Thomas September

Thomas September was born in 1945 in Citrusdal. His stories give great insight into what Citrusdal was like many years ago during the apartheid era.

He relates how he used to help his father work and helped to pay for his brother’s education in Malmesbury. He speaks of the different churches people attended and shares his experience of forced removals in Citrusdal.

Thomas September was born in 1945 in Citrusdal. He is 72 years old today. His mother is from a local farm and his father is from Graafwater. His father was a builder and painter and worked for farmers. He walked from farm to farm and Thomas worked with him. He had to carry 25l of paint from the town to the farm, and farmers would drive by, not offering to help. He went to school in Citrusdal for a while, but quit to work and to make money for his brother’s education in Malmesbury to become a teacher. Thomas says that people always return to Citrusdal and the Olifantsvallei, where all kinds of oranges are grown, season dependant. In 1986 he began working in a pakstoor earning R7 a week.

When he and his brother were young they would walk into the mountains, find honey and catch dassies and only go home the next day. In 2008 Thomas retired on Goedehoop Farm. His father was a school inspector in his old age, but could not read or write. Everyone wondered how such an old man could have a job as a school inspector. Thomas says that it must be understood that those times were not easy. Citrusdal was not a town yet, he explains, but only existed out of farms. There were no streets or schools and people went to church at Elandskloof. A NG missionary church was started in the town, and is now the VG (Verenigende Gereformeerde) church. Thomas says those two churches are worlds apart.

Thomas says that Citrusdal is a lovely place. Back when he was young there were only donkey and horse carts, no bakkies or cars. On either side of the main road were water furrows, and people took their turn to water their gardens and trees. Schools were run by churches or on farms. Thomas says these years were very difficult. In 1961 he moved from Citrusdal but returned four years later, only to find the houses demolished. That night he could not find his own home and had to sleep elsewhere. His father built their house back up and his brother lives there now. On Saturday nights there were bazaars and other festivities, but on the next day they still had to go to church.

He tells a story the minister told him when they went to Bo-Bergvlei together. The minister was a smoker. He told Thomas that he had once arrived at a farm where the farmer had a small baboon. The farmworkers always wandered around and the farmer wanted them to stop. So he threw a sheet over his head, made small holes for his eyes and set off to frighten the farmworkers. Little did he know of the baboon following him, covered in a pillowcase. The farmworkers spotted the farmer and his companion, but when the farmer turned around and saw the baboon he got the fright of his life and ran away.

Thomas tells of Sunday school, running practice, stealing oranges and getting caught by the farmer, and learning to garden as a young boy.


I’m Thomas September. I was born here in Citrusdal in 1945. At present I’m 72. Now, I came here, to Citrusdal, but my pa and ma were originally not from Citrusdal. My pa came from down below, from Graafwater, and my mother from a farm here called Jaers(?)vlei, where she was born as well.

My pa, he was a builder, a painter, and he worked for the farmers. Those were difficult years because he had to walk on his feet from farm to farm. And the farms stretched a long way, easily ten kilometres. And I myself also worked with him and I had to walk out of town with a 25 litre paint tin on my shoulder. I had to rest about three times along the way. And then the farmer came past me, but he didn’t pick me up. I had to carry the paint all the way to his farm so that my pa could work again.

But so, my schooling I started here in Citrusdal. And as we all know, with the rough times we had, you had to leave school at some point so that you could contribute a few cents that you earned at home. Now, I had a brother, Coenie, he, us two went to school together. Later he left for Malmesbury because he wanted to become a teacher. I had to stay behind to earn some money so that he could study further. But despite this we got there and he finished as teacher, which enabled him to work across the country, to the lower part of Namibia.

You always want to return here, to Citrusdal. It’s the Olifants River Valley, there’s the citrus, you get every type of orange, the oranges are seasonal because the people have to work in the season. There’s actually no work for me here, but the old packing shed kept me alive. Speaking of the packing shed, I started working in the packing shed in… 1986. And there I started working as a salesman. And with this – it’s no joke, we earned very little money. We earned seven, seven… rand for the week. And then you worked from Monday to Friday.

How was the work?

Saterdays as well. What I want to get to are the stories. There are many stories here in the valley. Now, when I start speaking people always say that I mustn’t talk shit. Then I say, man, you get what you deserve.

Now, me and that old brother of mine, we would often just go into the mountain. About ten kilometres or so, we first collected honey and we caught dassies* and then we took it to the old man. Then we slept there that night, the next morning we came back down to Citrusdal here in the valley. Then we again had something to go on with.

Now, upon my retirement, I finished in 2008, here at Groenhoop (??). And I didn’t work again. I’m still sitting at home. Sitting and receiving the pension which we all get and out of that me and the wife have to live. And as we all know, we call it the old All Pay. It only lasts a day; tomorrow, you still want to scratch around in your pocket, then the pocket is torn, because it’s gone.

But I want to get back to my pa, old April. He, he later became inspector of schools. He had a friend, Gal, and old Gal was the man who drove him. From here to Springbok. Being as old as he was, he wasn’t a man who could write, he couldn’t read, but there was nothing that he didn’t understand. Now, many people asked, how was it possible that such an old man of his age can could become an inspector. Then they said, man, I had a grandpa there… all the people will know of him there in Namaqualand, old Paul Jollies, Paul September. And he was the preacher of Namaqualand. And he could do whatever he wanted to do. There was nothing that he couldn’t do with his hands, until he left us for eternity. In the age of 95. And he was buried there. In Graafwater. That’s the name of the place. And so the guy died there. My father died about 30 years ago in the age of 75. And I almost wanted to say I’m the only one left, but I do still have a brother and a sister. And I want the people to know, life in years gone by wasn’t a song.

Let’s get back to Citrusdal. Citrusdal wasn’t a town. Citrusdal consisted of farms. And our people probably won’t remember it today – there were no streets here, there were no schools. We had a church up there in Elandskloof where the people had to go. Dominee* Breedt. He was the dominee there. And he had to go there until we could get a church here at the school. It is the Dutch Reformed Mission Church. That’s what it was called then. Today it’s the Uniting Reformed Church. The URC and the church of that time are worlds apart.

But let us first talk about the town.

Citrusdal is a very beautiful place. Once you’ve drunk the water, you don’t leave. Because this water is sweet. But let us get to the town. Here where the ox wagons, the horse carts – not one farmer had a bakkie* or a lorry. Everything had to be transported with the horse carts and the donkey carts.

I want to mention a place, the hospital – that piece of land was donated by a woman. I think she’s already deceased, because we didn’t even have a hospital, and today it is one of the biggest hospitals here in the Western Cape.

Let us walk down the main street. The main street had trenches on both sides. Irrigation trenches. And the irrigation trenches were there to irrigate people’s vegetables, their trees, anything he* planted. And we got turns. You know, I was still at school, but with the way things were, you had to start working at a young age, so that you could soon go to where your ma or pa were working, you had to go help out there.

And so I worked for two farmers at the same time. They’re not even alive any more today. I had to open furrows here, and close furrows there. And so I irrigated their vegetables and things. And the day when the municipality cleaned its dams, this town was under water because all that water, which was dirty, had to be let out so that clean water could run into the dams.

The schools were small. The schools fell under the church. The department paid the schools through the church. On all the farms were small schools. Until today when there are high schools – there must be three high schools in Citrusdal today where the children are educated.

Now I want to go back a bit. I don’t want to say too much, but it was very, very difficult for us. In 1961 I left here, left Citrusdal. And when I came back four years later, the houses were flattened. The houses in which people had still been living. I myself couldn’t find our own house. And that night I had to stay with other people. And the next day I had to go look where the house was. Luckily the house was (inaudible 03:41). And so my father again started building, so that my one brother is living in that house today.

Let’s talk a little about church attendance. We held bazaars at the churches. And the bazaars were big. And the cars came. Those were, I mean donkey carts. Horse carts. And that weekend the people partied. They had such a good time at the bazaar that you were tired the next morning and then you still had to go to church. But that was in those years. How it was done then.

I want to share a few stories with you. You know, one heard a lot of things. You heard about old Jan Raptat, you heard about that uncle. But I’d like to tell this, this story now. It’s a story I heard from the dominee*. Not a story that I, it isn’t this dominee. It was old, old Rêt (?? 05:05) because I spent a lot of time with that man as well. When we came to live up here, the guy invited me one day to go to the bazaar with him. And I went and the guy, he was a smoker, he stood next to the road, and he said, “I’d like…” – but I’m not a smoker, I still don’t smoke today. And he said, “Man, I want to share this story with you.”

He said, “I arrive there at a farm.” He said he wasn’t going to bother anyone. But this farmer had a baby baboon. And his workers, they never wanted to stay at home. They had a good time all night long. Going up and down. And he thought he had to make a plan.

And so he dressed himself in a sheet – threw it over his head, cut a few holes so that he could see. So he saw where the guys were partying. And as he was walking, walking there, he didn’t notice that the baboon had thrown a pillowcase over himself. And that the baboon was following him. And when the guys looked around, they said, “Hey, look out, man, a ghost, a ghost!”

Then the guys said, “There’s a small one as well.”

When the farmer looked behind him and saw the small baboon, he was showing the others a clean pair of heels.


Then he ran faster than the guys he’d come to frighten.

Can you remember more stories? Take your time.

I’m going now.

Do you want to rest first?


I now come to our childhood. You know, on Sundays you had to go to Sunday school. But we were this little group. Never any girls, only us boys. And we made sure, it had to be boys that could run, because this was a terrible business.

So the guy said – there was this guy, I can’t quite remember his name, but he always said to me, “Hey, you have to go first, you have to go first.”

Then I say, “No, it’s your turn today.”

“But I don’t have a bag, man.”

So we cross the river and we get to the other side of the river, and then I see, no, man, this is wrong, you want to steal oranges.

Say, “No, we don’t steal. We pick only for us. We pick a few for us and then we leave.

“No, take off that shirt, take off that white shirt, man. Take it off and then you tie up the sleeves. You fill it up.”

And that guy says, “I’ll throw the oranges down and then you throw them into the bags. Into those shirts.”

The old farmer’s name was old Piet van Zyl. He lived here – he’s dead now. He lived here on Middelpos. And ehh, none of us sees that the farmer is sitting among the leaves in the tree, and when the last guy jumps down and puts his hand out to the orange, the farmer grabs him below the orange and says, “This is the thief I’ve been looking for all these years who has been carrying off my harvests.”


I have another one. Man, I treasured this one. We know Mister Pysen (?? 02:22). He comes from down below, from Concordia. Now, that man had one tie. With a bird on it. That man didn’t whistle, he sang. And he told us Standard 5s, he said, “You’re not going to play rugby today, are you, so you’re going to work in the garden.”

“Why, we’ve never worked in a garden.”

And so he came from Wupperthal – whatever they’d been doing there, they had finished. And he called us.

“Guys, didn’t you clean?”

“Yes, Sir, we pulled out all the grass here.”

Now you have to know, it was radishes. Cabbage. Everything that was green, we pulled out.


… pulled out all the grass.

But our backsides were on fire. That’s for sure.

Thomas September is in 1945 op Citrusdal gebore. Die stories wat hy vertel gee ’n mens ’n goeie idee van hoe die lewe op Citrusdal jare gelede onder die apartheidsregering was.

Hy vertel hoe hy saam met sy pa gewerk het. Thomas moes gaan werk om vir sy broer se studies op Malmesbury te betaal. Hy praat oor die verskillende kerke wat mense bygewoon het en deel sy ervaring van gedwonge hervestigings op Citrusdal.

Thomas September is in 1945 op Citrusdal gebore. Ten tyde van die onderhoud was hy 72 jaar oud. Sy ma kom van ’n plaas in die omgewing en sy pa van Graafwater af. Sy pa was ’n bouer en ’n verwer en het vir boere gewerk. Hy het van plaas tot plaas gegaan en Thomas het saam met hom gewerk. Thomas moes ’n drom verf van 25 liter van die dorp af tot op die plaas op sy skouer dra. Die boere het verbygery, maar hom nie opgelaai nie. Hy het vir ’n ruk lank op Citrusdal skoolgegaan, maar is uit die skool uit om te gaan werk en geld te verdien, want sy broer wou op Malmesbury gaan studeer om ’n onderwyser te word. Thomas sê mense sal altyd terugkom na Citrusdal en na die Olifantsvallei toe met sy sitrus. Die werk in die lemoenboorde is egter seisoensgebonde. In 1986 het hy by ’n pakstoor begin werk vir R7 per week.

Toe hy en sy broer kinders was, het hulle in die berge geloop, heuning gesoek, dassies gevang en eers die volgende dag huis toe gekom. In 2008 het Thomas op die plaas Goedehoop afgetree. Sy pa was op bejaarde leeftyd ’n skoolinspekteur al kon hy nie lees of skryf nie. Almal het gewonder hoe so ’n ou man ’n skoolinspekteur kon wees. Thomas sê ’n mens moet verstaan dat dit nie maklike tye was nie. Citrusdal was toe nog nie ’n dorp nie, dit het uit plase bestaan. Daar was nie strate of skole nie. Mense het op Elandskloof kerk toe gegaan. ’n NG Sendingkerk is op die dorp gestig. Dit is nou die VG (Verenigende Gereformeerde) Kerk. Thomas sê die VGK verskil hemelsbreed van die kerk van daardie tyd.

Thomas sê Citrusdal is ’n lieflike plek. In sy jong dae was daar net donkie- en perdekarre, nie bakkies of motors nie. Aan weerskante van die hoofstraat was daar leivore en mense het beurte gemaak om hulle tuine en bome na te lei. Destyds het die skole onder die kerk gestaan en daar was ook plaasskooltjies. Thomas sê daardie jare was maar moeilik. In 1961 is hy weg uit Citrusdal en toe hy vier jaar later terugkom, was die huise omgestoot. Daardie aand kon hy hulle eie huis nie kry nie en moes hy by ander mense gaan slaap. Sy pa het hulle huis weer opgebou en sy broer woon nou daar. Op Saterdae was daar ’n basaar en dan het die mense makietie gehou, maar die volgende dag moes jy kerk toe gaan.

Hy vertel ’n storie wat die dominee hom vertel het toe hulle saam oppad was Bo-Bergvlei toe. Die dominee het gerook. Hy het eenkeer op ’n plaas aangekom waar die boer ’n bobbejaantjie gehad het. Die boer se werkers wou nooit by die huis bly nie en die boer wou hulle ’n les leer. Hy gooi toe ’n laken oor sy kop, knip ’n paar gate in om deur te sien en gaan lê die manne voor. Min het hy geweet dat die bobbejaan agter hom aan is, met ’n kussingsloop oor sy kop. Die werkers sien toe die spook en sy kleintjie, maar toe die boer omkyk en die bobbejaantjie sien, skrik hy so groot dat hy skoon onder die manne wat hy wou skrik maak, uithardloop.

Thomas vertel van Sondagskool, atletiekoefening, hoe hulle lemoene gesteel en deur die boer gevang is, en hoe hy as ’n seun leer tuinmaak het.


Ek is Thomas September. Ek is gebore hier op Citrusdal in 1945. Op die huidige oomblik is ek twee-en-sewentig. Nou, hier op Citrusdal het ek gekom, maar my pa en ma is nie oorspronklik van Citrusdal nie. My pa kom daar onder uit Graafwater uit en my ma hier op ’n plaas genaamd Jaers(?)vlei waar sy ook gebore is. My pa, hy was ’n bouer, ’n verwer, en hy het die werke tussen die boere geloop doen. En in daai tyd was dit moeilike jare want die ou moes geloop het met sy voete van plaas tot plaas. En die plase het gestrek, maklik tien kilometer. En ek self het ook saam met die ou gewerk en dan moes ek hier uit die dorp uit loop met ’n drom verf van vyf-en-twintig liter op my skouer. En dan het ek so drie keer moes gerus het langs die pad. En dan het die boer hier verby my gekom, maar hy het my nie self opgelaai nie. Ek moes die verf gedra het daar tot op sy plaas, dan kan my pa weer begin werk.

Maar so, my skoolopleiding het ek hier op Citrusdal begin. En soos ons almal nou weet, met die swaarkrydae ingekom het, moes jy maar een of ander tyd die skool verlaat sodat jy daar by die huis darem ’n geldjie kan ge-in het. Nou, ek het ’n broer gehad, Coenie, hy, ons twee het saam skoolgegaan. Later is hy hier weg, Malmesbury, want hy wil ’n onderwyser loop word. Ek moes agterbly om die geldjie te loop verdien sodat hy kan verder studeer. Maar nietemin het ons darem daar uitgekom en hy het hom klaargemaak as onderwyser waardeur hy ook die land deurkruis het tot onder in Namibië.

Hier op Citrusdal sal ’n man altyd weer wil terugkom. Dis die Olifantvallei, hier is die sitrus, jy kry elke lemoen, jy kry, die lemoene is seisoengebonde want die mense moet in die seisoen werk. Eintlik is hier nie werk vir my nie, maar die ou pakstoor het darem nog vir jou so aan die lewe gehou. So van die pakstoor gepraat, ek het in neëntien … ses-en-tagtig by die pakstoor beginne werk. En daar het ek beginne werk as ’n verkoopsman. En met die – ek wil nie lag oor die goed nie – maar die ou geldjie was maar klein. Dit was sewe, sewe … rand in die week verdien. En dan het jy gewerk van Maandag tot Vrydag toe.

Saterdae ook. Wat ek wil bykom nou, is hierdie stories, hier in die vallei lê baie stories. Nou, manne sê altyd as ek beginne praat, dan ek moenie stront praat nie. Dan sê ek, man, jy kry wat jy gesoek het. Nou, ek en die ou broer van my het ons sommer hier in die berg ingestap. So tien kilometer of wat, ons nou daar in die berg eers vir ons heuning uitgehaal en ons het nou dassies gevang en dan vat ons dit sommer saam daar na die ou man toe en dan vanaand slaap ons daar, môreoggend kom ons weer af Citrusdal hier in die vallei in. Dan’t ons weer ietsie om aan te gaan.

Nou, met my aftrede, in 2008, hier by Groenhoop (??), toe’t ek nou klaargemaak. En ek het nie weer gewerk nie. Ek sit nou nog by die huis. Sit en ontvang maar die pensioen wat ons maar almal kry en daaruit moet ek en die vrou lewe. En soos ons almal weet, ons noem dit die ou All Pay, dié wat net ’n dag hou, môre as jy nog in jou sak wil krap, is die sak stukkend, want hy’s weg.

Maar ek wil hier terugkom na my pa toe, ou April. Hy, hy het later inspekteur geword van skole. Hy’t ’n ou vriend gehad, Gal, en ou Gal was die man wat vir hom gery het. Hiervan af tot in Springbok. Met sy oudgeit, soos wat hy gewees het, dit was nie ’n man gewees daai wat kon geskryf het nie, hy kon nie gelees het nie, maar daar was nie ’n ding wat hy nie verstaan het nie. Nou, baie mense het gevra, hoe is dit moontlik dat so ’n ou man op sy ouderdom ’n inspekteur kan word. Toe’t hulle gesê, man, ek het ’n oupa gehad, daar, tussen al die mense sal hom ken daar in Namakwaland, ou Paul Jollies, Paul September. En hy was die predikant van Namakwaland gewees. En hy kon gedoen het net wat hy wil. Daar was niks dinge wat hy nie kan met sy hande gedoen het nie, totdat hy dan nou vir ons die ewigheid in is. In die ouderdom van vyf-en-negentig jaar oud. En hy is daar ter ruste gelê. Op Graafwater. Is die plek se naam. Paleis (??). En so is die ou nou ook daar heen. My pa is nou ook so dertig jaar oorlede in die ouderdom van vyf-en-sewentig. En ek wil nou amper sê dit is nou net ek wat hier is, maar ek het darem nog ’n broer en ’n suster. En ek wil hê die mense moet weet, die lewe was nie ’n lied in die jare vantevore nie.

Kom ons kom terug na Citrusdal toe. Citrusdal was nie ’n dorp nie. Citrusdal het uit plase bestaan. En ons mense sal dit seker vandag nie kan onthou nie, hier was nie strate nie, hier was nie skole nie. Ons het ’n kerk bo gehad in Elandskloof waarvan af die mense moes gegaan het. Dominee Breedt. Hy was daar die predikant. En dan moes hy maar so gekom het totlat ons hier by die skool ’n kerk kan gekry het. Dis die NG Sendingkerk. Het hulle hom daai tyd genoem. Wat vandag die VG Kerk is. Die VGK verskil hemelsbreed van daai kerk van daai tyd.

Maar laat ons eers praat van die dorp.

Citrusdal is ’n baie lieflike plek. As jy die water gekom drink het, dan gaan jy nie weer terug nie. Want dié water is soet. Maar lat ons hier by die dorp uitkom. Hier waar die ossewaens, die perdekarre – nie een boer het ’n bakkie of ’n lorrie gehad nie. Alles moes met die perdekarre en die donkiekarre vervoer word. Ek wil ’n plek noem, die hospitaal – daar’t stuk grond is geskenk deur ’n mevrou, ek dink sy is al oorlede, want ons het nie eens ’n hospitaal gehad nie, en vandag is hy een van die grootste hospitale hier in die Wes-Kaap.

Kom ons loop af met die hoofstraat. Die hoofstraat aan weerskante slote gehad. Dit was leivore. En die leivore was daar om die mense se groente, se bome, enigiets wat hy geplant het, om nat te lei. En dan het ons beurte gekry. Jy weet, ek het nog skoolgegaan, maar soos dit mos moet gaan, dan moet jy maar uitspring dat jy gou kan daar waar jou ma of jou pa werk, dan moet jy daar loop uithelp.

En so het ek sommer by twee boere gewerk. Hulle lewe nie eers meer vandag nie, en dan moet ek hier afsteek, en dan moet ek daar toegooi. En so het ek hulle groente en goeters natgemaak. En op ’n dag wanneer die munisipaliteit dan nou sy damme skoonmaak, dan maak hierdie dorp onder water want al daai water, wat vuil is, moet weer uitgetap word sodat daar skoon water kan kom.

Die skole was klein. Die skole het onder die kerk gestaan. Die departement, hy het die skole gebetaal aan die kerk. Op die plase oral was skooltjies. Tot daar vandag hoërskole, hier is seker drie hoërskole op Citrusdal vandag waar die kinders hulle opvoeding ontvang.

Nou wil ek so ’n entjie teruggaan. Ek wil nou nie so baie sê nie, maar vir ons was dit móéilik. In 1961 toe’s ek hier weg, Citrusdal uit. En ná vier jaar toe ek terugkom, toe’s die huise omgestoot. Die huise wat die mense nog in gebly het. Ek self het ons eie huis nie gekry nie. En die nag moes ek by ander mense slaap. En die volgende dag loop soek waar dié huis is. Gelukkig was die huis dan nou (onhoorbaar 03:41). En so het my pa weer beginne opbou, solat my een broer vandag in daardie huis woon.

Ons kom bietjie by die kerkganery. By die kerke het ons basaar gehou. En die basaar was groot. En die karre het gekom. Dis nou, praat van donkiekarre. Dis perdekarre. En dan vir die naweek het die mense makietie gehou. Hulle het so basaar gehou lat jy môreoggend moeg was en dan moet jy nog kerk toe gegaan het. Maar dit was in daardie jare. Hoe dit gedoen gewees het.

Ek wil so ’n paar stories met u deel. Jy weet, ’n mens het van baie goeters gehoor. Jy’t gehoor van ou Jan Raptat, jy’t gehoor van dié oompie. Maar nou wil ek graag dié, dié stuk vertel. Dis ’n stuk wat ek by die dominee gehoor het. Nou nie ’n stuk wat ek, dis nou nie dié dominee nie. Hy, hy is nou ou, ou Rêt (?? 05:05) want ek het baie ook met daai man saam geloop. Toe ons nou hier bo bly, toe gaan nooi die ou my daai dag ek moet saamgaan loop basaar hou. En ek gaan soontoe en die ou, hy was ’n roker, staan hy teen die pad, dan sê hy, ek kan maar, maar ek is nie ’n roker nie, ek rook vandag nog nie. Toe sê hy: “Jong, ek wil darem graag hierdie stukkie met jou deel.”

Hy sê: “Ek kom daar op ’n plaas.” Hy sê hy gaan nie pla nou nie. Maar dié boer, het ’n bobbejaantjie daar. En dan sy werkmense, hulle wil nooit by die huis bly nie. Hulle heul die nag op en deur. Op en weer. En hy’t gedink hy moet ’n plan maak. En daar trek hy nou vir hom ’n laken aan, gooi hom bo-oor sy kop, knip hier ’n paar gate, dat hy darem kan deursien. Toe sien, dáár is die manne besig. En hy stap so, hy stap. Hy sien nie die bobbejaan het hom nou vir hom ’n kussingsloop oorgegooi nie. En hier kom die bobbejaan agteraan. En toe die manne nou so omkyk, toe sê hulle: “Jong, kyk hier, man, dit spook, dit spook!”

Toe sê die manne: “Daar’s nou ’n kleintjie ook.”

Toe daai boer so omkyk, en hy sien die kleintjie, toe’s hy voor die manne uit.


Toe’s hy voor die manne, wat hy gekom bangmaak het.

Kan Oom miskien nog stories onthou? Vat Oom se tyd.

Ek gaan nou.

Wil Oom eers ’n bietjie rus?


Ek kom hier na die jongmense toe. Jy weet, Sondae dan moet jy nou Sondagskool toe gegaan het. Maar julle was so ’n groepie. Daar moet ook nie meisiekinders by wees nie, dit is net julle klonge. Maar ons het gesôre, dit moet klonge wees wat kan hardloop, want dis ’n afskuwelike besigheid dié. Enne, dan sê die man, daar was so ’n mannetjie, sy naam kan ek nou nie so lekker onthou nie, maar hy sê altyd vir my: “Jong, maar jy moet voorvat, jy moet voorvat”.

Toe sê ek: “Nee, vandag is dit jou beurt.”

Maar ek het nie ’n sak nie, man. Nou jy gaan hier oor die rivier, en ons kom daar anderkant die rivier, toe sien ek, nee, man, dit was nou verkeerd, julle wil dan nou lemoene steel.

Sê: “Nee, ons steel nie. Ons pluk vir ons. Ons pluk vir ons so ’n bietjie en dan loop ons. Nee, trek daai hemp uit, trek uit daai wit hemp, man. Trek hom uit en dan maak jy die moue vas. Maak jy hom vol.”

En dié man sê: “Ek gaan die lemoene afgooi en dan gooi julle dit in die sakke. In daai hemde.”

Die ou boer se naam is ou Piet van Zyl. Hy het hier, hy’s dood al. Hy het hier gebly op Middelpos. Enne, nie een van ons sien die boer daar tussen die blare sit in die boom nie en toe die laaste man afspring, toe hy sy hand uitsteek na die lemoen toe, is net wat die boer hom onderkant die lemoen vat en sê: “Is hierdie skelm wat ek al jare soek wat my oeste so wegdra.”


Ek het hier nog enetjie. Kêrel, ek het dié ding gebêre, ons ken vir Mister Pysen (?? 02:22). Hy kom daar onder uit Concordia uit. Nou, daai man het een tie gehad, das soos hulle sê. Met ’n voëltjie op. Daai man het nie gefluit nie, hy’t gesing. En hy sê vir ons standerdvywe, hy sê: “Julle gaan speel mos nie vandag rugby nie, julle gaan vandag in die tuin werk.”

“Waa’, ons het nog nooit in ’n tuin gewerk nie.” Maar hier kom hy onder uit Wupperthal uit, wat hulle ook al daar geloop doen het, is klaar gedoen. En hy roep vir ons.

“Kêrels, het julle dan nie skoongemaak nie?”

“Ja, Meester, ons het sommer al die gras hier uitgetrek.”

Nou moet julle weet, toe’s dit radyse. Dit is kool. Alles wat groen is, het ons uitgetrek.


… alle grasse uitgetrek.

Maar ons gatte het gebrand. Dit is seker.