I was a guest at a wedding in Gantsi of Christo and Renske, that was a wedding between a Dutch woman (yes, Dutch but brought up in Botswana) and a Boer man from Gantsi, also raised in Botswana.
I missed the church part that was conducted in the morning, apparently all in Afrikaans, but about which those who were present, said the dominee made a moving and impassioned speech.
My heart went out to the young couple, Christo and Renske, to the freedom of their spirits. They struck me as brave, very brave, to have gone ahead and followed their hearts’ desires and got married when the odds seemed so highly staked against them. I really felt sympathy towards the two of them. I believe that even as I missed the church ceremony, the dominee must have talked about that often quoted verse about a man or is it a woman? that forsakes her own people to go to strange places and people and become one with them.
I had been told that the Boer community of Gantsi was very elated at the idea of a recharge of their old stock of blood with the new stock of original blood from the ‘motherland’. Personally I saw little of that elation. I got a feeling that the Gantsi community was not only cold hearted, especially to those they consider outsiders, such as those they call Darkies or black people or those they call Boesman, the Basarwa, that humbly serves them, but also brooding.
Yet, I must also concede that the few Boers that cared to strike a conversation with me were very ‘polite’ as can be expected. Because of the expensive camera that I dangled, I unwittingly passed myself off as a reporter. That was perhaps a more acceptable role, because otherwise what would a Darkie like me be doing in such dignified company. I was still sober then, and was making a great effort not to affront anybody, least of all, my reluctant hosts. You know this is also part of my Setswana culture. One does not fight with his in-laws, even under conditions of extreme provocation. One gentleman asked me ‘are you from the Gazette, that is an expensive camera you’re holding?” and for a while I wanted to say yes. But then I thought I should sound more blasé, and so I said, ‘this is nothing, you must see my new digital Nikon’. I have not yet seen any such a camera. But it worked as it got die manne off my back.
Shall I add that apart from the two Bakgalagadi men servants, and the Zimbabwean lady cook, I was the only liberated black around. I hate to talk like this, but in the particular context of Gantsi, the Boer citadel in Botswana, these terms really apply. One Mosarwa man said around the fire that re a betswa fa rra, Leburu le Mosarwa ga ba kopane gope, mme bangwe ba bone ba tshodissa bana ba rona bana. Rona ga re itse kgololesego e go buiwang ka yone mo lefatsheng la bo rraarona, rona re magolegwa mono,eo ke yone ngwao ya kwano. (We are beaten here, there is no meeting point between a Mosarwa and a Boer, but some of them impregnate our daughters. We are slaves in our fatherland. We know no liberty and that is the culture here.)
Even before I left for Gantsi I had had misgivings and had been anxious of how I would be received even as ‘Uncle’ to the bride, that is what my friendship to the mother of the bride and the stepfather made me. I was also delighted by the humour of both the mother, Hermine and the biological father, Cees. Both of them had accepted their daughter’s decision without reserve. The father went a step further composed and rendered a song about the critical meeting between the daughter and the future son-in-law. How under the twinkling stars, Opara, the young lady, strolled away from her father’s project following fate into a lonely caravan that was home to the man she was later to marry. The song was entitled the fire of love that told of the creation of an air-conditioned castle in the air, without an off-switch.
And once the real party got underway, we were treated to sumptuous platefuls of Boer food complete with game meat. I must say even in spite of my emotions at the time, the food was great. The Volk took to the dancing floor and did variations of tikkie draai. The only missing accompaniment was the squeezebox of the Boer folk music. But then there was a bit of a mix when I went to the bar and was asked to pay for my drink. Being a Motswana I had not anticipated going Canadian, after all I was in Dutch company. That was before I had been introduced as part of the Dutch side of the family. I mean, it was again a question of identity. But there was also a good Samaritan, a Motswana Englishman (another identity) who offered to pay for my Justerini & Brooks (J&B).
Out of shame, I paid for my second drink and then when I realised that my pocket would not sustain my newly acquired high taste, I appealed to my Dutch side of the family. I had only to ask, “in this wedding are we going Dutch or Setswana?” Then my Dutch host (the stepfather) who by that time had seen enough of the local apartheid, pulled me by the hand and said to the barman, “Meet Keineetse Keineetse, he is my black twin brother, please extend to him all the hospitality that you accord me.” That did it, after that I only had to produce my glass and voila, my cup was made to run over. I was at that moment in biblical times where, like David, I could almost say, “I shall not want.”
But then I noticed that none of the people who had cooked the sumptuous meal were being served. I had a difficult time swallowing those great portions of game meat even though I craved food. As the night wore on and a great revelry was going on in the hall, my Dutch friend and I, went outside to the fireplace where a number of Basarwa were warming themselves by the fire. We then started something subversive; we brought out beers and shared with the Basarwa. As excitement built we went a step further and opened the half eaten great pot of meat and dished out for the Basarwa. Then one man came out, of who the Basarwa said was the chief of the Boers. We explained to him that the people had not eaten. He went back inside and brought an empty beer case on which he loaded potions of meat to create a communal plate for the crowd of Basarwa that was getting bigger by the minute. Outside the fence a school of Basarwa children stood watching and if any Boer ventured to the gate, they scurried away into the darkness of the night.
The couple? Yes, the couple, they said, they had to go to Gantsi to get wedded. But they are never going to live there because as they put it, Gantsi community is too closed in. The young couple want to live elsewhere in Botswana where people’s minds are free. They want to mix with everybody and be part of the Botswana they know. May the good Lord bless these young pioneers of the 21st century.
