Eggs to Lay, Chickens to Hatch

Chris Van Wyk

Description

Agnes, the Van Wyks’ Zulu housekeeper, had a special friendship with young Chris in the late sixties to early seventies. He would defend her whenever she came to work with a hangover on a Monday morning and made a mess of the cleaning. In turn, Agnes never told on Chris when he played truant from school.

As the years passed, the two grew closer, swopping stories about coloureds and Zulus, life in Riverlea and Soweto, pass laws, politics and falling in love. She taught him to count in Zulu and he promised to teach her to read in English.

Whenever the clock ran against her, Agnes would stop almost in mid-sentence, grab a broom or cloth, and declare: ‘I have to rush. I have eggs to lay, chickens to hatch.’

What an odd, ungrammatical thing to say, Chris often mused. But many years later, he played a CD by Louis Jordan, a 1940s American jazz singer, and it all became clear.

Eggs to lay, chickens to hatch (forthcoming end April 2010) is Chris van Wyk’s second childhood memoir about growing up in Riverlea and his colourful interactions with the men and women who lived the African proverb that ‘it takes a village to raise a child’. But mostly it is the story of a wonderful friendship between a young coloured boy and a Zulu woman.

Sujets

• Personal Memoirs
• Sudáfrica
• South Africa
• Friendship
• Biography
• Memoir
• Autobiography
• Afrique du Sud

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781770100947
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Eggs to lay, chickens to hatch
Previous praise for Chris van Wyk

Chris van Wyk . . . tells us more about South Africa than a shelf of self-justifying tomes. Supremely Van Wyk reminds us that the lives and actions of so-called ordinary people have as great an influence on history as those of the so-called great. - Darryl Accone, Mail Guardian Books Editor

Van Wyk s strength is to look at the world as if with the innocent eyes of a child and to convey this hopeful vision to others, to recapture the resilience of childhood so that it is not lost but continues, to shape adult existence and to fortify our collective sense of self. - Sowetan

Where it rumbles with fury, laughter comes as a release. In a phrase, it is a controlled and deliberate account, bursting with life. - Sunday Independent

It s the amazing sense of place and time that Van Wyk brings to his childhood memoir that raises Shirley, Goodness Mercy a cut above many other books in this genre. - Cape Times
Eggs to lay, chickens to hatch
A memoir
Chris van Wyk
Picador Africa
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
A message in the wind
Grace
A matchbox
Goodyear
Dustbin and wife
Snakes and ladders for Christmas
The wait is over
Featuring China and the thirty blikskottels
Scrap heap
Going to Japan
At the swimming pool
Great-granny, half a crown
Eureka! Socrates!
Goodbye Maria
Hullo Agnes
19-Voetsek
A prayer for Bruno
Cowboys and crooks with the sheriff
My diary
A panoramic view
Someone who knew someone
A Russel at the gate
The dangers of alcohol
Tony Polony
The coming of the Cape Coloured Corps
Home secrets
The Stimorol man hits the road
Street secrets
Backyard blues
Superlaaitie
Jiga
Short back and sides
Broke
Mr Jackets goes shopping for shoes
Good books and bad books
Penpals
Sweet Stephanie
Dear Sir, please excuse Christopher
Counting words
The day they came for me
Janine
Time to make a move
Farewell to Agnes
Trouble in the eighties
Elvis
Eggs to lay, chickens to hatch
Glossary
Acknowledgements
First published in 2010 by Picador Africa, an imprint of Pan Macmillan South Africa Private Bag X19, Northlands Johannesburg, 2116

www.panmacmillan.co.za www.picadorafrica.co.za

ISBN 978-1-77010-094-7

Chris van Wyk 2010

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The names and surnames of some of the characters have been changed to protect their privacy.

My name is Selina Mabiletsa was published in 1996 by ViVa Books (PO Box 28510, Kensington, 2101, South Africa).

At the time of going to print, permission was being sought for the following copyright permissions: the two lines from That Old Black Magic , written by Johnny Mercer; the four lines from Only the Lonely , written by Joe Melson and Roy Orbison; the five lines from Moon River , written by Johnny Mercer; the four lines from Sylvia s Mother , written by Shel Silverstein; and the eight lines from Ain t Nobody Here but us Chickens , written by Alex Kramer and Joan Whitney.

Editing by Andrea Nattrass Proofreading by Di Smith Design and typesetting by Rockbottom graphic design Cover design by K4 Cover photograph of Agnes Msiza by Keith Hendricks Cover photograph of Riverlea house by Anneliese Peters Cover illustration of boy by Michal Zacharzewski, stock.xchng
For Kevin and Karl

It takes a village to raise a child.
African proverb
A message in the wind
T he other day I received a phone call from a Ms Smith, a teacher at Kloof Primary School in Johannesburg. She asked me if I would come and talk to her Grade 7s about A message in the wind.
A message in the wind ? I asked. I get requests from schools all the time - to talk to kids about poetry, the importance of reading, freedom fighters such as Nelson Mandela and Beyers Naud - but never about A message in the wind .
A message in the wind is the second book I wrote and the first for children. It s not the best book I ve ever written, and yet it remains one of my favourites. I was young and eager - twenty-three years old - and knew very little about the art of writing.
I wrote the book in 1980. I was newly married and newly jobless and my wife Kathy and I were living at her mother s house in Riverlea. One day I saw an advert in some magazine. Write a children s novel and win R3 000.
Why not, I thought. So, every morning, after Kathy and her mother left for work, I would get up and clean our room, have breakfast, wash dishes. Then I d sit at the dining room table with my ballpoint pens and foolscap paper and get to work. There were no computers then, and I couldn t afford a typewriter.
What came out of my head went something like this: Vusi and Robert, both about twelve years old, are two black South African friends but from different tribes. These two tribes are enemies in the present time, but their hostility goes back to a mysterious feud that happened hundreds of years ago. Vusi and Robert would like to know what that feud was all about.
One day during their school holidays, Vusi and Robert find themselves messing about in the veld , as boys do, looking around and throwing stones at tin cans. They come across an old bath-tub, and, of all things, a light plane that had crashed!
This surprise find gives them an idea: to build a time machine! And what would they do with such a thing? Yes, you guessed - travel into the past to find out why their ancestors became enemies.
So they cart their treasure to Robert s backyard where they get to work. Every afternoon, for a week or so, there s a banging and a chopping and a drilling and a screwing. And there it is: a bath-tub with an aircraft engine and three or four clocks as the dashboard. A time machine.
This is my favourite page of the book which describes what happens next:
Then, on the last day, when they fitted the final screw, the last wire, it began to rain. Even their spirits were drenched.
Well, it s done, Vusi shouted above the loud patter.
Well, let s get inside and try it, suggested Vusi.
Okay, Robert agreed. The two boys climbed into the bath, out of the pouring rain. Robert began to fiddle with the knobs and dials.
Well? Vusi asked.
Well, nothing, said Robert, embarrassed.
At least it s stopped raining, Vusi consoled his friend. Robert fiddled again.
Hey! Vusi nudged his friend.
What s wrong? Robert asked.
It s dry outside.
So?
It s dry! It s not supposed to be . . . it was raining . . .
Robert stared outside. Yes! he exclaimed.
You know what that means? Vusi shouted excitedly.
Perhaps, said Robert. But let s try again.
Robert fiddled with the knobs once more. Suddenly the rain was thundering down.
We were in the past! shouted Vusi.
Yes, cried Robert. We were back to before it rained.
The two boys jumped out of the spacecraft and began to laugh and dance and cry in the rain. Mrs Nhlabatsi, the neighbour, peered over the fence, her face wet and angry.
Stop that noise, you foolish animals. My baby s sleeping!
Yes, Mama! The two boys stopped immediately, feeling sheepish.
And I hope you two have finished all that banging and knocking!
We were just killing time, Mama, Robert explained.
Ms Smith tells me that she has been teaching the book to her Grade 7s for five or six years. And they love the story.
So, will you come and talk to them about the book? she asks.
Of course!
So, one Thursday morning, I find myself standing on the podium in the assembly hall, watching as three classrooms of twelve-year-old boys and girls troop into the hall with their teachers trying, without much success, to keep them quiet.
I watch their nudging and giggling and ear pulling, and it all takes me back to my own childhood. Eventually their teachers get them to sit down - cross-legged on the wooden floor, and keep, almost, quiet. Then a boy farts and the noise begins all over again.
A joke pops into my head which I want to share with the kids: Is there a message in the wind? I want to ask the boys. But when I note the looks of embarrassment on the faces of the teachers, I decide not to tell the joke.
After my talk about my little novel, I decide to play a game with the kids.
If you could travel back in time, I ask them, what would you do, where would you go, what would you change?
The hands fly up and I choose five or six random boys and girls.
I would go and visit Nelson Mandela when he was my age - and tell him that he would be president one day.
I wouldn t go far, a boy says. I would go to a time when I could see the Lotto numbers, play them and win twenty million rand.
But to do that you d have to travel into the future, I point out.
He s ready for this problem. I ll travel to a Saturday when the Lotto numbers are announced, make sure it s one where there s been no winner. I d write down the numbers. And then I d just travel two more days back and play those numbers.
And you re a millionaire.
From the dozens of hands I choose a serious-looking boy.
I would go back to a time when my father was still alive, he says. And then I would spend much more time with him than I did.
This gets us all quiet for a few seconds as we think about time and opportunities and life.
And what about you, sir? one of them asks.
Me?
Yes, sir! shouts a chorus of learners.
I probably would change some moments of my life: mistakes, unnecessary arguments. I would work harder at school, not become a smoker, not embarrass myself.

W RITING A MEMOIR is a little like travelling into your own past. Unlike science fiction, you can t change