A short comedic novel by a very reluctant witness to history.
Written by Pieter Nghilichi
Garingani wa garinga…
No one ever asked how I ended up in the middle of their grand ethnic awakening, but here I was, watching them squabble over names, land, and God.
These men were always arguing about where they came from. I had no idea why it mattered so much. Dutch, German, French—it all sounded the same to me. But no, to them, it was important. They were piecing together their “identity” like a puzzle, and I, Nghilichi, never asked to be part of the grand, glorious “Dutch-Afrikaner” identity project. I was just minding my business, tending to my duties as a Tsonga slave in the Western Cape, when suddenly, I found myself smack in the middle of history. And let me tell you, history is a lot more chaotic up close.
The Great Trek of Confusion
It was 1838 when the Afrikaners packed their wagons and began their Great Trek. Naturally, I was roped into it. After all, someone had to cook and occasionally remind them that they were completely lost.
“Nghilichi! Is this the right direction?” asked Jan, one of the burghers, holding up a map that looked more like a child’s doodle than a route. I scratched my head. “The mountains don’t move, baas. You went east, when you should’ve gone north.” The Voortrekkers fancied themselves pioneers, though to me, they just looked like lost sheep. As the trek dragged on, I found myself increasingly amazed at how these people survived at all. They’d trek, get lost, fight with the locals, and then thank God when they stumbled onto something resembling a road. Meanwhile, I wondered if this “Covenant” they claimed to have with God included a clause for miraculous survival.
The Language Wars
After years of wandering, the Afrikaners finally found themselves settled in various parts of South Africa. But no sooner had they laid down their roots, they began arguing again.
“Nghilichi!” shouted old Pieter, his bushy mustache twitching. “We speak Dutch, ja? But these youngsters want to call it Afrikaans!” I shrugged. “Does it make a difference?”
“It does! It’s about identity!” Pieter roared. “Dutch is the language of God!”
I nearly burst out laughing. I had heard this argument more times than I could count. Dutch, Afrikaans, it didn’t matter to me. They both sounded equally unintelligible. But the Afrikaners were dead set on making their language special, and that meant endless debates over how to pronounce words no one else in the world cared about. The political ambitions of the Afrikaners confused me the most. By the late 1800s, they were ready to start their own government, though what that government would do, no one seemed sure of. “We must resist the British!” declared Oom Hendrik, pounding his fist on the table. “But how, Oom?” asked young Willem. “We have no army, no money, and frankly, no clue.”
The year was 1872
I was just fetching wine, polishing boots, and occasionally cursing under my breath at the endless white nonsense. You know how it is. And then these Dutchmen; A. Pannevis and C.P. Hoogenhout, two teachers with too much time and not enough hobbies, decided they needed to fix everything. They got all riled up about the poor Dutch-Afrikaners losing their culture and identity to, you guessed it, the English.
“Anglicization!” they would shout, waving their arms dramatically. I didn’t know what it meant at first, but from the way they said it, I could tell it was bad. Like really bad, like when the wine cellar runs out before a long weekend. Now, these guys had issues. Apparently, industrialization and billiard tables were tearing their community apart. That’s right, billiards! I’d seen the Dutch-Afrikaners play pool now and then. Didn’t seem like a big deal to me, but what do I know? I’m just a Tsonga slave with a mop, trying to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. Pannevis, the missionary, started off with this wild idea that the Bible should be translated into Afrikaans for the “brown” people of the Cape, who apparently couldn’t understand Dutch or English. I remember overhearing him once, and I almost choked on my broomstick. Afrikaans? The language they used to order food, tell jokes, and yell at their dogs? They wanted to use that for the Bible. Sure, why not? Let’s give Moses a few more vowels and a relaxed accent, that’ll fix things.
But of course, things got even weirder. After a few years, Pannevis and Hoogenhout decided that Afrikaans wasn’t just for the “brown” people, oh no. It was the true language of the white Dutch-Afrikaners too! I mean, why let a perfectly good language get all dusty in the mouth of the underclasses when you could slap it on your own cultural flag and run with it? The best part? These Dutchmen believed Afrikaans would somehow make everything better, like a magic spell. “If we all speak the same language, we’ll be pure again,” they said. Apparently, this would stop billiard tables from ruining everything, stop their children from singing English songs, and bring back the good old days when everything was simple and everyone knew their place. Yeah, right.
Enter the wine grower’s son turned Dutch Reformed Church minister.
Now, S. J. du Toit was serious. If you thought Pannevis and Hoogenhout were intense, Du Toit was on another level. This man declared war not on another country, but on British cultural hegemony. (I had to look that one up later; I thought he was fighting some sort of large, angry animal at first.) But no, it was much worse than that.
Du Toit argued that the only way to save the Dutch-Afrikaners from English corruption was through Afrikaans. He believed language was the key to everything, like a secret code that unlocked the true character of a people. “No language, no nation!” he’d shout in church. “No Afrikaans, no volk!” And let me tell you, Du Toit had a real talent for delivering sermons that were 70% rage, 20% guilt, and 10% wild hand gestures. These cultural crusaders took it up a notch and formed the Genootskap van Regte Afrikaners (Fellowship of True Afrikaners). Oh, yes, that’s right. They officially made it a mission: to defend Afrikaans, push back the English influence, and here’s the best part. Their mission was to separate the “true” Afrikaners from everyone else. Not the Dutch-speaking ones, not the English-speaking ones, only the Afrikaans-speaking, righteous Afrikaners. Now, let’s pause for a second. You might be thinking, “But Nghilichi, didn’t a whole bunch of brown people and former slaves speak Afrikaans too?”
And to that, I say: exactly. But you know what? They didn’t care. No, no, they conveniently forgot about us brown folks. In fact, they went so far as to claim Afrikaans was a “pure” language, free of any “Hottentot” (Khoikhoi) words. It was all part of this grand delusion. To them, Afrikaans wasn’t just a language; it was a symbol. It was their sword, shield, and plow, all rolled into one. A magical language that could defeat billiard tables, push back industrialization, and make sure their children never had to learn the word “queue” ever again. But here’s the thing that really tickled me. They were fighting a battle for a language that everyone – white, brown, and even the dogs – was already speaking! These Dutch-Afrikaners built an identity out of thin air, wrapped it up in the flag of Afrikaans, and marched forward with it, convinced they were saving their people.
One day, something was brewing in the northeast
These Dutchies, they were tired of just tilling land, making wine, and speaking their funny language only amongst themselves. They wanted more, and soon, they formed the Boeren Vereenigingen, which loosely translates to “Farmers Who’ve Had Enough of the British and Want to Do Politics Now.” Don’t ask me why. All I know is that they started off talking about sheep and crops but quickly ended up shouting about how they should be running the government instead of the British.
I remember standing behind a tree, eavesdropping while pretending to dig a ditch, when they came up with their grand plans. “We need our language, Dutch, in Parliament! How can we govern this land if we can’t even speak in it?” One of them shouted. I was confused. These people could barely agree on the best way to cook a steak, and now they wanted to run a country. But things escalated when the Boeren Vereeniging got their hands on a newspaper called The Patriot. Now, I didn’t know what a patriot was, but it sounded like trouble. The Dutch Afrikaners started reading it and decided they needed an Afrikaner Bond – a sort of political gang, if you will. “We need loyalty, comradeship, and the right to speak Dutch!” they hollered. “Also, more wine!” was a secondary cry that was always present in the background.
By 1878, my poor ears were exhausted from hearing about the Boeren Beschermings Vereeniging, which roughly meant “Farmers Who Now Have A Problem with Wine Excise Bills.” It seemed that these wine farmers in the Western Cape got so worked up over a tax on their precious grape juice that they made it a political movement. And, of course, they won some seats in Parliament. Can you imagine? People who couldn’t even write their own names were now passing laws. Meanwhile, I continued tending to the cows, silently laughing at these farmers. But let me tell you something important: the BBV, as they called it, wasn’t just about grapes and taxes. Oh no! It became a serious movement of Dutch Afrikaners demanding rights. “We control the labour! We control the language!” they said, conveniently forgetting about brown Afrikaans-speakers like me, who were busy doing the actual labour while they sat around plotting.
Fast forward a bit, and things started falling apart. The BBV was losing steam. They had fewer members than my grandmother had chickens. But then came Du Toit, the man with a plan. He formed the Afrikaner Bond, a kind of political alliance that was supposed to unite all these Dutch farmers and somehow link them to the Boer Republics in the north. Now, Du Toit was smart. He knew that if you yelled about “Africa’s interests” and blamed the English for everything from bad weather to high taxes, you could get anyone on your side. “Let’s work together for a united South Africa!” he proclaimed. “United in what?” I wondered. Over in the Transvaal, things got even more heated when the British tried to claim the land. These Transvaal Boers didn’t like that one bit. They had a revolt in 1881, and as they prepared for battle, they gathered in camps for days, listening to speeches. I was there too, of course, pretending to carry firewood but really enjoying the free entertainment. “We won’t be ruled by the English!” they cried. “Also, does anyone have more wine?” they added. The revolt was fierce, and the Boers won.
From then on, the Transvaal burghers had a new sense of purpose
By 1915, the Afrikaners were well on their way to becoming a political force. Ethnic consciousness, they called it. I called it endless meetings, debates, and pamphlets. I didn’t mind the idea of freedom, but the constant shouting about “Afrikaner pride” grated on me like sand in a wound.
“Nghilichi!” called Oom Hendrik again.
“We are writing a manifesto on the importance of being Afrikaner. Will you help?”
I looked at him, deadpan. “What’s it pay?”
Hendrik looked scandalized. “This is for the people, Nghilichi! For the future of our children!”
I shook my head. “I’ll stick to chopping wood, thanks.” And so, as the Afrikaners continued their march toward ethnic pride and political dominance, I stayed in the background, rolling my eyes at their dramatic speeches, watching as they forged their identity one blunder at a time.
Moral of the story?
If you ever want to rise to power, start by making a fuss about wine taxes. It works wonders.
Phuuu! Choyoyo.
