Corné Koegelenberg. Ek is nie ‘n digter nie

Ek is nie ’n Digter nie

Vir jou sal ek op ‘n Dinsdagaand Spur toe vat,
as die burgers volprys kos.
Vir jou sal ek ophou brandewyn drink en sigarette klap,
ek sal selfs begin te flos.

Jy maak my fancy woorde wil gebruik,
soos deurslaggewend of allerliefs,
en al is ek nou nie ‘n digter nie,
bou daai woorde iets konstruktief.

My boekie is vol van jou.
Lyne en lyne gedagtes en idees.
Dis asof ek jou op die bladsy probeer vashou,
sodat ek jou vir altyd kan lees.

Iemand anders sal seker nog ‘n duisend ander maniere vind
om te sê ek hou van jou, maar vir dit is ek te dom.
Eintlik wil ek dit net reguit vir jou sê, netso print,
want dan weet jy, van wie dit kom.

Corné Koegelenberg

Corné Koegelenberg (34) het in die Klein Karoo grootgeraak in ’n huis sonder ’n swembad. Sy liefde vir stories het hom in die rigting van film gestuur, en is tans ’n voltydse skrywer en regisseur van Afrikaanse springmielie-flieks. Hy is ook besig om ’n groot droom om ’n graad te kry uit te leef en is ’n eerstejaar BA Kreatiewe Skryfkuns student by UNISA.

Andrew van Huyssteen. The Goat Pen

 The sun sent out its waves
 These struck upon the land
 They crashed and burned
 Those in the light saw it no more
 Those in the dark hid from the light
 For a many sunrises later we seeked the light again
 And hid upon the land

 The song of Kingna, 2137

Between the high mountain passes and the rolling valleys, down the long slanted slopes that settle upon a wide slow river edged by a ribbon of green that fades into the distance around the bend in the valley, lies a small village. Scattered alongside a length of the river stand small groupings of light brown houses whose walls are roughly plastered with clay and grass, covered by makeshift canopies of reeds and flat pieces of warped timber.

From the opening of one of these dwellings emerges a young woman, stooping her head to avoid the low arch of the opening. Into the early morning light she straightens and stands tall, with her sharp chin slightly raised. She is tall with long arms and legs, and her large brown eyes look out of from a narrow face; her dark brown hair is full yet tightly bound into long weaves that trail down behind her neck. She is wearing a light brown robe that reaches down to her knees, tightly fastened at the waste with a leather belt. Her boots made from the same leather material cover her muscular calves. She stands still in the quietness, with a hidden assuredness and strength, her eyes unblinking and unmoving, looking out towards the goat pen, surveying and counting.

“They are all there ma” she calls out over her shoulder back to the house. “They are restless, and hungry. I better go now and let them out. Ill see you later ma”. She turns and looks back towards the opening as a short, hunched woman emerges, straining with her steps, holding onto the edges of the opening for support.  

“Yes, you better go Ash. You know how inpatient and skittish they get when the sun comes up. But you must hurry back. Algiers has called a village meeting this morning. Another Stranger came in the night.”

“Why don’t I know about this ma?” replied Ash sharply, turning back to face her mother, who was now sitting on a low rock just outside the door. Hilda was not old, but she was weak and frail. A tiredness seemed to have crept into her, buried deep in her bones and flesh. She complained of painful joints, and was no longer able to hide her hacking coughs any longer. Her hair was thinning and grey, lying flat in wisps upon her speckled scalp. Her face was drawn and wrinkled, with her tight mouth hiding naked gums that now held only few teeth.    

“You were sleeping when Marta came late last night to tell me. The Stranger came in the night, asking for water and food. He was tired. But you know Algiers, he doesn’t welcome Strangers, and we haven’t had a Stranger visit us for a long time.” Hilda looked up at Ash and looking into her mother’s eyes, Ash could see the emotion, the strain of holding something back. Hilda averted her gaze, looking far off towards the mountain horizon. Ash knew her mother well; it was in her countenance, her almost folding inward into herself, hiding something, or pulling something in close.  

“What is it ma? You are always fearful when there is any talk of the Strangers”.

“Oh never you mind” replied Hilda, picking up a stone from between her feet and tossing it absentmindedly to one side. “Go and let the goats out now. I will see you at the meeting this morning. Don’t be late.”

She knew not to push her mother. Despite her frailty, she knew her mother to be stubborn and reticent.

Ash turned and headed in the direction of the goat pen. The pen was a large square structure made of low built walls of rock and slate, on top of which was mounted a straggly and impenetrable wall of thicket and thorny branches. She pulled on the wooden gate and with a rush and a clamor the goats poured out, bleating and stamping their hooves as they herded off to the greenery alongside the river. Inside the pen, the midden was piled deep and the air was rich with the earthy and musty scent of it all. Standing silently, watching the goats as they fed on the greenery, Ash replayed the conversation she had with her mother. Who were these strangers that came to their village every few years, arriving as if out of nowhere. It was always only men that came, wearing strange clothing which seemed to be like a protective skin, being provisioned with foodstuffs, water containers and a collection of strange objects; but never seeming to carry any arms or weapons. But more strange than their appearance and sudden arrival was the words they spoke, the message they brought. Always the same. Warning of the slow sickness they said would slowly take them away, promises of a new land where there was no sickness, a new home, with many new people. This was the message that Ash always carried with her and in the quiet lonely moments, closing her eyes, imagining this new place - this new people that lived within her mind and the longing that pulled at her to be part of this, to be part of something new - away from this village in which she felt trapped and bound. She could feel it, sense it; the unknown but the new, the unexplored but the inviting; she longed for it in some way.

“Here he is for all to see, the pretender, the liar” barked out Algiers. He was standing on a raised platform within the barn which was used for village meetings. Algiers was tall and stocky and his muscular body belied the greying hair and wrinkled face. It was as if his face had grown older while his body remained youthful. His bushy grey eyebrows shrouded eyes of the palest blue, and his thin lips were broad and pinched back in the corners. He smiled now as he pointed to the man tied to the post at the side of the platform.

“This man, we have seen his like before. They come here with their lies and promises, polluting us. Polluting you!” continued Algiers, turning his eyes to the people gathered before him, his grin sneering across his face.

“We cannot let their lies invade us any longer. They are deceivers, come to fill your minds with false promises. What is this sickness they talk of? What is this land they speak of? There is no such thing!” He stepped across the platform towards the stranger, grasping his chin in his hand. The stranger lifted his head up and looked out across the audience spread out below. The stranger had skin that was smooth and dark, he was muscular and trim with his powerful muscles visible like writhing snakes beneath his flesh. His hair was cropped short to the scalp, his stubble short and think upon his face. The dark brown of his eyes was made more striking by the whites of his eyes, mirrored too in the whiteness of his teeth, now bared in a grimace as he strained against the rope that bound him.

“What have I to gain by lying to you?” he said in a low deep voice that was accented with a strange intonation unfamiliar to the villagers. “I act as a messenger, sent by my people, to help you.”

Algiers didn’t hesitate; he freed his hand from the strangers face and in one quick movement gut punched the stranger, whose legs buckled under him as he doubled over, heaving to catch breath.

“No more lies!” shouted out Algiers. “We don’t have to listen to you anymore” turning towards the villagers, he continued “tonight this imposter will be sent away. He will be punished and with luck he will have strength to walk out of here. We will forget his deceit, we will forget this man, and all who came before him, and by the favour of Kingna, we shall never again be poisoned by him or his kind. Leave now, my people and forget this day; no one shall speak of it, no one!!” Algiers loudly exclaimed these last words as he turned back towards the stranger.

Ash and her mother, standing near the back of the gathered crowd, turned and slowly walked out into the bright morning light, the crowd around them silent. To Ash this silence was the silence of the unheard.

Once returned to their warm hut, Ash set about lighting the lamps in the dark enclosure, and turned to her mother who was already laying down in the sleeping space in the corner.

“Ma, why does old Algiers hate the visitors so much? They never bring us any harm and they want to help us.” Ash was holding back tears, but these were tears of hope, the hidden will to escape slowly finding its way to expression.

“Look, I know that I don’t have many years left, or even that. Im old and I am dying” replied her mother who was sitting up on her elbow. “So I may as well tell you the truth. But you must promise me that you wont hate me.”

“What are you talking about?” said Ash as she bent down and sat on the floor beside Hilda, taking her hand in her own. “You mustn’t speak like this Ma.”

“No, you must listen to me now” Hilda looked into Ash’s eyes, and Ash knew that something in her mother had changed, a barrier had come down. “You must leave this place, leave this dying place, and go with the stranger. I don’t know how you will do it, but you must get him away from here, and leave with him. Before Algiers kills him.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke.

“What do you mean Algiers will kill him?” asked Ash, raising her hand to wipe the tears from her mother’s cheeks.

“Algiers has always killed the strangers. He doesn’t want them to leave here and tell their people about us. He is scared of these people”

“Why is he scared ma?”

“Don’t you see, Ash? Don’t you see what’s happening here? Open your eyes. We are all dying, fewer babies are being born every year, babies are sick or dying. We are all dying. It is the sickness. And if the strangers say they can help, then what have we got to lose. They have nothing to gain by coming here, yet they keep coming. I believe they are good people, and they speak the truth, Ash. I know this.” She leaned back and lay down upon the sleeping mattress, her eyes moving away from Ash and instead looked up at nothing above her. She could no longer look into her daughter’s eyes.

“There is one more truth. The last one.” she continued. “Do you see how strong you are, how tall you are? You are powerful Ash, not sick like me, or most of the others. You are different to the rest of us. And do you know why Ash?” she faltered, bringing her hands up to her face as a sob burst forth, her body heaving with the release. Ash dropped down beside her mother and took her in her arms and lay tightly beside her. Without knowing the reason why she knew the import of what her mother was about to say, she knew that in a short moment or two, her life would never be the same again.

“Shoo ma, its okay” said Ash softly as she pulled her mother into her in a tight embrace.

Between sobs and whimpers, her mother continued “I must tell you about your father. Your father was a stranger, the first to come to our village. We were curious about this new visitor to our village. Even Algiers let the stranger stay amongst us, telling us his story, sharing his voice and his people with all of us.” Hilda had stopped crying now, as if the breakthrough in this admition was the release she had always needed, the truth always wanting to come out, finally freed to the light of day.

Ash was stunned silent. A shock had passed through her and lingered, her mind a dazzle of confused thoughts, beliefs shattered, truths questioned. Everything she though she knew about herself, about her mother, about her people and place was now fading as if passing into shadow, no longer clear, no detail any longer visible.

“But, Algiers could see it all slipping away. He could see the doubt in his people. He was scared, he was weak. He no longer wanted the stranger here. And your father, the stranger, he opened my eyes, he opened my heart, he opened all our hearts. I wont tell you more about what happened between your father and I, but you must know he was your father. But Algiers grew to hate this man, and just as your father arrived as if out of a dream, so too he was gone. Just one day gone. And I knew then that Algiers was to blame. I don’t know what he did; maybe he killed this stranger, or maybe he chased him out. I don’t know, nobody knows what happened, except Algiers.”

Stopping now, Hilda looked to her daughter, looked into her eyes. “You must leave Ash, you must leave me, leave us all and go with this stranger. I don’t know how you will do it, but I know this you must do, and I know you will do so.”

“No ma, I cant leave you. You know I cant do that.” But as Ash said these words, she knew herself to be lying, telling her mother what she believed she wanted to hear, but at the same time knowing this was not what her mother wanted to hear. She could see the unwavering certainty in her mother’s eyes, could see that old strength that had left her slowly over time. And she then knew, knew what she had to do, and what her mother too longed for her to do. Knowing too that this was what had been the longing inside her all this time, the longing and hunger to escape.

Her mother pulled Ash in close to her, hugging her close so as not to look into her daughter’s eyes, she said quietly for Ash to hear “Ash, my only love, you must go. I will be sad and afraid without you, but I know that my heart will be whole, will be full, will at last be at peace. And I want you to be at peace, to be free.”

Ash, sitting back, looking into her mothers eyes for what she knew would be the last time, replied “Yes ma, I must go. I know this to be true, to be what I want. I will go; for you ma. I love you ma, and always will ma.”

Andrew van Huyssteen

My name is Andrew van Huyssteen, and I live and work in Johannesburg. I am currently studying for a BA in Creative Writing at Unisa. My love for all things literary has been a constant comfort in my life from a very young age, and it is for this reason that I wish to explore not only literature and language itself but also the creative and theoretical process involved in the creation of literary works.

Dr Charl-Pierre Naudé. Poetry workshop 02/10/23

On Monday, 2 October 2023, the University of South Africa was graced with the presence of Dr Charl-Pierre Naudé, who conducted an enlightening poetry workshop. Naudé compellingly posited that a major reason for global unrest is the underlying deficiency in communication. Poetry, he believes, delves deep into this aspect, probing the obscured facets of our existence. It gives voice to the oft-unheard yearnings to be seen and acknowledged. He opined, "Poetry says there is nothing wrong by wanting to be noticed. People are feeling they are not noticed enough." For those who missed the live session, a recording of this riveting workshop is available for viewing at no charge on Samespraak's website. Our heartfelt gratitude goes to Dr Naudé for generously imparting his profound insights on poetry.

Invitation to submit creative writing

This page invites university students studying creative writing to present their work here to a wider audience. Send your poem or short story to Alwyn Roux at erouxap@unisa.ac.za.