depressant was … ? (Dankie vir die idee, Welma)

Image of the text with doodles for "Ontmoet my Antie Depressant" - Meet my Auntie Depressant

(Thanks, Welma, for the idea)

The full text in Afrikaans:

Ontmoet my Antie Depressant

Sy dra ’n groen rok waarteen haar boesem beur

En die sykouse wat oor haar kuite span is roomkleur.

Op bingo wings fladder sy tot my hulp.

Sy omvou my, sterk soos ’n skulp,

Haar wang sag soos die blaar van ’n tulp.

Met ’n ferm hand onder my elmboog

Hou sy my omhoog

En met ’n geoefende oogKyk sy sommer my trane droog.

———————————————————————–

English translation:

Meet my Auntie Depressant

Her bosom strains against her green dress

Over her calves the cream-coloured stockings must stretch

On bingo wings she flutters to rescue me

Strong like an oyster she enfolds me

Soft tulip cheeks caress me

With a firm hand under my elbow 

she upholds me

And with a practiced eye

She just looks my tears dry.

Where I am going with this blog from here.

Since the beginning of this year I had been recovering from burn-out from the work and personal overwhelm of 2020-2021. In the depths of my despair I began to make rhymes. They are my antidepressants and I share them here. They are also a form of advocacy and resistance.

The plan is to post one every weekend – but as soon as this becomes too much like work, I will stop.

I want them to offer joy, giggles, sniffles and reflection.

Thanks to my sister Monica Bosman who is my soundboard and my language editor Find her here.

To my Husband Gerhi who does the doodles. Find him at www.gerhi.com 

And my son who edits and posts my videos.

Yep, it is a family affair…

Oor die rand van uitgebrand

“These challenging times” nearly got me down, but rhymes like this one picked me up again.

The image of the rhyme in Afrikaans "oor die rand van uitgebrand" with doodles by Gerhi Janse van vuuren

The full text in Afrikaans:

Oor die rand van uitgebrand

Ek spartel rond

In my eie wond

En terwyl ek in infeksie swem

Wonder ek waarvoor is ek dan bestem?

Veraf hoor ek ’n hond blaf

En vaagweg wonder ek wanneer hulle maskers gaan afskaf …?

Maar, ag, dis sommer laf – 

Wie sal laat los wat soveel mag verskaf?

Só sak ek dieper in die donker af en af

Tot net duskant die graf …

Skielik gly daar ’n rympie by my verby.

Sal ek hom betyds raakgevat kry?

Ek volg hom op en op 

Tot my kop

Bo die oppervlak uitpop!

Rympies word my antidepressant

Vat my aan die hand 

En lei my terug oor die rand van uitgebrand.

Where I am going with this blog from here.

Since the beginning of this year I had been recovering from burn-out from the work and personal overwhelm of 2020-2021. In the depths of my despair I began to make rhymes. They are my antidepressants and I share them here. They are also a form of advocacy and resistance.

The plan is to post one every weekend – but as soon as this becomes too much like work, I will stop.

I want them to offer joy, giggles, sniffles and reflection.

Thanks to my sister Monica Bosman who is my soundboard and my language editor Find her here.

To my Husband Gerhi who does the doodles. Find him at www.gerhi.com 

And my son who edits and posts my videos.

Yip, it is a family affair…

Perlemoer

(vir my ma op moedersdag – vir elke ander ma én vir ons Universele Ma)

‘n Rympie deur Petro Janse van Vuuren

An image of a poem I wrote for my mom on mother's Day . Title: Perlemoer- "Mother of Pearl"
Vir Moedersdag

Three weeks ago I visited my mom for a week in Stellenbosch. I am recovering from burn-out and this visit finally made me feel that recovery might actually be possible…

It is meant for my mom, yes, but also for every other mom and for our Universal Mother.

And it is written in my Mother-tongue. As are most of my rhymes.

Here is the full text in Afrikaans:

Perlemoer

(vir my ma)

Sewe dae in Ma se Spa, 

En ek kan weer vir die lewe sê, Ja!

Ma het my kos uit die tuin gevoer;

My gelos om te slaap, lánk na die duiwe begin koer;

Buite by my gesit as ek dóér

             oor die berge kyk, waar dit met wyn en asyn boer,

             my kaal voete in die herfsbedekte grasvloer;

My met versies en kersies aangepoer;

My lomerig-luuks in die osoonborrelbad laat sloer;

Oor my tone geloer,

             terwyl Ma se vingers doelgerig oor my voetsole toer;

Ure met my gesprekke gevoer

             om die gekrampte gedagtes en gevoelens los te woer

             en weer die hoop in my wakker te roer. 

Ek, afgebrokkel van die kosmos,

’n Fyngemaalde stukkie rots,

Wat kon land in die stil, donker kalmte

             van ’n moeder se omhelsende warmte,

om my weer aanmekaar te snoer.

            ’n Week, ’n leeftyd, in die hart van my Perlemoer.

Where I am going with this blog from here.

Since the beginning of this year I had been recovering from burn-out from the work and personal overwhelm of 2020-2021. In the depths of my despair I began to make rhymes. They are my antidepressants and I share them here. They are also a form of advocacy and resistance.

The plan is to post one every weekend – but as soon as this becomes too much like work, I will stop.

I want them to offer joy, giggles, sniffles and reflection.

Thanks to my sister Monica Bosman who is my soundboard and my language editor Find her here.

To my husband Gerhi who does the doodles. Find him at www.gerhi.com

And my son who edits and posts my videos.

Whose bed can you hide under?

I was travelling home from a dinner with some friends. Zola*, my uber driver, strikes up a conversation. Like many drivers he goes for politics. He chooses the classic opening line: “Eish, the country is going down the drain…”

“Really?” I say. This driver looks unusually concerned.

“Yes, there is racism everywhere. And they say the foreigners are taking our jobs.”

“That is not how it works,” I counter. “It is not like there are only so many jobs and only a few people can have them. In a healthy country there are enough jobs for everyone. If the country grows, the amount of jobs will grow and there will be enough for us all.”

He thinks for a while and says: “I did not think I would meet someone like you tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you not afraid to be here with the black government and the politics?”
His question reminds me of another taxi driver on another day – one who looked and talked more like me. His name was Arno*. Like other drivers, he also talked politics and it was me who asked him the question: “What do you say about some politicians wanting to drive white people into the ocean?”

He answered with a defiant smile: “Hulle moet maar probeer [Let them try].”
This is not my response to Zola. Instead I answer truthfully: “Yes, I am, sometimes, but…” We have stopped in front of my house by now and I wish to end the conversation on a lighter note, “… don’t worry. My friend Sipho* said I can hide under his bed when they come for me.”

Zola does not yet unlock the car doors and I see the conversation is not over. I wait to hear what is on his mind.

As he unlocks the door he says: “You can come hide under my bed too.”

*All names changed

What to do when your country is hurting?

(The Blog’s dedication story)

In 1994 South Africans were going through the first general election and hope was soaring…

… and I learned how deep and wide our wounds really are and how difficult the road to recovery. It is also the year I found the source of one of the most powerful healing agents: stories.

In January of that year, I was a third year at Stellenbosch University. I was the only woman in a class with 23 guys, I was the only person with low vision (6/60) in a world of people with 20/20 vision and I was the only white student in the black and coloured residence, Goldfields.

You see, since 1992 white residences had been opening their doors to ‘deserving’ and ‘academically promising’ black and coloured students, and the slow integration began. But the traffic was going only one way and I did not think this would work as way for us to heal our rifts. Sure, it was important for the privileges of the white community to be shared with everyone, but what of the value and riches of the black and coloured communities that would be left behind? Should these be disregarded? How could we build a nation, if everyone wanted the same things instead of sharing what everyone had, not just what the white minority had – and I don’t mean material wealth only. We need to understand each other and learn to appreciate each other and until this point, the appreciation was only going one way. That did not seem fair, nor workable as a means to democracy.

So, I applied for Goldfields.

Goldfields was unique in more ways than just being the res designated to black and coloured students. It was also built differently, situated differently and organised differently. It was built not as a multi storied hostel-like structure in the centre of town, but as self-contained, double story units with sic students on each floor sharing a small kitchen and seating area. Twelve or so units were built around a grassy yard where the boys would come to play sports and the girls could watch from their windows or cheer from the fringes of the field. It was set slightly out of the centre of town, but close enough to my faculty building so that I could walk it in 15 minutes. As an ‘older’ student, I thought it idyllic.

My first year roommate, hated it.

She wanted to be with her friends in the middle of student life in the middle of town in the white residences.

She also hated it because instead of us being served 3 meals a day like at the white res’s we were only served supper and had to provide breakfast and lunch for ourselves. This meant we had to share the fridge between six of us and food was never safe in it. The little money she had for food was often wasted when her food went off in our room, or got stolen from the fridge.

She hated it because varsity was tough for her. She came from a very rural setting in the Northern Cape and the adjustment to the ‘cityness’ of Stellenbosch and the whiteness of its entire system was hard for her to adjust to.

She also hated it because she got stuck with the only white student in the res, well-meaning, but clueless and a third year. It was the most unequal match ever. I was a local girl from Stellenbosch, having grown up there. My mom was 5 kilometres away, not 500. I knew the town, I knew the University, I was confident and, truth be told, arrogant in my great adventure as the white student in black res. She just wanted to survive varsity and now she had to deal with me.

I did everything wrong.

I thought that living with people different from me would change me and help me understand. On some level it did (I don’t flinch and become paranoid if I find myself surrounded by black and coloured people at e.g. a taxi rank – something few of my fellow white South Africans can pull off.  (Just writing this is embarrassing and a terrible indictment – I am sorry we are so fearful, it is unfounded).

But

All I learned was to persist in my privileged white ways in spite of my surroundings.

So, the food gets stolen. I bring in a little fridge from home (thank God I managed to share it with her) and food is safe. When I visit my mom on the weekend and come back to find that she shared my bed too, with friends of her who found place in the white res, I am unable to just share and accept. I make a scene about people sharing my sheets and now I had to wash them (not because the girls were coloured, but because I wanted clean sheets when I get back from home). Of course I don’t communicate this well at all and the only message she gets is “don’t sleep in my bed, it gets dirty. She also wears my clothes without asking and I cringe. I understand that sharing is the way people get to have more than what they would have if they only used what they themselves owne, but I want to be asked. And I do not understand the difference between people sharing food, (or taking it) and sharing clothes, or taking it. Sharing food is not okay,, but sharing clothes is – between whom?

She brings back ‘huisbrood’ (home made bread from the Nammakwaland) when she comes back from vacation she offers me a piece. I know this bread is valuable to her, it is her umbilical chord. She desperately wants my approval and watches me eat it. It tastes of animal fat and it is dry. I don’t like it, but instead of lying, thanking her for her generosity, I tell her that I don’t like it and with that, I see her face fall. She wants me to approve and like her, but I reject her like every other white in the cosy apartheid system.

And yet,

When she tells me about her home and her school, the awkwardness is gone. I laugh at the antics of her and her friends. I am shocked at the lecherous behaviour of a fat school teacher and how they find ways to deal with it resiliently. I could share my own story of such behaviour, but it only happened a couple of weeks earlier, so I don’t. We laugh like any two people discovering that they are both human.

I remember this moment of story-telling as the only time that the shit of my privilege and her uncertain struggles fall away.

I wish I can tell you there were hours of these moments. I remember only one.

I wish I knew then how to create more such moments.

I wish I was not the agent of her pain, but in many ways I was, bringing the hegemony and sustemic injustice into her room unable and possibly unwilling, to see its insidious, parasitic invasion of all that was dear to her. It would have been easier for her to have a coloured friend staying with her. It would have been less painful if there were no white invader in her world when she needed comfort and companion ship.

Dearest roommate, I dedicate this blog to you.

To everything you taught me unwillingly and unwittingly, especially to the story moments we shared.

Dear Reader, may we share more of these and heal our hurts.

How I will know if a story you send me fits?

Quite frankly: if the story moves me, I will post it.

Especially if it also

  1. Challenges stereotypes,
  2. Builds connection between people, factions, groups   or between ideas
  3. Leaves me more hopeful than before reading it and
  4. Is well told.

I may also post a story from time to time that moves me to raging frustration or stone cold indifference, just to keep it interesting.

Send me your story here.

Our need for stories that move us

I dedicate this blog to the telling of stories that shatter stereotypes, open us up to each other and move us towards one another.

In 1994, when South Africans were going through the first general election and hope was soaring, I learned how deep and wide our wounds really are and how difficult the road to recovery. It is also the year I found the source of one of the most powerful healing agents: stories. (Read the rest of this story)

Find here Four kinds of stories:

  1. Stories I tell about how I was moved by fellow South Africans
  2. Stories that you send me that moved you– Send me one now, if you are moved to do so. If it fits, I will post it. How I will know if it fits?
  3. Fairy tales and other made up stories that move me in some way (or don’t as the case may be)
  4. Commissioned stories that people have asked me to create for special occasions.

You may also book me to

Tell a story for your people at a special event

Teach your people about story and how to use them for personal or group transformation

Coach you to tell or use stories more effectively as leader or speaker