September 26, 2008

Roots Revisited (while on the coffee break)

Posted by Henk Campher under activist, activists, Africa, African, Afrikaner, Apartheid, bigotry, blog, blogging, children, culture, dad, family, government, hate, hope, I am because you are, kids, life, live, love, men, mom, mother, parents, people, personal, politics, race, racism, religion, rugby, school, schools, son, South Africa, sport, street, ubuntu, Uncategorized, University of Stellenbosch | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[8] Comments 

I thought it might be a good thing to look back at why I started blogging. You know, while I’m taking a coffee break. I first started writing as An Accidental Activist. Can’t get away from all the “A’s” I guess. It was meant to be about stories of my life and how I got here. I started writing about my past to leave something for my kids to read one day. For them to see what their dad was about. My past and my journey. Hope they will still believe their old man was okay. But I started ranting and raving about issues that pissed me off and someone said, “You are a real angry African on the loose”. (Thanks Cheryl.) And that’s how I got the name Angry African. Not as romantic or inspirational as what people might think. But it flowed onwards from there.

I wrote a few pieces under An Accidental Activist. Like I said, mostly about my life so far. I think it is time to look back at the first post I ever wrote. Just in case you missed it. I might edit it a bit this time. Add something or take something away. Or just rewrite pieces. Or nothing! But unlikely I’ll do nothing! I’ll see where it takes me. (Note: I did rewrite loads and added quite a bit!)

This was my first post ever. Introducing myself. Now reintroducing myself. Then called “An Accidental Activist: I wasn’t born to be an activist“. Now revisited…

Roots Revisited: I wasn’t born to be an Angry african

I wasn’t born to be an activist. Or an angry African. Quite the opposite, really. I was born to be the stereotypical ‘good, racist Afrikaner’ in Apartheid South Africa. My family supported Apartheid and all of them worked for the Apartheid regime at some stage in their lives. We lived off the fat of the Apartheid land. And for most part went through life nice and ignorant. Just the way they liked it.

I had everything a young boy could think of. Days playing in the streets with my friends. A bicycle to ride to school with. Playing sport on some of the best fields of dreams out there. Cool clothes that made me look like I just stepped out of of Miami Vice. A plate of unbelievable food every day – meat, potatoes and rice being staple food for Afrikaners. Friends and family everywhere around me. Good times. Fun times. Unreal times. Lying times.

My dad was a Brigadier in the South African Prison Services, and one of his last assignments was to look after political prisoners at Pollsmoor prison. We didn’t get along. Even when I was still “his (racist) little boy”. Both my sisters worked at the prison service at some stage of their lives and married guys who worked at the prison services. And my brother worked for the prison services on Robben Island – where Nelson Mandela was jailed. They have all left since then. Maybe realizing that the life we were told was real life wasn’t that real after all. And that it wasn’t that great for everyone living in South Africa.

I grew up in a home that did everything the Apartheid government wanted us to do. We were part of the Dutch Reformed Church – the Apartheid government in prayer. We went to Church every Sunday. To Sunday school. I got confirmed at a Dutch Reformed Church when I was 16 or something. We were the Church. I left the Dutch Reformed Church. And they have left me.

We watched rugby – then the sport of the white Afrikaner. We went to Newlands on a Saturday to watch our team play other white boys. We went to club rugby games to see our local white boys play other white boys from neighboring towns. I played rugby for my school and practiced almost every day. We played other white schools on a Saturday morning before we went to Newlands. I walked away from it for a while, but rugby stayed with me. Still loved it, but couldn’t face it. It changed when our national team won the World Cup in 1995 and we could all call it our team. But I now I know it was another tool under Apartheid before that beautiful day in 1994 when we had our first democratic elections. Politics on the field. And we didn’t even know it. I didn’t know it when I was a kid.

I went to school at Paarl Gymnasium – one of the best Apartheid schools in South Africa. I attended the University of Stellenbosch – the ‘brain trust‘ of the Apartheid policies and politics. We read the Apartheid government approved newspapers and watched their TV. I benefited from the education they provided and the money they paid my dad. I was made for a life supporting and working for the Apartheid government. I was a star pupil of the Apartheid system. And I didn’t even know it. But I should have.

I was well on my way to become one of them. I did everything they expected me to do. I was a young racist Afrikaner, ready to take my place in their world. Well, at least the small world within the white community in South Africa. But somehow it didn’t happen though.

Somewhere along the line things didn’t work out the way they planned. Maybe it was the fact that I poked fun at everything. Acted out Apartheid leaders on stage in one man shows at school. Half of the people laughing and the teachers staring at me not knowing if I was making a political statement or just being funny. I was just being funny. I didn’t know about politics. But I knew funny.

Maybe it was because my mother told me to question everything. To look beyond the obvious. Maybe it was just that the world wasn’t right. Even for a young kid it didn’t always seem just right. Why can’t I have black friends dad? Why can’t they come over to play? What are those shacks in the townships? Why don’t those kids have nice clothes dad? Why do they look so thin and dirty? See, there dad! Just on the other side of the fence if you look out the car window dad. Come on, you can’t not see them daddy! Why aren’t they allowed on the beaches dad? It’s just a beach, isn’t it? They are pretty funny when you talk to them dad. Really, just speak to them, you’ll see. I see and speak to them often at the station when I go to cricket games. Why do they ride in the other carriages dad? Looks a bit cramped in there. And the buses. Look dad! We have one of them working in our house. She looks after me when you aren’t here. She’s nice. She could be family. She is family dad. She gives nice hugs when I hurt my knee or cut my finger. Why do we call them “them” dad? They look like me. Eat like me. Play like me. They are me daddy…

Slowly but surely I became everything that Apartheid was against – an activist. An Angry African. Speaking out against their system. “Them” taking me in as one of ”their” own and becoming me. I am because they are. I became them. I am them. The Apartheid “them” becoming the people I saw as different.  As the others. Instead of being the man they wanted me to be, I became the man I wanted to be. It hasn’t always been easy. It hasn’t always been fun. But it always felt right. From Stellenbosch to Seattle, Mali to Monterrey, and Lusaka to London – no matter where the road took me, it always felt right, and it always felt as if I belonged. I felt like this was what I was meant to be. Just me.

Why was it important to write about this? I don’t know. I hope I didn’t offend anyone. But it is important to know who we are. That we come from places we can’t always be proud of. That we have a history. I don’t know if it is important to know this about me. But it is for me. Maybe just to let you know that we aren’t always born into what we become. That we have choices. We can take the bad and the good and still be someone we can face when we look in the mirror. That we don’t have to be proud of everything in our past. But that we can take our past and own it. You can be born into hatred but still come out hugging the world. That’s the beauty of life – you can be who and what you want to be no matter where you come from. You decide. It’s easier than you think. It’s really your choice. Make it. Today.

 

September 8, 2008

My dad and the hubcap guy

Posted by Henk Campher under children, dad, ethics, family, farmers, homeless, life, live | Tags: , , , |
[9] Comments 

You might know that my dad and I didn’t get along. Yeah, that might be an understatement. You see, my dad was an ass. But I do remember a story or two that makes me laugh at the old man. And the story of the hubcap guy always makes me laugh.

But before I tell you about the hubcap… My dad collected things. Not just anything. Anything crap to be more specific. He had a garage that could hold three cars and still have some space left open. But he only parked one car in there. His Mercedes. Big old ship of a car. The 300D mid-80s diesel version – silver of course. More like a ship than a silver bullet. But he loved that old Merc of his.

But it was old style diesel. Not this fancy stuff you get today. You had to turn the key one way and let it “warm up” first. A little light will go on and then you turn the key the other way. And “boom” with a puff of diesel smoke the baby will start up. And you could see that petrol/diesel meter drop as you idle while you wait for the engine to warm up. That baby was heavy on fuel.

And that car stood in that garage. I had to wash it and polish it. But he hardly drove the thing. He had this clapped out Toyota Hilux. Another diesel. And it drove like a jackhammer. You felt every little piece of the road. Including that ant you just drove over. Oh he loved taking me for a ride in his “bakkie” (what we call a pickup truck in South Africa). I think it made him feel all farmer. He even bought it from a farmer. Of course it had to be a Hilux. Bloody hell, every guy who bought a bakkie that wanted to be “old school” had to have a Hilux. I drove a 1965 Beetle…

But back to his garage.

His bakkie was parked outside the garage because my dad collected crap. Loads of crap. Anything goes really. And it all had to go into the garage. He had it all. Old toilets he found on the rubbish dump. Tables he took from friends who sold their houses. Nuts and bolts and screws to fill a Home Depot store or two. And a physio table. Yeah. A physio table. I mean WTF? The closest he ever got to being a physio was stretching to put his socks on in the morning or tucking in his shirt. But it was a bargain. He found it in the local paper and bought it. Why? Hell, I asked him that many times. And his stock answer was, “You never know when you need one”. WTF? Can you think of a reason why you might just need a physio table and thanked god that you kept one in the garage “just in case”? He never did find a reason to use it. Apart from putting more crap on it that he got from somewhere else. I guess it was just fine for stacking boxes.

Anyway, this isn’t about his bakkie or his physio table. This is about another bit of crap he bought and how it came back to bite him. This happened many years ago. When my dad and myself were still talking. And still driving together once in a while.

He decided to spoil me and take me to town with his Merc. For a number one haircut I might add. So he parked and found one of the local homeless guys to look after his car while we ran off to the barber. I am sure the guy knew my dad because he was notorious for paying people peanuts. A 15% tip? Hell no. More like a 0.15% tip and an earful about the crap service. Dad, it’s the Spur, what do you expect? (Spur is a chain of restaurants in the line with Uno’s. No, more like a Uno’s with the service of a Denny’s.) So he flipped the guy 20 cents and off we went.

I had my haircut or hair slaughtered to put it mildly. I remember that the guy had shaking hands. Leaving my hair uniquely styled for school bullies to target. I had a few fights at school back then. Defending more than attacking! But I had my hair slaughtered and we were off to go jump in the Merc and go home. At least the drive back home was going to be better than the haircut. And then it happened. Someone made my dad an offer he couldn’t refuse. Offered him more crap to buy.

The guy that was meant to look after my dad’s car came walking towards us and aimed straight for my dad. My dad was pissed off that the guy wasn’t looking after his car after he paid him that “King’s ransom”. But the guy quickly got my dad’s attention when he mentioned something about having a “great deal” on some goods he just picked up. I wasn’t concentrating on the discussion as it was really embarrassing seeing his eyes go all bright with the idea of another “great deal”. He wasn’t even discussing whether he should buy it or not. He went straight into how much he was willing to pay for it. They went this way and that way and eventually settled on an amount. My dad feeling he got ripped off and the guy feeling he got ripped off. Always a sign that both are pretty happy with the deal. So my dad got his goodies and we were on our way back to the car. My dad still looked back at the guy walking the other direction and said, “Is my car okay? I paid you for that you know you lazy bugger.” The guy just kept on walking, waved his hand in the air and shouted, “Ja, ja. It’s okay”.

My dad was now in his element. He got another “great bargain”. I asked him, “What the hell are you going to do with that? You already have four so you don’t need two more do you?” He just gave me a “humpf” noise and shook his head at his stupid boy. What the hell do I know?

We got to the car and it hit me. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. This was revenge. This was justice. There was my dad standing with this “great bargain” in his hands. Two hubcaps. And missing from the Merc?

Two hubcaps.

The hubcap guy just made my day. And taught me a lesson. You want to get what you want and the other person deserve? Just play on the weakness of the other guy and sell it back to him. Thank you hubcap guy. I would have paid you double what my dad did. And that would still be a “great bargain”.

My dad going shopping...

My dad going shopping...

 

August 18, 2008

She doesn’t care

Posted by Henk Campher under children, dad, daughters, family, girls, kids, life, live, love, men, personal, wife | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , |
[23] Comments 

Some days are more difficult than others. The walk home from the train station feels like it will take forever. My legs get heavier and heavier with each step. It’s just one of those days. When it all gets a little bit too much. Some days I just feel older than the mountains. My soul feels drained. I am tired to my bones. I am going home. But all I want to do is get into bed and sleep. Curl up and switch off the lights. The light inside my head. But not everyone notice or care.

I haven’t even hit the first step to the porch yet when I hear it. “Daddy’s home!” It’s the little one. And she has been waiting for me to come home. But not tonight. Tonight daddy is tired. He needs time to switch off. Daddy doesn’t feel like much tonight.

I open the door and my oldest runs up and jumps into my arms. “Hello Dad!” Big kiss and a hug. The little one is patiently waiting for her turn. She is still to small to jump. But she tries. A little hobble and a bump and she almost hits my knees. I pick her up and give her a hug and a kiss. She gives me a big squeeze. “Hello daddy. I missed you.” I put her down and put my bag down. Go into the kitchen and kiss my wife. I am in robot mode. Doing what I do because I love them. They don’t have to suffer my tiredness.

The little one shouts, “Hey dad! We’re having goggas tonight. Ooh, I looove goggas”. Goggas is spaghetti bolognese. A family favorite. We call it goggas because of the spaghetti strings. Goggas is spider or bugs in my language. A bowl of spaghetti looks like spider legs. And she loves goggas. No, she loooves goggas.

I stand in the kitchen with my wife. Just listening to how her day was. Packing away the dishes and packing the dishwasher. Taking out the bowls and forks. My wife can see I am not myself. She knows this mood. When I feel as if I am away from my body. Staring at myself through a cloud. She’ll ask me what’s wrong. And I’ll just say, “Nothing”. Really nothing. I am just tired.

I hear her voice shouting from the lounge. The little one. “Dad! Come look here. I made you something!” I drag myself to the lounge. She jumps up with her big smile and bigger eyes. Sparkling. “Look dad. I made you a picture. See? It’s you and Mommy. And there’s a tree. And a princess. It’s me. And there’s another princess. My sister. And a cat. And some broccoli. I looove broccoli. I made it for you daddy.” She smiles and her eyes shines with happiness because she gave me a present. I put up my best smile. I say thank you for the pretty picture. I ask her to put it at my bag. I’ll take it later. I hardly looked at the picture. I smile at her and go back to the kitchen. No focus. No attention span.

We sit down and eat together. The four of us. I am quiet. My oldest one tells me of the book she is reading. I nod my head and flash a smile. The little one pipes up. “Hey dad! Knock, knock.” “Who’s there”. “Banana.” “Banana who?” “Banana is naked and crossing the road. Haaaaahaha.” I smile at her. She doesn’t get all the jokes yet. But she tries. And she finds them extremely funny. I am still in a daze. Everything clicks over so much slower in my mind when I am like this.

Dinner is done. The little one eats her desert while I clean up the kitchen. She is done. And she runs up and shouts, “Dad. Pick me up! Pick me up!” “Please girl. I am tired. I just want to do the kitchen. Just eat your ice-cream please.” “I’m done daddy. Pick me up. Pick me up! Let me touch the roof!” I sigh. “Oh girl, daddy is really tired. Just once okay.” I pick her up and lift her high up so she can touch the roof. She giggles. “Again! Again!” “No girl. Really. Dad’s tired.” “Just one more time please daddy. Let me touch the roof!” I sigh. “Oh girl.” I pick her up and lift her up sideways. She really has to stretch for this one. And she giggles and laughs. “I touched it daddy! I touched it. Thank you dad!” I give a half-hearted smile. “Well done girl.”

Time to get her in bed. ”Come let’s go bath. Quickly girl. Daddy’s still got lots to do. Let’s move it.” “Carry me up dad! Carry me up.” I really don’t have the energy. “Please girl. Daddy’s tired. Can’t you just walk up the stairs?” “Please daddy. Carry me up?” I pick her up. She puts her arms around my neck and puts her head on my shoulder. I can see her smile from the corner of my eye. She whispers, “I love you daddy”. “I love you to girl. Daddy’s just tired okay? Let’s just get into the bath and get it done okay?” “Okay daddy.” She is still smiling.

But it isn’t okay. We get upstairs and I put her down. She runs around like a crazy thing. This little girl with the build-in nuclear energy reactor and the smile. She runs into her bigger sister’s room just to irritate her. She runs in and makes a silly face, wiggles her bums and runs out laughing. She runs into our bedroom and jumps on the bed. Off on the other side. Chase the cats. Runs into her room and runs out. “Come on girl. Please. Move it. Let’s get into the bath. I am tired. I still have lots to do. Please.” I am begging now. She gets on the toilet and makes a wee. I get her bath ready. I walk past her to go get her toothbrush. She grabs my legs with her short little legs. Trying to trip me. “Oh please girl.” She giggles and laughs. “I got you daddy.” This is turning into a long night.

She is done on the loo. She flushes and closes the lid. And then jumps on top of the lid. It’s next to the mirror. “Come daddy. Time for a photo.” “Oh please girl. Not tonight.” “Come daddy. Just one photo.” I lean forward and she leans over to me and grabs my shoulders – and on her tippy toes leans over to the mirror for the “photo”. She looks at me and says, “smile for the photo daddy”. I give a fake smile and she smiles with her teeth showing all over the place. “Cheese daddy.” It’s done. “Wait daddy. A funny one.” “You said only one girl.” “But we always do a funny one.” I am getting impatient. “Come on now.” She leans in again and pulls what she thinks is a funny face. I pull a funny face. She laughs as if it is the funniest thing she has ever seen. “Come girl. Let’s just brush your teeth.”

We brush her teeth. She sucks the toothpaste and plays with the water in her mouth when she gargles. She spits all over the basin. “Look at my clean teeth daddy.” She flashes me her teeth – pushing her whole face forward. “See how shiny they are daddy.” “Very pretty. Now come now girl. Let’s just bath.” Please.

She runs out the bath into our room and turns around. She faces the bathroom like an athlete ready to start the marathon. She runs screaming to the bathroom and when she gets to the edge of the bath she shouts “cannonball!”. And then stops and slowly gets in the bath on little foot after the other.

“More water dad. Make it deeper. More bubbles.” “Come girl. Please! Stop splashing. Just a quick bath tonight. Daddy really needs to get his work done and get into bed. Let’s just finish.” She ggiles and laughs when I wash her feet. “It’ so ticklish dad”, she says while laughing. She splashes around and throws all her toys in the bath. ”Where’s my little duckie?” Crisis. “Find it daddy. His mommy and daddy is waiting for him and he is all alone.” I find the duckie and pull the plug at the same time. The water drains out like my energy.

Drying her and dressing her. Never easy. She smears water on my clothes with her wet hands to see what patterns she can make. “Pull my finger daddy.” Oh. I pull her finger and she makes a farting sound with her mouth. Haha. “Wasn’t that funny daddy?” “Put some cream on me daddy. My skin is itchy.” At last time to get her dressed. I slip on her pajamas and she starts giggling. “Don’t tickle me dad.” I know what she wants. She wants me to tickle her under her arms (kieliebakke) when she lifts her arms. She crashes to the floor when I just put one finger under her arm. “Oh dad. I told you not to tickle me.” She says this while lying on the floor laughing and saying “Oh, ooooooh” the whole time. Time for bed. She goes to sleep first and then I must hit the sack. I am knackered. My brain is starting to shut down.

“Wait daddy. I forgot my dodo bear”. “Oh, come on girl. Just get another toy to sleep with you okay?” “But it’s dodo bear daddy. He always sleeps with me.” She runs down stairs to get the bloody bear. I lie down on her bed and close my eyes. Oh please I hope she gets the bear and move it. I shout from the top, “Move it girl!” She runs up the stairs and into her room holding up dodo bear and shouting, “Got him dad!”

She struggles to get up her bed. It’s too high. And the she jumps off. “Oh, I almost forgot to put my baby Jack-jack in his bed.” I sigh. Just hang in there. It’s almost done. I am just going through the motions now. Trying to survive this whirlwind. Almost done.

She grabs a book. It’s Wally (Waldo in the US). She knows where Wally is hiding. She finds them all faster than me. It takes just a few minutes to read. Thank God. ”Again dad. One more time!” She wants to do it again… And again… “One more time daddy.” Always a spark and a sparkle in her voice.

My tiredness has caught up and getting way ahead of me now. I am on edge of the abyss staring down. The floor is sucking me down.

“Okay girl. That’s enough. I’ll put on your Nemo CD and you go to sleep now. Okay? I don’t want to hear you again when I go downstairs. It’s time for bed now.”

I get up and press play on her CD player. I wait a split second to check if the volume is okay. It’s done. I get up and start walking out the door. At last. I can finish everything else and get into bed. I am not even going to blog tonight. There is just nothing left in the tank. I am on the edge. I have to go to sleep before I get too grumpy. Or rather grumpier. And then I hear my little ones voice. No sparkle this time. No happiness. Just a sad little voice coming softly from her bed.

“But daddy. What about my huggle* and kissy?”

I froze. It’s like Mike Tyson in his prime just hit me in my stomach. Like a sledgehammer. I winch. It sucks the wind out of my system. The blood drains from my whole boddy. The huggle. How can I forget the huggle?

All she wanted was a huggle and a kissy. All she is is happy about is seeing her dad. From when she gets up in the morning and misses me to when I get home. She phones in the morning to say hello and to tell me she loves me and misses me. She just doesn’t care about how tired I am. She doesn’t care that I had a tough day. Or that I feel drained. Or that I feel the weight on my shoulders today. She doesn’t care because she loves me. She doesn’t care because she has been waiting all day to see her daddy. And all she wanted was a huggle and a kissy.

I stood there for a minute. I could feel the tears coming. How could I do this to my little girl. She just wants her daddy. I turn around and pull my funniest face – mouth skew, tongue out, eyes wide – everything. And say in my stupidest and deepest monster voice, “A tuggle? What’s a tuggle? Is it like a tickle?”

Her eyes lights up immediately. And a huge smile spreads across her face. “No daddy! I said a huggle! Not a tickle!” I run over to her and gave her a tickle that goes on forever. She laughed from her stomach. Big breaths as she laughs her heart out. And then we quiet down and I look at her and say, “I love you so much my girlie”. “I love you too daddy.”

I give her a big huggle and a big kissy. No. A BIIIIIG huggle and a HUUUGE kissy. “One more daddy.” “And another one daddy.” And then she smiles at me and turns around to grab dodo bear. I leave the room with another “I love you girlie” and a “I love you daddy”. And another quick huggle and a kissy.

That’s my little girl. She doesn’t care because she loves me. All she wanted was her dad. And a huggle and kissy.

And as I walked down the stairs I made a little promise to myself. Never again will I chase her on to finish up. Never again will I give her a half-hearted smile. Never again will I tell her to hurry up. Never again will I tell her daddy just wants to go to sleep. Never again will I not smile for the photo. Never again will I feel too tired. Never again will I forget about the huggle and the kissy. Because she doesn’t care. And rightly so. She’s my little girlie.

___________________________

* Note: A huggle is a word she created. It’s a combination of a hug and a cuddle. A big hug. No, a huge hug. But with lots of love. A huggle.

 

August 6, 2008

When dad came to watch™

Posted by Henk Campher under birthday, children, dad, family, girls, kids, life, love, marriage, mom, mother, personal, school, wife, Wii, woman | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
[14] Comments 
Today was the birthday of my youngest daughter. She turned the Big Five. Yes 5. So I took the day off. To spend with the girls. But let me tell you a bit about me as a dad before I tell you about today.

My permanently suffering wife always tells people that we had kids so I can have friends to play with. Someone at my level. Someone to grow up with. And then she rolls her eyes and laughs. My friends just nod their heads knowingly.

I am a joker. I know. I am just not the “tough dad”. I can’t discipline them at all. I wish I could (not really), but I just can’t. My oldest daughter (11) even jokes about it. She’ll say something like “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?” But not in a nasty way. In a joking fun way with lots of laughter. They listen to me. Sometimes. They know that dad is fun and a joker. And we’ll have fun as long as we are nice to each other and listen to each other. Respect and love each other. Continue to be a family.

I even joke about being becoming an ”all tough new dad” and frown – and flip up one eyebrow. And then we burst out laughing. Cue my oldest daughter with a snap of her finger, “Like that’s ever going to happen”. Being strict just doesn’t flow in my blood. I always joke with them. And we always tell jokes – even the youngest one. We go to the park. I read for them at night. We dance to silly songs. Dress up. Pull faces. Wrestle and flip them over. Wise crack – always. Fart and burp – and then say “Good one” before mom tells us to say “Excuse me please.” Tickle. Run riot. Eat funny in restaurants. Dive into the pool fully clothed. Just havoc whatever we do and wherever we go – one rule: HAVE FUN. Wave at people we don’t know. Giggle at everything. Love and hugs 24/7. And lots of laughter. In general, just drive my poor wife crazy. All she can do is shake her head and laugh. She married a crazy one. But I think she likes it. I bloody well hope so. I am NEVER going to let her go.

But I also work. I get up at 6 and leave before they are awake. Sometimes my youngest will be awake and give me a hug and a kiss and say, “I love you dad”. But they are generally asleep when I leave. And I get back at around 7:30 – just in time for us to sit together and eat. And then I bath my youngest one and read her a story. And they are off to sleep. “I love you my angel” – my last words to them in the evening and the first in the morning.

We still have fun, but we have less time. And I don’t see everything they do. I miss the dance classes. And the summer camps. And the trips to the shops. And the hanging out at the house. And the school trips. And the…

And we wait for the weekends. Or “mom and dad days” as my youngest calls it. That’s when chaos hits the house. That’s when we go wild. And when my poor wife suffers the most. The three kids and a suffering mama.

So today was a special day in more ways than one. Dad was home in the middle of the week. We had fun. We got up and sang “Happy Birthday” and opened presents. We had breakfast and went to say a quick hello to the teacher across the road. Family phoned in from South Africa. Off to swimming to see the girls in their swimming classes – it was the first time I came to watch. Back home for a lunch together. Played some Wii and other games with the new toys. Off to the party across the road with all her friends – and more presents to open. Played outside with the friends for while and then back home. It was a great, great day. A full day. They had a blast. And they did loads. She had fun. And so did her sister.

And then we got together to sit and have dinner together. It was a favourite of hers – mash, sausage, butternut and chicken in crumbs. And we joked a bit more and pulled faces at the table and ate funny. Mom gave up and just put her face in her hands and laughed – this is when we know she is the matriarch looking after her den. And we looked at the girls and asked, “So what was the best part of the day for you?”

And they both said, “When dad came to watch us swim”.

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March 8, 2008

I slept while my mother died

Posted by Henk Campher under children, dad, death, family, life, love, mom, mother, suicide | Tags: , , , , , , , |
[22] Comments 

This will the the hardest thing I ever write. Writing about my mother. She was everything my dad wasn’t. That was easy to write about compared to this. Because my dad was an ass. But my mom. She was my mom.

You see, I was her favourite one. Sorry sis, but I was mom’s favourite one. She loved us all. But I was her favourite one. Maybe because I was the youngest. And a bit unplanned. But I was her favourite one. She always dreamed of me as a little boy of about 6. In my khaki outfit and long socks and sandals. I never grew up in her eyes. I always stayed her little baby. Although she always laughed when I still tried to sit on her lap when I was older – much older. But I was her baby. And I was her favourite one. Maybe it was because I lived at home. Always there to be with her. Someone she could look after. Someone she could look after when no one looked after her.

We were very different. My mom and I. She was a proper lady. Never coughed in public. People shouldn’t see the inside of your mouth you see. So she laughed in a funny way as well. Always trying to keep her mouth closed while she laughed. Not me. I tried everything to make her laugh. Stupid things. Because we were so different. I am the “pull-my-finger” type of dad. My mom – she never pulled my finger. Not without having a closed-mouth laugh in any case.

But that only made it more of a challenge. How to gross her out. And boy did I try. Especially during the big Sunday lunch. I’ll mix up all my food and stuffed my face. And then I’ll start talking to her with my mouth full. Really full. She couldn’t look at me. But she laughed with that funny mouth of hers. And she ate so bloody slowly. Three rice grains and a pea and that was it. And she believed in the “chew-your-food-30-times” before she swallowed. And that was always my next chance to get her to laugh. I’ll gulp down my food and get up and announce to the world that it was time to feed my mom. So I’ll sit next to her and feed her. And we laughed. Oh, the tears that ran down her face was just a sight to see. Desert was a special time. Ice-cream and jelly for me (jello in the US). And I’ll make as if I am snorting it up, but meanwhile I was making the noises with my mouth. She was so disgusted in me. But she laughed and laughed. With a hoo-hoo-hoo – she laughed like an owl. And in between the laughs she will say swearwords that will never-ever cross her mouth at any other time. “O donnertjie tog, my kind” (rough translation: “Oh, bloody hell my child”). She couldn’t control her laughter. She might not laugh with an open mouth. But she laughed so easily when I did my tricks. And sometimes. Just sometimes, she would lose all control and have to run to the bathroom to stop herself. Although she didn’t always make it in time. Yes, my mother loved laughing at my silly jokes. And I loved making her laugh. We loved each other. My mother and I.

We had to. We had to make each other laugh. We had to have fun with each other. My mother and I. Because my dad wasn’t much to laugh at behind closed doors. Always the funny man in front of others. But never to my mom. So I made her laugh. And she spoiled me. She spoiled me rotten. That was my mother. She spoiled me rotten.

She made me breakfast every single morning while I stayed at home. Even when I went to university. I stayed at home. In my own little place outside, but at home. Close to my mom. She could see me sleeping from the kitchen. And she got up before me every morning to make my waking up the best part of the day. She’ll make me coffee and come into my room quietly. Yes, quietly. She’ll put my coffee next to my bed on a cup-warmer and talk softly to me to try and wake me up. “Morning my boy. Time to wake up. It is lovely day.” I’ll wake up slowly while she talks to me. And she’ll prop the pillow up for me to sit up in bed and have my cup of coffee. The extra-large mug that said “I Love Mom”. I bought it myself.

She hated me smoking. But she gave me a clean ashtray to have a smoke while I drink my coffee and have a quick chat to her. And she knew how to time her morning routine perfectly as well. Half-way through my smoke she will get up and get breakfast ready. She timed it that she started making my breakfast the minute she saw me get up to shave and shower. I’ll get dressed and walk straight into the kitchen with her perfect timing. As I sat down she gave me the breakfast I wanted every single morning. A slice of toast, some marmite on it and a fried egg – soft in the middle. But still hot as it just came off the pan. A little bit of pepper and salt – thanks mom. Always perfect. Every single morning. And she sat and had her tea while I had my breakfast. We’ll talk about my day and smile at each other. I’ll tell her a funny joke or two to make her laugh. And she’ll tell me to stop it because it is too early for that. And then I’ll get up give her a kiss and she’ll give me my daily 5 Rand (about 80 cents) for the day – enough for a sandwich, coffee, smokes and a beer. And she’ll stand at the door and wave at me while I drive off. Just her and my dog. Ready for her day. My dad will be out playing bowls or visiting his friends. I knew she was just waiting for me to come home and share a cup of tea together (always the Three Trees brand). My mom and me – we had fun. Fun when I was there. But I don’t know what she did while she waited for me to come home. Just her and the dog.

Weekends was the best though. We had a ball then. I would go out surfing a bit and come home ready to take my mom out on a date. Just the two of us. We’ll jump in her car and head for the mall. It’s time for the movies and a bite to eat. We’ll watch whatever I wanted to watch. It was always an action movie for me. She’ll buy us tickets for the latest Harrison Ford or Stallone movie and get ready for some action. She always said she loved it, but I wasn’t always that sure. She used to grab my arm tightly and whisper little swearwords (“O donnertjie tog”) every single time something  happened – just a change of scenery got her jumping. She always expected the worse. But she was all smiles when we got out and headed for the Pizza place – always the same place. Panarotti’s. I’ll have a huge pizza and she’ll have something small – a salad or something. And she’ll stare at me while I ate. And we spoke about the movie and how much fun it was. And we wondered what we will watch or do next weekend. You see, my dad never took her to the movies.

Watching her watch television was fun too. We were one of the first people in our street to get a television. And she was gripped. She watched everything. But she loved The Protectors. We had a full house of people coming over each time The Protectors was on. And she got so involved in the story. She believed it was true. And she even believed she could make a difference. I was very, very little, but in one scene I will never forget, Contessa di Contini was being followed by a guy with a knife. And he was slowly but surely creeping up to her – ready to pounce. He was about to stab her when my mom jumped up and shouted – “Agter jou Contessa. Pasop. Hy is agter jou!” (“Behind you, Contessa. Look out. He is behind you!”) Oh we laughed about that one. And we laughed many more times at each Sunday lunch. Especially when I used to shout that in the middle of my dad praying when I spied the dog sitting behind her. Yes. She believed she could make a difference.

But I grew up and eventually had to move out of the house. I only did that when I got married. Oh how my mother hated my wife in the beginning. But she got to love her when my wife became a mother – and my mother saw this beautiful child and knew she was the one for me. But in the beginning she thought that my wife took me away from her. Her little boy. She didn’t want me to get married. She just sat there during the service and stared at my wife. She never smiled. And she phoned me to tell me to come home – the day after I got back from honeymoon. But I grew up. And she had no one to wait for anymore. Just a few visits – maybe once or twice a month. She had no one to spoil anymore. Even the dog had to be put down because of illness and old age.

But we had fun whenever we went to visit her. She’ll make my favourite food – buttermilk pudding, potato salad, braai (barbeque), her special cake, and home-made bread. Oh yes, the home-made bread. I was never allowed to cut the bread. I was going to cut my fingers off you see. I was just a little boy. Her little boy. But I got her laughing her funny laugh with that one as well – a new trick. It involved a knife and some tomato sauce. Needless to say, she was in a panic for a while. Grabbing my hand and putting it under the tap. Until she realized what I did. And then it was all funny laughs again. Yes. We still had fun when we had a chance.

But she wasn’t too healthy. She suffered from many illnesses. Not sickly. But she had many problems – from vertigo to depression. And it was tough for her. With no one at home. Not even the dog. And my dad was always out with his friends or playing bowls. It was tough for her. For someone who always had me around to spoil. Now it was just her and her thoughts. And no one to wait for at night. Just hope for a weekend or two each month.

My sister called me one night from her home. My mom was crying and called out for help. She couldn’t get hold of me. So she phoned my sister. My dad was cheating on her. She didn’t know what to do. I had enough. Enough of him. I raced to their place and got them to sit down and talk to me. I told my dad he was now messing with my life. Messing with my mother. Time to grow up and be a man. Time to take responsibility. She needed him. She needed him to look after her. To be there at night for them to share a meal. Sit together and watch television. I told him to make his choice now. Be a man or walk away. He didn’t walk away. And maybe that was a mistake. Because he said he will look after her. I wasn’t there to look after her. And maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe she just wanted someone to spoil and someone to wait for at night.

I think my mother died a little bit each day. With a husband who didn’t love her. With a house that was empty. Just her thoughts and herself. It was always about me. Always about what she could do for me. The breakfasts. The movies. The pizzas. The tea. The laughs. It was always about me. And what she could do for me and with me. I was her life. While she had me. And when I left? What was left of her? I don’t know. I loved her. But I don’t know what she wanted from life apart from making me happy and looking after me. Her little boy.

And when I left – what was left? Could my mother have done things differently? I don’t know. I think she was drained of who she was so slowly that she didn’t realize what was happening. Drained by my dad and what he did to her. Drained by her kids who meant everything to her. You see. I was sleeping while she watched me. I was sleeping while she lived her life just for me. I was sleeping when I got the call. It was 3 in the morning.

It was my other sister. She was at my mom’s. She was just visiting. And she was crying and shouting. She didn’t make sense. Something about my mother. Something about my mother. Something happened to my mother. Something about a gun. Something about my mother and a gun. It didn’t make sense. Did someone shoot her? It didn’t make sense. We both hated guns. And then I heard it. Time just stood still. I heard it. But I couldn’t understand the words. I knew the words. Three little words. But it didn’t make sense. And then she said it again. And it hit me and drained me of everything. Time didn’t stop. My heart didn’t stop. It just felt like it. It was my soul that got ripped out.

“Mom shot herself”.

I know I drove there immediately. I was on that road for 30 minutes. But the next thing I remember was standing there looking at my mom. The police wasn’t there yet. And my sister and dad was in the kitchen. The kitchen where I had those breakfasts with my mom. My mom looked so peaceful. Lying down. She always had beautiful skin. And her skin looked beautiful. She had a little funny smile on her face. Just as I remembered. She looked happy. Like she always looked when she saw me.

I sat down next to her and took her hand. “Don’t worry mom. I am here.” I just sat there with her and held her hand. Knowing not to look beyond her face. Not to look at the other side of her head. Whispering to her while crying. Crying because there will be no more breakfasts together. No more movies together. No more tea together. No more funny laughs. No more feeding her. No more snorting ice-cream and jelly. No more waiting for me. My mom was gone. She couldn’t wait any longer.

I slept while my mother died. I slept while my mother lived. I was there for her. And I wasn’t there for her. I never knew what she did during those days when she waited for me. And I don’t know what she did when there was no more evenings to look forward to. I slept while my mother died. But I loved my mom. I loved my mom. I love my mom.

To my wife: I love you more than life. Thank you for being with me and making me a better man. I always want to know what you do while you wait for us. While you wait for the girls to come home from school. While you wait for me to come home from work. I always want to know who you are and what you do. Because I am because of you. Without you I am nothing. I do what I do because the strength my mother gave me and the strength you give me. I love you.

And thank you for being there when my mother died. Thank you for helping me remember my mom the way she wants to be remembered. And not because of that last 5 minutes of madness in her life. Thank you for reminding me that we will never know. That all we can know is that I loved her. And that she loved me. Even when I was sleeping.

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