Tag Archives: South Africa

Mandela: The sentiment lives on

freedomI am of the school of thought of the sentimental. I cry easily and feel deeply and I struggle to find words and cognize external stimuli when in shock.

Thursday night saw me standing in a two-hour line to go to a party I just “had” to be at and someone randomly mentioned; they are saying Mandela has died. I went on with my life, still waiting in line. How many times in the last few months have I not heard those same words, those same debates and even in July I was not brave enough to say how I felt, that I was of the sentiment that in 2013 someone, anyone should say “Free Nelson Mandela”.

Once in the club, an announcement came from the DJ. “Can I please ask everyone to raise peace signs to the sky, we’ve just received news that Nelson Mandela has died”. I stood there and watched how everyone raised their peace signs, but my arm remained stuck to my side”. The D J then played That’s what friends are for and life continued.

When I got home, I spent two hours over a toilet bowel, puking out who knows what feeling (this was not due to alcohol intake, I had picked up a bug from my little brother) and woke the next day feeling terrible. While driving all talk was about Mandela on the radio, his death his life, his struggle. In between feeling physically sick and overwhelmed, I had not shed a tear.

At work, it was all the buzz. One everyone’s lips was Mandela  and all I could do was throw-up and battle to feel human. Eventually I threw in the towel and asked to leave work. I came home and slept.

So yes my life went on, and now I am here, still woozy and silent. I can’t explain why I am too deeply saddened to verbalize what I feel. A month ago when asked in an interview who my icon was  I said “ The most obvious answer would be Nelson Mandela, but I think that Mandela is a representative of a sentiment that we aspire to, so I think it’s fair to say that the sentiment he represents is my icon”.

The face of freedom is what he has become to South Africans, but there are many faces of freedom in South Africa, who have died, are not mentioned or scarcely documented.  I’ve always felt that in this land, the struggle is not so much for freedom, but in actuality it is between what we choose to embrace as ideals. Are we the Nelson Mandela figure, the one aspiring for peace, the one with the sense of humour, a sense of interconnectedness, a wisdom that permeates to an understanding that we should not fight each other, but rather embrace .  Are we the opposite? The image of the system that is apartheid, filled with hatred, fear and greed. Judging rather than understanding , oppressing rather that uplifting one another?

What are we really as South Africans? Who are we? These are the questions I grapple with every day when I encounter personalities on either side of these spectrums. The death of Mandela does not mark the end of what he represents. Perhaps with his death, it may feel as it has, a sense of what he represents has left us, but that is not true, perhaps that is why I am in a limbo state of mourning. I feel that those ideals will live on if we choose it, matter of fact it was present before a face was ascribed to it.

My father says when Mandela was released from prison he was present and I was hoisted on his shoulders amoung the crowd at the Grand Parade in Cape Town. That’s the closest I got to meeting him/ seeing him and knowing him and that is actually okay with me. I know that his legacy and sentiments are present in me regardless, because it’s in me, it lies at the core of my soul and who I am. My hope is that South African’s don’t forget that freedom and equality  was bred because it was part of the collective conscience, that is was every soul populating our land wanted. That is what won, freedom won because we chose it, and may it continue to be that way. May equality soon follow.

RIP Nelson Mandela, long live South Africa.

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The man my mother wanted me to wed: Kyle Sheperd

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It was the start of high school and at 14 , scrawny and anonymous I felt disconnected. I found myself in a class without my “closest friends”. My fellow classmates seemed to have formed cliques and groups and there was a real sense of camaraderie about them. I did not share in these feelings.

A week into school, our teacher Mr Fransman announced that a new boy would be joining our class and his name was Kyle Sheperd. As if out of an American chick-flick, Kyle Sheperd casually walked into our class and perhaps it was my imagination, but I swear, there was an orchestra, and wind, yes, definitely wind.

This boy was good-looking, but his attractiveness fell not mainly on the eyes, for he had an air about himself and yet remained completely accessible.

Kyle Sheperd had come from Boston Primary school, I can’t retain exactly why he missed those first few days of school, perhaps it was to make an entrance? Back then I was an aspiring musician. I played the piano, not as miserably as you would think, but I was way too lazy to practice and fared much better in the theoretical part of music than the practical part. The benefit of being a music student at The Settlers High School was that we has the luxury of having free periods whilst students took turns for their practical lessons. It was during this time that I got to know the boy behind the orchestra and the wind-in-hair visuals.

I was that girl who had two male best friends, both named Kyle. One a Sheperd , the other a Fortuin. They were both Casanova’s and I had it in my mind that if I was attentive enough I would never fall so blindly for men with charm and good looks as the other girls did. So yes, we were friends. We chatted, we joked, we partied together ( and yes, we did party), and more so, we had an intimate bond that could only be defined as love. Whenever I greeted Kyle goodbye after a school function outside the school gates, my mother would always marvel and say ” Sjoe maar hy’s ‘n mooi klong, so ‘n seun moet jy trou” (Translation: Gosh, his a beautiful boy, you should marry a boy like him).

When we reached Grade 10, sixteen and sweet, something changed. Sheppie, as we affectionately called him, started to lose his mind, or so we thought. Instead of our usual banter during breaks times and our weekend escapades and our Monday morning recollections about the weekend’s escapades, Kyle had found a new love and she was called Piano and he spent all his time with her and her trebles and clefs

I for one was mortified. What had happened to Kyle? Why was he acting so old, practicing and practising? He had already mastered the violin why this new girl Piano? Of all the females vying for his affection, she just blatantly pissed me off. Kyle became somewhat  of a recluse, mumbling about Abdulla Ibrahim, choosing to spend his breaks in the music room under the wing of the eccentric, only now I realise brilliant , music teacher Mr Hugo Smuts. Why Kyle? Is all I ever asked, and conspired with his then girlfriend and Fortuin to unravel this mystery.

Eventually, we just let him be and do his thing. It was worth having percentage of him , than losing him in his entirety. High school progressed and thereafter we lost touch. Kyle attended UCT, to pursue a music degree and subsequently left University prior to attaining his degree. Thereafter I have physically spoken/seen Kyle a total of three times.

1) 2008: I chatted to him over Mxit (Yes Mxit was trendy then, and yes this did constitute real contact). He was living with my then boyfriend in Johannesburg trying to make it as a young artist .It was a fruitful conversation about everything and it reminded me of the good old days
2)2008: At the 21st birthday of an mutual friend, where we danced and chatted and became aware that Kyle was a fantastic saxophonist, since he played masterfully at that evening.
3)2009: At the Baxter Theatre where I performed in a show and ran into Kyle at the entrance, only to find that he was in fact coming to my very show.

The rest, well goes a little something like this:

Kyle Sheperd bursts onto the Jazz scene. Kyle Sheperd tours with Afrikaaps. Kyle Sheperd’s debut album Fine Art nominated for a SAMA (South African Music Award) for Best New comer and Best traditional Jazz (2011). Kyle Sheperd’s A Portrait of Home nominated for a SAMA award in the Best traditional Jazz category (2012). Kyle Sheperd’s South African History!X nominated for a SAMA award for the Best traditional Jazz category (2013). Kyle Sheperd on kykNet, Kyle Sheperd touring the world, Kyle Sheperd winner of the 2014 Standard Bank Young Artist Award for Jazz.

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And finally this evening: Kyle Sheperd on Top Billing. I almost missed it, but my best friend sent me a message and reminded me in time. We both marvelled at how handsome he still is and how grown up he looks.

She ( the best friend) then went on to say, “he made it”, and she’s right. He did. He believed in his dream and pursued it relentlessly and it only seems to be taking him to greater heights. Additionally, Kyle tunes into a history ignored, the legacy of the traditional and I’m always in awe as to how his journey of unearthing this history coincides with his art. He fuses the history of South Africa into his music and traditional sounds such as Ghoema music is very present on Kyle’s albums. He currently performs worldwide and will also be featured early July next year at the Grahamstown National Arts festival.

Needless to say, I doubt I’ll ever marry Kyle to my mother’s disappointment , but I am so glad  that Sheppie found that girl called piano and so immensely proud of all that he is to Jazz and art in South Africa.


I am Woman, hear me love.

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Hear me roar is the better known statement, thanks to the opening line of Helen Reddy’s song I am Woman (1971), but after this weekend I thought that love would be more apt.

Last year I decided to submit a short story to POWA’s women’s writing project and lo and behold, my story ,Girl Power was published in the 2012 anthology titled Breaking the Silence : Sisterhood. An array of emotions come to the fore upon knowing that you will be published. In my case, it can be explained as the following:

Utter joy and disbelief when you are first informed that your writing will be put in an actual book. This was followed by excitement and pure euphoria. Then the anticipation of waiting for the physical copy ensues. When you finally receive the book and your name is printed in black and white you are kind of shell-shocked and content. After the contentment wanes, you are faced with the “Well what now?”, the excitement passes and you come to terms with the fact that  you are still you, the only actual difference is that you get to add a book to your collection that now contains your name and your writing.

Being published is a lifelong dream for many people. I worked in a bookshop for many years and at the time it seemed so unattainable, but I knew I wanted it. Writing does however take time, and although you should make time to write (everyday they say), I have only submitted a few places and have had the luck (and perhaps the skill) to have been published thrice in my 25 short years on this planet. I have thus endured the crazy process of a complete high to a feeling of wanting thrice, and I will admit that I’ll endure it as many times as necessary.

The beauty of the POWA anthology was that after published the action of submitting my story obtained its own life and story. A year later, having forgotten I was published and all that, just minding my own business the editor of the POWA anthology asked if I was willing to mentor the potential writers in Cape Town for the 2013 anthology. How could I possibly refuse? In a myriad of submissions from Cape Town, they had asked me. Little old me. They actually thought I could teach people how to write. I had to say yes, there would be no adventure if I declined.

About two months ago I was flown to Johannesburg, put up in a guest house and attended a workshop on how to mentor other writers. The other participants in the workshop were all women who had been previously published in POWA’s anthologies and being there was an affirmation that you were indeed some type of writer or that you did something special enough to have utter strangers dig into their pockets to finance what you deemed only to dream. Mind blowing stuff right?

For my readership who may not know about POWA (People Opposing Women Abuse), they are essentially a South African feminist women rights organisation that provides an array of necessary services to survivors of abuse and are also focused on empowerment of women in various sectors of society. It goes without saying that there is a certain pessimism attached to what the acronym POWA stands for ( as well as the existence of services like the Rape Crisis Centre)  considering that women shouldn’t ever be  abused, raped or violated, but the reality of our society dictates that it is necessary and the fact stands that organizations like POWA have the potential to  save people’s lives.

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The Women’s Writing Project is one of the branches in which POWA allows everyday women’s voices to be heard.
Now that I’ve become a somewhat “chosen” voice, it was my responsibility to source females for the writing workshop in Cape Town. I spammed almost every group on Facebook I thought may be interested and also forwarded the information to all of the artist networks I could think of. Then the replies came in. Women answered the call via email and all responded with a resounding yes, “I’ll be there”, “Count me in” and my excitement grew. I knew perhaps three of the women personally but the rest were all brought in by the net I had cast out into the universe, and what a group it was.

In total seventeen women were present at the workshop over the course of this weekend. Women of various ages, cultures and upbringing and what transpired when we gathered together can only be described as magic. I’ve always said this, but now I am a firm believer when I say that there is something sacred about a group of women gathering together.

We deconstructed gender, had talks about everything from hair, to clothes and our relation to men. We celebrated the power of being female; we cried, laughed and shared poetry and stories. We were open, accepting and receptive. Within 48 hours we had developed a bond through our love for writing and the fact that we were women. It was a beautiful, a natural sisterhood, a kinship and an air of reverence and respect lay in all the spaces and avenues we uncovered. We helped each other improve our writing. We ignited the possibility of the dream; we gave each other strength and confidence where it may have lacked before. You could hear us love. We were women and you could hear us love.

After the workshop I realised that I had committed a terrible offence in my last blog post titled Helen Moffett and the rest who say : Fuck Women’s day. With all that I  claim to be, I had judged the actions of another woman so harshly and had become part of the masses that dictate how women should be or how they should act or what they should wear. This is a public apology to the woman I so blatantly judged in my previous post and to all those to who I may have offended by thinking , having had tunnel vision on what it should entail by being  women. We are all different, have different ambitions, beliefs and aspirations and I have to acknowledge that my own prejudices and my then warped sense of morality intervened in my last blog post.

The women I encountered in the workshop managed to remove my blinkers in such a short period of time.

Submissions to the anthology are open to all women across South Africa. To submit electronically you can visit the following website: http://womenswriting.org.za/pages/home.php or alternatively email me at roche.kester@gmail.com to receive the submission form. The deadline has been extended to 30 September.

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The website provides guidelines for submissions for poetry, short stories and personal essays. E-books of previous anthologies are also available on the website. I encourage every aspiring women writer to submit their writing. POWA’s Women’s Writing Project is an open arena for all women’s voices. And who knows you may just be published and your published work may take on a life that adds an additional, meaningful and beautiful story as the one I have to tell by taking that first step of self belief. So, dear women let them hear you love.


Something is not right in the Republic of South Africa.

Reversing the legacy exibition

Reversing the Legacy Exhibition 2013

This is obvious. I’m sure if all South African’s were given free range to complain, there would be no end to the array of what exactly is wrong with our country. Seldom concrete solutions are implemented to remedy our issues. What the Reversing the Legacy exhibition at the Cape Town International Convention Centre (CTICC) tries to illuminate that although progress takes time, it is possible .
Upon arrival at the exhibition, you are issued with a pass, or a dompas as it was referred to during Apartheid. Then you are met with a security guard, who scrutinizes you as if you are a terrorist and after a substantial silence asks you what your name is and where you reside.

Thereafter you are greeted by a man, who looks like he could have run the ABW and who coincidently had the old South African flag looming proudly above his head. Accompanying Mr ABW were his too sidekicks, one dressed in uniform and the other in a suit. The male in uniform, asked for my pass and then sized me up just as suspiciously as the initial security guard. He then asked the same questions: “What is your name”, “Where do you live” and I answered him earnestly. When he asked “Why are you here” and I replied innocently with a “To see the exhibition”, I knew I had crossed some line when he asked “What is an exhibition”. Immediately I had to change my story and said I was visiting a friend (which was in fact true), he seemed quite satisfied with this answer and eventually I encountered Mr AWB.

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The same questions followed, my name , place of residence, what I did for a living. I wondered if it would help if I said that I worked for an Afrikaans Publishing company, instead of just a publishing company, to perhaps win some favour with this guy, in retrospect , I’m glad I didn’t. He then asked if I was planning to visit the shebeen. Given the seriousness of the situation, I replied with a cheeky “maybe”. Yes, this was to be reflection of Apartheid, and yes I was supposed to be made to feel that I was doing something wrong by existing, and yes, these actors were REALLY good, but I am a free woman. This is 2013 and I would not dehumanize myself by complying with his every whim and intention of making me feel sub-human. Plus, I really like beer so chances are if there was a shebeen, I would definitely visit it.

All the dramatics aside, after being warned that I would be incarcerated for six months if I was found without my pass, I engaged with the exhibition. There were illuminate fixtures all around the room relating historical information, The first one specifically being about the 1913 Native land act, which was cause for the exhibition as this year herald the centenary since the law was instituted.

To be honest, I had no idea that laws as harsh as these were into place as far back as 1913, so for my fellow ignorant readers ,the 1913 Natives land act ensured that natives, or what we would refer to as people of colour, were only allowed a 7% ownership of designated land in South Africa, and furthermore that they were not allowed to regulate livestock and it also regulated who could live on “white farms” and who could stay on white farms, thereby lessening any “natives” ability to be fully empowered themselves and to be self-sufficient.

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The Natives Land Act , 1913

This happened as far back as 1913? It almost shocked the native out of me! I then snapped a shot with my camera with Mr AWB and his sidekicks and was told that they were watching me. The man in uniform uttered that I looked like a trouble maker.

Turning the corner is what really tore this native’s heart to pieces. There we pillars, almost ceiling high, all displaying the laws that were instated after 1913: The Group Areas Act, The Population registration Act, The Separate Amenities Act. You’d wonder why this moved me to tears. But seeing these laws suspended against that concrete was too much to bear. To me, those laws fixed on those concrete pillars, represented the permanency of its effects on our country.  Imbedded, irreversible and done, now elevated, almost boastfully.

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After I composed myself, I encountered a group of marching protesters holding up signs objecting these unjust laws. The marched in unison, singing songs of freedom, and I was almost trampled as they marched in full force as I approached with my camera.

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Then there was the shebeen ( unfortunately there was no beer), and  people were playing cards , dominoes , empty bottle’s positioned on the table, the occupants all dressed in  attire from the fifties, sixties and seventies.

What caught my attention was a white woman sitting on her stoep and behind her the sign read:

“A resident in Triomf, the white working class suburb, built on the ruins of Sophia Town” .

Positioned directly across her were two black women, who appeared to be impoverished and desolate. At point the two parties argued to and from their respective “areas”.

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Further along the exhibition a casper is seen and various posters heralding historical events in South Africa. There were also television screens which streamed videos of marches, protests, burning townships and Apartheid leaders spewing their well constructed rhetoric of injustice.

Jethro Louw

Jethro Louw

As you turn the corner you approach the poetry corner. I had the pleasure of catching the end of Jethro Louw’s set and I finally got to see the friend I told the security about, Ms Dejavu Tafari. It took me some time to find the section designated for the posts/storytellers to perform and eventually when I was directed to it, Dejavu informed me that she had already performed about three times to be exact. I opted for a picture instead and then she hopped onto stage to get a picture behind the mic and the onlookers were now intrigued an edged her on. She performed a poem I had requested and I was thrilled.

Dejavu Tafari

Dejavu Tafari

Dejavu is a ball of fire, wit and wisdom. She has the type of stage presence that makes it impossible to fix your eyes anywhere else. She is the real deal and if you ever see that she’ll be participating in a show, do yourself a favour and go. You won’t be disappointed.

Being as crazy as she is, she announced to the audience, which was very small, that I had written a poem the previous evening and I was going to grace the stage. I had no choice I had to get up there. After that we spoke a bit about poetry the workings of it in Cape Town. We both were in agreement that poetry in Cape Town seemed rather fragile at this point in time.

A few weeks prior to the exhibition, I saw the call for twenty poets who were to perform for twenty minutes, each day of the exhibition. I considered responding to the call, but I was not in a “stage” space at the time. I was exceptionally happy that poets were invited to the event, but let’s get it right people. Dejavu let me know she had performed at least thrice throughout the day, even though she was only scheduled for twenty-minutes. The whole affair seemed to be rather disorganised.

Additionally a jazz band played through the duration of the exhibition beyond the partition where the poetry was staged. Don’t get me wrong, I love jazz and it was a good idea to place the musician at the space designated for the shebeen, to add to the ambience of that setting, but what about the poets who had to compete with that distraction throughout the day? This injustice was quite fitting with the rest of the exhibition. During our conversation we did manage to psyche ourselves up and came to the conclusion that if things were to change, well as Gandhi put it, we had to be that change.

After parting from Dejavu, a woman asked if I wanted to sign the pledge. I read this pledge carefully before I put my name on it. It read as follows:

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Quite a hefty promise to make, but I do believe in what it said and was glad to sign it. My hope would be that whomever else signed the pledge would understand the responsibly of what it meant.

Overall the exhibition was a rather emotional experience and I was taxed when I left. The aim of the exhibition was to show how since Apartheid, steps have been taken to combat the wrongs of the past. On most of the pillars relaying the horrendous legislation of the past, a sort of disclaimer was posted about how steps had been taken by the current administration to reverse the effects of these laws, which I respect. Progress takes time but the hard truth is, is that in terms of land in this country, it will never be equal. Too much damage was done. The trauma of this land lies in its geography. Perhaps the percentage of black owned land will increase, perhaps more people will receive housing, but the townships and the Capeflats will always exist. People of colour will always be living there, that won’t change.

Was the aim of the exhibition met? I don’t know, but I’m glad that it is on display. It provides a minute view of what it was like and perhaps it will help people realise what kind of trauma this land experienced. Perhaps it will spark patience for the healing process, or perhaps the visitors to the exhibition will realise that there will always be a struggle to combat our past and perhaps they will join that struggle?

The exhibition has been extended to June 29th. It is free and I is a must see, for many reasons.

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For Adam, and Smaller things to love

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About two weeks ago (it seems this remembrance style has become my signature), I received a phone call from my manageress at 7am. If you are in the working world, phone calls at that hour come with a sense of foreboding. Little did I know that it was good news! I had been given the day off. This was not unwarranted. That week was hectic. It was the Woordfees in Stellenbosch and the nature of my work required me to be up 5am every morning, then to jet through to Stellenbosch and work until that usual 16:30 mark hit. Needless to say I was exhausted, so the off day was very welcome. Of course there was a catch, I had to work on the Saturday again at the Woordfees, but I thought the trade was adequate, so I agreed.

Saturday morning comes and regret seeps in. It’s the weekend and I’m suddenly reminded just how much I loathe working on weekends. I arrive at the office, unload the weeks stock from my managers  car, restock it with the new material,and since she broke her arm that week ( note: Woordfees week may result in injury) it was a solo job. Additionally I had to drive , and granted that I don’t have my license yet ( I have my learners, I’m in the process, so I’m not entirely illegal), it was a rather taxing experience zooming through to Matieland in her green Peugeot convertible with the clock ticking.

Once we arrived where De Vette Mossel had set up that day, De Vette Mossel being a mobile seafood restaurant that creates a beach feel while cooking sea food on open fires, I swarmed with Afrikaans educators wanting to buy our product. It was a day catered for them by a subsection of the Woordfees called WOW – Woorde open wêrelde or Words open worlds. WOW aims to boost literacy in the Western Cape by creating reading and literacy projects at schools. They do amazing work.

The educators were seated and enjoyed a talk on technology in the classroom;an ideal opportunity for me to take out a book and to read. But as luck had it , the work started. Arrangements: over the phone, via sms, yes it turned out to be a normal working day. I needed the program of the day to ensure that all other things that had to done that day, would be done. I searched for a timetable of the days proceedings and the lady at reception offered me one. When glancing over the program, I read it. That was the moment my attitude changed. It read: Gedigte Vi’ Adam Small ( Poems for Adam Small). I had hit the jackpot.

Adam Small is a noted Afrikaans poet and playwright. His poetry and plays include a dialect called Kaaps spoken by the “coloured” working class of Cape Town. He has also been dubbed an activist , given that his writing reflected and contested the past political views of South Africa.

Imagine then, how elated I was! The anthology to be launched that day is titled Gedigte Vi’ Adam Small  and it pays homage to the Adam.  Writers were asked to write a poem for Mr. Small and 23 of these poems were selected and compiled to produce the anthology. Additionally the anthology includes a CD with recordings of some of Small’s poems and excerpts from his plays. The submitted poems from the included poets are also recited on the CD.

The panel discussion and presentation was led by Iris Bester, who had months before mentioned her involvement in the anthology upon a visit to our offices. Alongside Iris sat Magdeleen Krüger, Fanie Olivier, Pieter Odendaal, Willem Fransman Jnr. nd Randall Wicomb. Rosalie Small, Adams wife was also present at the launch and the welcome was done by the coordinator of the Woordfees Dorethea van Zyl.

Iris played some of the recordings from the CD and I was amazed at the respect offered by the educators as the listened attentively, laughed appropriately and internalized sincerely.  Randall Wicomb dispersed two songs, in Afrikaans but most noted to me, was Pieter Odendaal. Pieter’s reputation precedes him; he is Stellenbosch University student and plays a big role in the running of the InZync poetry sessions in Stellenbosch. I shared a stage with him once, at an event called The Distance between Page to Stage at the 2012 Open Book Festival. He was captivating; in the same way he was at this launch. He wrote a poem which explained to Mr Small that his father was a good man. Pieter’s writing is twofold, as it is simple and layered at the same time. He is emotive and recites his work in true spoken word style.

I decided to write my own Ode to Adam Small entitled Kaapse Vader. The translation can be found underneath.

Kaapse vader,

dankie vir die taal
dat vertaal is.
 
‘n kultuur vasgevang
In algemene woorde
deur uitdrukkings
wat ons stories oordra
In net U manier.
 
Waardeering , respek
herkenning gee ons oor
want U pogings
het ons werklikhede onbedek
in verhale van alledaagse lewe
wat gedokumenteered is deur U werk.
 
Kaapse vader,
dankie vir die vergunning
om gerus te wees in ons herkoms
vir die stem van trots en aanvaarding
van die afgeskeepte mensdom.
 
Vir die drome van die kinders
wat op die vlaktes woon
wat in  selfvertroue staan
sonder berperkings van tyd
want hulle is ook opgeneem in geskiedenis
met U kuns.
 
‘n baanbreker in alle opsigte
dat ons net in verenigde verwondering staan
aan die werk van U lewe , hande en gedagtes
sodat Kaaps ontstaan.
 
Cape father,
thank you 
for the decoded tongue
a culture captured
in simple terms
expressing our
stories
in it’s unique way.
 
We offer appreciation, respect
and recognition
for through your efforts
our realities are made known
telling tales of everyday living
focalised.
Cape father,
thank you for assurance
of being  seated in our heritage.
For the proud voice and validation
of a marginalized community.
 
For the dreams of children
living on the flats
who stand self-assured
without
the restrictions of time
by inclusiveness in history
through your art.
 
A pioneer on all fronts
united we stand  in awe
at the work of your life,
hands and mind
only from there could Kaaps arise.
 
All honour and glory
Cape father.

Adam Small manages to convey his story and not negate his truth. Through his writing he has also reflected the “coloured “culture, which many may argue is not existent. This is why I respect him.

Of course, even in his seventies, he still managed to stir up some controversy. Adam won the Hertzog prize in 2012 for his contribution to Afrikaans drama. However opinions were raised that the Academy broke and overstepped their own rules which states that :in order to qualify for the prize, a write should have produced material in the preceding three years. This was not the case with Adam Small. His last work was written in 1983. Many have said the award was long overdue, considering the strong affiliation the academy had with Afrikaans nationalism, which marginalized many authors of colour within Afrikaans literature. Controversial indeed, and definitely a man who managed to transcend boundaries.

That one working Saturday turned into such blessing and issued me a story that just had to be told.