Other Writing - EN

You have to be patient with the Irish

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 22:01:00 GMT

The wedding is to be in the town of Toome, county Antrim, Northern Ireland. Both the bride and groom, Eavan Totten and Paul Dunlop, are Catholic and both hail from old, established families, some so large that the children of a single family could not be counted on the fingers of two hands. The members of Eavan and Pauls’ families have outlived the troubles, as the war is being referred to euphemistically. The Totten-Dunlop wedding on a Saturday in February, 2007, will be a celebration of love ánd life.

Hiring a suit at Parsons & Parsons, Belfast

Outside Toome on a green hill stands the Sacred Heart Church. The guests are preparing to enter for the ceremony, cigarettes are stubbed-out, last banter goes flying. It ís English that you hear, yet the tongue shapes the words distinctly different from the way it would in England. There are other words as well. You need to listen.

From the porch of the church you have a clear view of the road running past, flanked by stone walls on either side. Beyond, neat paddocks fenced off since time immemorial with hawthorn hedge or more stone wall. Suddenly, from the grass green as glass a mob of crows lifts and scatters across the sky. They caw and swerve towards the cemetery on the right, an exceptionally shiny bird lands on a Celtic cross.

Slightly cloudy, but nice and dry: ‘it’s a quare day for a wedding, so it is,’ someone remarks as we enter the church. Each syllable is pronounced and at the end an affirmation is imported just to tidy up. And the use of quare comes spontaneously.

The greyish-blue sky, brighter than the sky above the continent; the green fields, the mossy stone walls and the pitch black crows, the disgrace of the Great Hunger followed by the massive migration to America and the sorrows caused by the troubles; and further back to when the brazen Vikings approached in their longships: all of this is folded into the Irish language. Not only did they store words which belonged to the fabulous invaders, as Seamus Heaney likes to call the Vikings; they also moulded and churned what they already had for the talking, they flexed their tongues and had fun - made fun - until their language became an appetizing, intelligent, stew. The comical, mostly ironical, disposition specific to this nation nestles in their language. ‘We're a language-based society. You can get away with practically anything in this country if you give a good account of it, ‘ the Irish writer John Banville has said. And Heaney further urges in his own rich version of Hiberno-English:

‘Lie down
in the word-hord, burrow
The coil and gleam
of your furrowed brain.’

The reception for the wedding takes place in an oxblood red and buttermilk yellow hotel on the main street of Toome. As we enter, Frank Dunlop, father of the groom, takes me by the arm. There you can see Lough Neagh, he points southwards with his Embassy cigarette, it’s Europe’s largest lake. From the North, from the Atlantic, thousands upon thousands of eels make their way along the River Bann during mating season to lay their eggs in the lake.

Creepy, I think to myself. A deep, watery kingdom filled with writhing sea snakes battling it out for a mate.

As if Frank Dunlop can guess where my thoughts are taking me, the Irish never shy away from anything creepy or gothic, he sweeps me along to the days of his great aunt’s kitchen on a small, mixed farm, to her fireplace alive with the smell of burning peat, to her favourite recipe for eel. Cut your eel in rounds and fry in a heavy pan with a halfin of butter and a halfin of whiskey. Serve up with floury potatoes, ripe cheese and Guinness.

The reception is an extended affair, some speeches are long, the bestman’s a one liner. And the food fails to appear. An aunt from County Cavan leans over: ‘have you a mouth on you?’ And everyone at our table, some in tails, some in taffeta, but all in their Sunday best, scream with laughter. Another tray loaded with pints of Guinness arrives. And a rush sweeps through the guests. The talk accelerates, you’re forever interrupted, the Irish brain, whetted, produces stories fast and always in the plural.

This is how James Joyce writes up a similar scene in Ulysses: ‘… and then he lifted in his rude great brawny strenghty hands the medhar of dark strong foamy ale, uttering his tribal slogan.’ Unrivalled is Joyce’s report of his tribe, and of the human condition, his language shot through with Irish.

When eventually the food arrives it turns out not to be great at all. You don’t come to Ireland for its food, definitely not for its weather. You come for the craic, the mood, the Gemütlichkeit as the Germans, who dote on the Irish, call it.

And never get impatient at receptions for the craic. Often guests wake up long after midnight, only then do they start remembering, then they’re able to hold the tune, a cappella, mostly. If you want to catch the craic, you must stay up, listen and join in, let Guiness after Guinness take you like a black sea. Only then will you experience the rising spirit, the enthusiasm for life, for one another, for the flash of wit, the jest and counter- jest, and the pure, uninhibited madness.

*

Story was originally written in Afrikaans for the travel magazine, Wegbreek, June 2007. The directive was to write an essay around a book of my choice. My choice was: Dolan, T.P. A Dictionary of Hiberno-English. Dublin: Gill & McMallin. 1998.

© Eben Venter

On the Baltic Coast

Fri, 16 Jan 2009 04:01:00 GMT

Two Polish friends, Paweł and Matylda, will escort me to Gdańsk and I regard myself lucky. You can get by with your Lonely Planet guide and there is an eagerness in cafés and bars to serve the traveller in English, but you’ll miss out on the nuances between say an authentic and an instant żurek soup. If you really want to hear English as spoken by a Pole, you need to talk to the staff of London restaurants or Belfast hotels these days - like the Afrikaners the Polish are experiencing their own diaspora during the last decade.

Pawel & Matylda, Gdynia

For its livelihood Gdańsk has always turned to the sea with all its trade routes and its wealth of amber reserves. So when Paweł and Matylda suggested we approach the city from the coast, or as far as we’re able to by beach, that sounds appropiate. The Baltic remains the cold seagreen way to the heart of Gdańsk.

There is a cluster of three Polish cities along the Baltic coast: Gdynia, Sopot and Gdańsk. We’ll be staying in the holiday apartment of Matylda’s wealthy aunt in Gdynia. Such an apartment bloc from the seventies takes getting used to. Outside the plasterwork is a miserable grey, especially in winter, and wherever it’s not crumbling or patched-up graffiti rules - like in all subways, on gas pipelines and on trains – yet inside the open space has all the white goods you can wish for, plus sprung wooden floors and puffed-up duvets with floral covers.

To line our stomachs we breakfast in one of the taverns on the Gdynia foreshore. We pick a backpacker’s hang-out where a kind of omelette is served with a puddle of mushrooms, tomatoes and melted cheese in its centre. As we chew away it becomes edible, but coffee seems essential afterwards. Now we’re ready for the beach trail to Gdańsk, the city named Gyddanyzc by a Benedictine monk as early as the year 999.

It’s almost May the first, workers’ day, and the spring sun shines gaily. The trail starts at a monument honouring one of the greatest writers of the English canon, Teodor Józef Konrad Korzeniowski, aka Joseph Conrad. A Wroclaw academic once said to me that Conrad ‘was lost’ by the Poles. They do treat their writers with reverence; in the royal castle of Wawel in Kraków many writers and poets lie tucked in under engraved slabs.

‘There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea’ – with Conrad’s words to ponder on we finally set off to Gdańsk on a pristine beach, keeping as close as possible to the fresh Baltic Sea.

A team of swans on green choppy waves? I’ve never encountered the likes of it before. Yet there they are, slender necks begging for a crust. Also on the beach: a youthful Jesuit priest with rosy cheeks and a jaunty way of walking, sunbathers with beehive hair-do’s and youths with gym muscles under taut marble skin. At www.container.com we call a halt. Baltic fishermen have turned these containers into shops to sell a delicacy which should not be missed at any cost: smoked trout fillets and lusty pink smoked salmon, halibut and delicious herring. Eat the fillet right there on the sand under the pale spring sun, then move onto one of the many cafés-in-the-sand to wash away the remnants with spritzy Zywiec served in a tall beer glass.

We arrive in the coastal town of Sopot, full of holiday-makers and a type of Moravian style architecture to marvel at, each house with its beautiful hanging balcony closed in with glass and carved wood panelling, its windows wide open to let in magnolia and plum blossom. On the busy ul. Bohaterow Monte Cassino, the Street of the Heroes of Monte Cassino, we conclude our midday snack with a gofry, a crisp waffle with whipped cream and glistening jagody or blueberries. Then on to Gdańsk by train.

Gdańsk Główna or central station is much better than the one at Gdynia, which is no place for the melancholic soul. A few nights earlier we arrived there and made our way through the central hall. I looked back over my shoulder at the waiting room where people sat bent over with weary, desperate heads, waiting on their train, or simply waiting in that dimly-lit netherworld, its air so rank it could be cut with a knife. Suddenly three cocky policemen in dark blue and fluorescent yellow uniforms descended upon a drunk, she in turn let out a piercing cry – a scene straight from the days of the Communist era. The state controlled SKM Train Service should be ashamed at offering such a public space to a city of more than 260 000 people. That waiting room reminded me of the Nabokov short story telling of: ‘miserable refugees in God-forsaken railway stations.’

young Jesuit monk, Gdynia

Gdańsk is promoted by its municipality as the city of my dreams. Once inside the old town the three of us walk around aimlessly, cameras and guide-books bagged. It’s the best way to explore a city. Get the feel of the cobblestone streets under your soles, peep through private windows and down smelly alley-ways, talk to strangers if you can, smell and touch and let the city be your guide. We stroll into a bon-bon factory and sample boiled sweets flavoured with frangipani, so fresh from the pot that they’re still hot in the mouth.

Like all mediaeval and pre-mediaeval cities, Gdańsk’s centre is laid out in a semi-circle and fairly small. It is a city with a checkered and troubled history: twice it was embroiled in wars with Sweden, in between it had its Golden Age accumulating so much wealth that artists and artisans from the Netherlands were hired to mould and paint facades and interiors. During the partition of Poland Gdańsk was lumped in with Prussia; the wife of the philosopher Schopenhauer wrote of the Prussian king Frederick II: ‘ …he is a vampire which sucks the life blood from the city.’ The city was renamed Danzig under German occupation; during the Second World War ninety percent of it was destroyed. Only a single church and a few historical buildings survived the burning and shelling.

Gdańsk would never be the same again, not even when its patrican gables and the przedproża, the porches so famous to the inner-city, were reconstructed. After the war freedom had to be bought at a price from Moscow, endless residential suburbs with their wave-shaped, ten-storey apartment blocks went up around the historical centre; censorship, propaganda and the radical shrinking of individual rights were to follow.

In and around the eighties one man with an unruly moustache rebelled against the repression: the enigmatic Lech Wałeşa from the shipyard of Gdańsk. Once again Gdańsk would become world famous, this time for Wałeşa’s trade union Solidarność, its members infused with the longing for democratic rights.

Seasons came and went, snow fell on the red tile roofs, the Baroque chapels and the fantastic Gothic towers and more snow on the warehouses and crane towers along the Motława River. The wall of Berlin came down and Poland was declared an independent republic.

On both sides of ul. Długa, the elegant Long Street, the Rococo and Renaissance facades are once again decorated in gold and mustard yellow, in salmon pink, sage green and sky blue. Now restaurants, amber jewellers and souvenir shops prevail, turning the city into open air museum, albeit a pretty museum.

To see if it’s still possible for the ordinary citizen to buy a loaf and string of blood sausage for supper, we stroll into the indoor market housed in a neo-Gothic building from the late nineteenth century; and come upon abundance. Stout farmer’s loaves which had risen on sourdough, new season’s honey and crisp sesame sticks in cellophane. Also Italian shoes in the latest fashion, slips and underpants and bra’s for big mothers, and big, round wreaths finely arranged with, and that makes all the difference, fresh roses, lilies and foliage.

Surely such a wreath would make the deceased sense the love of the living from the very grave. But of course that is not true in such a devout Catholic country. Here the death of their beloved pope Karel Wojtyla is still lamented and the souls of the deceased have fluttered to their heavenly home long ago. Thus the time has come to visit the churches and the museums.

First a refreshment: coffee and a slice of the heavenly tort bezowy – never pass a Polish cake shop, their tarts and pastries are unbeatable – then up the 76.6 meter tower of the Gothic church of the Most Holy Virgin Mary to the outlook right at the top.

From here the distant Baltic Coast, the Gdańsk shipyard which now lies deserted, the endless apartment blocks around the old city and the meandering Motława River should come into sight. Instead all you can see and hear is crowded out by elbows and shoulders and baseball caps and digital cameras and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, tsjieke-tsjiek, tsjieke-tsjiek through the iPods. I find myself overwhelmed by claustrophobia and am forced to speed down the 7001 odd steps and down the spiralling staircase to solid ground below.

Reinforcements are needed, something substantial like Polish rye bread with schmaltz, and immediately we set out to find a darkish pub on ul. Mariacka and order just that and a round of Zubrowka vodka. The vodka comes in lufas or gun barrels. One lufa holds a formidable 50 ml, a challenge for a non-Pole to gulp down in one go.

a wooden St John, Church of Holy Mary, Gdansk

It is late afternoon and the sky has turned a fresh blue with floating white clouds. Two important museums remain. First is the amber museum housed in the medieaval prison tower and torture house. During the Golden Age of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Gdańsk became the centre of ‘Baltic Gold.’ From its harbour the amber routes lead to Hamburg in the west and to Rome and Sicily in the south.

Amber is a petrified pine resin formed over a period of 14 million years and was used in the most diverse ways. Mixed with honey, rose oil and mastic it was turned into a cure for sorethroat, tonsilitis, eye and ear inflammation. Polish kings, noble men and members of the bishopdom all commissioned amber artisans to manufacture exquisite tools and art objects. On view are scabbards embedded with amber and precious stones, an amber dinner service and an amber bonsai tree, delicate amber broaches and so on. Also a contemporary amber egg by Fabergé in a glass case.

A mere corridor separates these treasure rooms from a torture cell. With bated breath you watch a video of instruments and methods of torture devised by the most innovative minds. And for added effect, cries of horror pour from hidden speakers. In a glass case is a compendium from1508 by one Ulrich Tengler illustrating all the possible transgressions which could earn one the death sentence, as well as the torture method preceding each one of these sentences. Against the cell’s stone wall hangs a woodcut showing the halving method whereby the transgressor is neatly sliced in two from head to toe. Not daring to ascertain which transgression would bring on such punishment, I flee from the cell thinking of another lufa of Zubrowka.

Just before closing time we reach The National Museum of Art to view Gdańsk’s Hans Memling. There is no time for the rest of the collection, yet I do notice a silver and gold ostrich, circa 19th century, a comical artifact made by one of the cities talented silversmiths.

The Memling is the pride of the museum and definitely worth a visit. It consists of a 222cm high triptych on which the master of Brugge depicted the Last Judgement. On the left hand panel the chosen ones are welcomed through the door of heaven by Saint Peter. And woe to ones on the right hand panel, the eternally doomed are propelled through a glowing sky to the fires of hell. You can see clearly how some of the sinners are trying to crawl back across the frame separating the right panel from the centre one, but the archangel Michael is not putting up with their nonsense. On his scales the poor things have already been weighed and found to be too light, devils with sharp two-pronged forks are at the ready to impale them.

Paweł and Matylda decide that we’ve had enough of Polish cuisine even though I’m mad about żurek, a sour soup made from fermented rye flour, marjoram and wedges of Silesian sausage. This time it’s going to be Japanese. The chef uses the freshest, best Baltic fish for his sashimi. Paweł demonstrates how he’s able to swallow a lump of wasabi without tears. Has the lining of his throat been toughened-up by fiery vodka since childhood? On my way to the toilet I notice the young, ambitious chef’s sushi-chef certificates with golden rosettes all in a row against the wall.

As a farewell to Gdańsk we attend Titus Andronicus at the Teatr Wybrzeże where Shakespeare’s most bloodthirsty play has been given an utterly Polish rendition. The cast is huge and the players act with verve and spirit. I sit there, amazed and visually overcome. It is as if all the sorrows and violations that ever occurred in this city and all over Poland are being shouted out by the players, yet with humour and a touch of ‘zawiany’ which, as I see it, is ‘like a crazy wind that’s ruffled the
Titus Andronicus by teatr Wybrzeze, Gdansk

brain’. After the show in the adjoining club this particular uninhibitedness is on display once again.

Many lufas are downed, the dj’s mix from a laptop is a galloping, outrageous one, old and new songs are blasted out with wild rhythmic overlays. In the thick smoky air tables are cleared for dancing; girls first, and then the boys. And history, and the future, is forgotten and for that moment Gdańsk truly becomes the city of my dreams.

*

The article was first published in Afrikaans in the travel magazine, Wegbreek, September 2007.

© Eben Venter.

Message to the world

Fri, 12 Dec 2008 03:58:00 GMT

Tuesday night is his night off. Eddy plans it carefully. By 4.30 he’s bathed the Alsatian, he dries it thoroughly then plays with the dog and the children on a patch of hard kikuyu. He never runs out of dog shampoo and has the fridge stocked with Black Label. On Tuesday nights everything has to be just so.

By 6.30 he sits down at the kitchen table while his wife makes the bolognaise. Usually they have a nice little chat. He compliments her, he would come up from behind and hug her. He tries his best. They don’t have much time on other days and nights. Eddy’s bar work saps his energy.

What’s up? You look stressed.

I can’t talk now, she says.

One of the children has waddled in. Eddy puts his beer down (even his glass is chilled on Tuesday nights) and re-buttons the child’s pyjama top.

When then?

You’re the man to say. You know what you’re like. And you know what Eddy, it actually stresses me when you’re like this. She tries to lift the heavy saucepan to turn the flame down.

Give it to me. He’s up in a flash. He’s got hard, wiry muscles. He seems to have an abundance of energy on these nights.

Eddy Prinsloo runs the local bar six days and six nights of the week. He opens at 11 am and closes around ten, it all depends. He keeps the glass shelves spotless, the upside down bottles with tot measures for whisky or brandy or gin shine, the antique White Horse whisky mirror behind the shelves is buffed, even the kudu and gemsbok horns mounted on the wall are dusted and polished with transparent Cobra wax. Most important of all is that the till never bounces.

Seekoegat Great Karoo
Every month he introduces a new cocktail. It used to be every week but that’s too hard. He gets his ideas from the back of the Kahlua bottle or from the back of the Amarula bottle or from overseas magazines left behind by flashy hotel guests. His latest cocktail is dry champagne, strawberries, crushed ice, a dash of lemon and the glass, sparkling, is pre-rinsed with exactly three drops of Angostura Bitters. His employer, mr Jannie van Niekerk, has tried it and smacked his lips. So far no hotel guest has ordered the new cocktail yet. And the regulars from the town (very small) are wary of anything that’s slightly out of the ordinary.

Eddy keeps on trying, genuine. He can’t say he hates his job. He simply can’t. What bothers him most is the wide world out there and him trapped behind a stupid bar with a stupid floral shirt and a permanent grin on his mug.

Mr Jannie Van Niekerk adores Eddy. He would stay away for up to a week to see to the running of his tavern in Observatory, Cape Town. During his absence he hands some of the reins of the hotel as he likes to call it, to Eddy.

Eddy this and Eddy that, his wife says. That gold chain around his neck and the aftershave, Yardley or whatever. And the rings on the fingers and always so chummy. There’s something fishy about you and that mr Van Niekerk of yours.

What’s wrong with your head? I’ve worked in that bar for fifteen years. Look at all the things in this house, your food mixer, the flat screen, where would we have been without mr Van Niekerk?

She stirs the spaghetti so that it doesn’t stick. She doesn’t even glance at him. He knows she knows her worry and whatever’s spawned it will have to stay until they’re in bed. She’ll make no more attempts to tell him what’s the matter. Every now and again she wipes loose hair, oily, from her forehead. From this he can tell that she’s bothered.

It’s supper time now. Everybody sits down at the table, the children are restless and irritable. As soon as his plate’s clean he goes straight to the TV. From 8 pm onwards, 8.15 is the absolute cut-off point, he’s out of bounds to his family. From then on he listens to BBC world radio which he picks up via the television set. First he listens to BBC world news then to the night’s discussion of a topic, followed by phone-ins from all over the world. Literally the whole world: Addis Abeba, Athens, London of course, Nairobi, Santiago which is the capital of Chile. All the different voices trying to speak English as best they can, all delivering their opinions vigorously, feverishly sometimes.

House in a Karoo town at night
Eddy’s got the BBC’s number on his cell phone. It’s 00447786206080, a hell of a number. By Tuesday’s he’s topped up his credit with the cheaper Vodago top-up cards avalaible from Pep Stores. He’s ready to go. From tuning-in many times before he knows how quick you have to compose and send your SMS message or else your take on the topic is not heard and gets lost in the stratosphere. Forever.

Chocolates wrapped in shiny papers on the coffee table to his left and a fresh beer, he’s onto his fourth, on the coaster. On the arm rest immediately under the fingers of his right hand, the remote control. The quality of the phone-ins differs and he’s ready to adjust the volume at any time. It gives him the shivers to know that he, a barman, a nothing really, can chip in on an important topic all the way from Western Cape, South Africa.

Tonight’s topic is whether you think your country’s leader should stay away from the opening of the Beijing Olympics in protest against the oppression in Tibet. Eddy’s already made up his mind. He feels strongly that mr Thabo Mbeki, a weakling compared to Mandela, should stay at home. No two ways about that. His smart Boeing should remain in its hanger until further notice by the people of South Africa. Solidarity with the oppressed - isn’t that what African leaders should feel in their marrow.

Shouting and carrying-on. Eddy looks over his shoulder into the dimly-lit corridor – they only use low watt long-life globes - at arms in pyjamas that flail, one of the children is kicking about on the floor. He holds back, he tries not to be annoyed. It’s unusual for them to misbehave like this. They obviously sense their mother’s stress. He knows his family inside out. What’s the matter with her? He should have made time to hear her out.

A British caller, a woman, is given a turn. She speaks clearly and calmly. These callers often have most clout. Eddy admires Ross Atkins, the BBC’s man who handles the programme. He admires his quick rebuffs, his gentle but firm way of cutting off dumb callers. There is a Turkish Delight centre in the chocolate he’s selected next. He rewraps it neatly and swops it for another shape.

The British caller is so well-spoken and so fluent. It’s quite disgusting how everybody picks on China suddenly, she says. Look at our, she means the British Empire’s, record in India and in Africa. For heaven’s sake, she says.

His wife has no intention of controlling the children tonight, that’s become obvious. She is trying to get him back. The bolognaise too wasn’t up to scratch. He can taste food made without love.

For fuck’s sake (it’s too hard, his family is making it impossible for him), can you lot just give me one night. Just one. I’m never here. Fuck! (He says ‘fak’).

Lots of Chinese callers from all over the world are given a chance. The BBC’s man is good to them. Whether they’re from Toronto or from Düsseldorf in Germany, no matter where their lives have taken them, they’re all still pro-China.

Shop in Karoo town
Tibet. Poor, freedom-loving, non-violent Tibet. And the Dalai Lama, what a man. He’s not unfamiliar with the Dalai Lama’s thoughts from chats at the bar. It’s the Tibetans’ Mandela. He remembers a line by the Dalai Lama. It goes like this: in one type of compassion there is not only a sense of empathy toward the object of compassion, but also a sense of responsibility in that you want to relieve that suffering yourself. That’s a more powerful compassion than empathy. These are true words.

Eddy’s all fired-up now. His knee is bouncing up and down, he’s gulped the last of the beer in one go. Create message. His thumb is sweaty. Text message - this is what he wants to say, this is what he wants the world to know.

For fuck’s sake Shané, can’t you keep the children quiet. A few minutes is all I ask

He’s almost in tears, prickly as hell. The fucking arrogance of the Chinese. Text message. All caps, no, it should be caps and lowers. His thumb slips as if it’s too big for the buttons. OK. Calm now. He knows exactly what to write. Come on Eddy, if you don’t get it out now it’s going to be too late. Start with a cap: World leaders should not go.

No, that’s too long. It’s going to cost. Leaders shouldn’t go. China’s wrong-doing. No, that’s not the word. What’s the word again?

Those children are going to drive him mad. What’s the word? He knows the word. It’s 9 pm already, he’s message will be too far back in the queue to be broadcasted. Fuckit.

Shané! Now the bloody dog’s joined the kerfuffle.

Atrocities. He’s got the word. Delete wrong-doings. Write: China’s atrocities are inconveniently overlooked. If the country in question was South Africa pre-’94, there’d be no question. No, delete. If the country in question was South Africa before ’94, there will be no argument. Mbeki should stay. Eddy Prinsloo South Africa. He’s got it, he’s said it.

Eddy! Come and help me with your son. Do you think this child belongs to me only?

Fuckit.

Shané comes from behind so quickly that he can’t stop her even if he had wanted to. She whacks him across the head with a towel still wet from the children’s bath. He holds his head, his thumb searching for the SEND button.

This is my only night, my only chance of getting out of this miserable shithole of a town with its petty little people. I can be part of the world, fuck! Just one night, an hour, not even. And you won’t give it to me.You just don’t understand, do you Shané. You just don’t.

Well why don’t you get out there and become part of whatever? Why don’t you just get out?

This is Ross Atkins from the BBC. Thanks very much to all our callers, the three people here with me in the studio, everybody who took time to send text messages. If you want to log onto our site …

You don’t know, you don’t want to know. He gets up and sends the bowl of sweets and sweet wrappers flying. He sees Shané’s face in front of him, he can read it: loathing.

He walks out into the night, the chill of autumn against his bare arms. He closes the gate behind him and walks onto the dirt road in front of their house. He can cry, he can scream about his lost message. He looks up. The stars and milky way are all bright and distinct. There is no sound.

He is a barman. That’s all. There’s nothing else out there for him. In a while he’ll turn in, crawl into bed next to Shané, beer on his breath. He’ll force himself to ask for forgiveness. That’s it.

© Eben Venter in Diversity is Power. An anthology of Surinam and South African writing. Ed. EKM Dido. Writers in Exchange: 2008