Building with Bananas

By Ouma Canki

An autobiography of a womans growth into Christian maturity as
she struggled to understand as well as experience the fullness of
a personal relationship with God and to understand the difference
between presumptuous faith and the faith that God honours.
To help her develop this unshakable faith and trust in God,
while entering into His rest, she had to experience victory in
many traumatic circumstances.

Romans 8:verses 37-39 Yet in all these things we are more than
conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am persuaded
that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor
powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor
depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us
from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477235195

Book preview

BUILDING WITH

BANANAS

OUMA CANKI

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© 2012 by Ouma Canki. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/10/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3518-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3517-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3519-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012919000

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All Bible citations are taken from the New International Version (NIV).

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Contents

CHAPTER 1      THE EARLY YEARS

CHAPTER 2      MY VILLAGE OF DESTINY

CHAPTER 3      CISKEI—ANOTHER FOREIGN LAND

CHAPTER 4      WHERE THERE IS HOPE (JESUS) THERE IS LIFE

CHAPTER 5      IN THE UNIVERSITY OF HARD KNOCKS

CHAPTER 6      SHEEP TO THE SLAUGHTER—AGAIN

CHAPTER 7      DURBS, AT LAST

CHAPTER 8      LIFE GOES ON… . ALONE!

Postscript 17th December 2006

MY GALLERY OF MEMORIES

THE PHOTO GALLERY

CHAPTER 1

THE EARLY YEARS

I cannot remember ever having been to church with either of my parents. In fact, I do not remember ever attending a Sunday school. I do, however, remember sitting at the knee of some lady as a child and being told something about Jesus. I must have been very young because I cannot recall her face, only very large knees, covered by a dress.

One thing I do remember very clearly was that this lady asked us what we would like to do when we grew up. Being the person that I was I’d thought very carefully about this trying to decide what I could do that no one else had ever done before.

I decided that I was going to visit and help prisoners in jail. No one could possibly have done that before! How I was going to help I had no idea. The fact that I thought I would be the first to do that buoyed me on and I proudly told the lady that I was going to work with prisoners. Imagine my disappointment when the lady gave me a book about the life story of the first lady that had visited people in jail in the previous century. They even had a picture of her in her crinoline dress on the first page. Well that was the end of that I was no longer interested in prisons or visiting prisoners. Yet I was destined to do just that!

I know that, during those early years, I used to love to impress my friends, or any stranger, who took the time; with the way I spoke in a foreign language. I would pretend I came from overseas: my friends loved it. With hindsight I wonder whether I had not come into contact with a Pentecostal Sunday School and had started to pray in tongues because, when I eventually became a committed Christian, I seemed to know and understand certain spiritual truths without having been taught them. Somewhere from deep within my subconscious these truths surfaced and became a reality when I needed to know them.

I did not know how to have fun as a child nor did I dare to make friends. The reason was that if I did anything that my mother did not approve of, I would have to endure many a thrashing with a broom or any other large object that happened to be at hand. She believed that she had to thrash the living daylights out of me (her favorite expression).

Sometimes my mother would confine me to my room for minor misdemeanors with threats of a further thrashing. My food was brought to me on the pretext that I was ill, in case my father wanted to know why I was not allowed out of my room. I grew to hate lies. So much so that for years I would literally lose control of myself if someone lied to me.

I can remember as a youngster of not more than 5 years of age, when my parents were still together and staying in Berkenruth Avenue in Dunnotor, being tied to my mother’s bed where my father found and rescued me when he came home from work. There was another occasion that sent my father into a fit of fury. He found out that I had been made to walk to the village with a potty tied around my neck and a note pinned to my back with the words I wet the bed printed on it.

I am truly grateful that, in those early formative years, my father was a stabilizing factor in my life.

He used the room on the back veranda as a study where we would often spend many happy hours together. I would tell him about my days at Mrs. Berry’s school that I attended and about the animals, birds and flowers I saw while crossing the fields on my way to school. He in turn would read to me, or tell me wonderful exciting stories about India, his land of birth or about England, where he was educated and Scotland, the land of his forefathers. I would listen in rapt attention as he enlightened me on the politics of the day. The fact that I did not understand half of what he said did not bother me. Enough that I was able to share those happy moments with him, on our own, after he returned from work, having tea together and eating sticky (and forbidden) cream buns, bought secretly when taking our usual walk past the village shop the previous evening.

I think my mother who was, and can still be, an autocratic and domineering person, resented the time I spent with my father and I’m sure that her treatment of me caused many a furious row between them.

My parents were divorced before my ninth birthday. A few years ago I had a reason to go to the archives in Pretoria to view my father’s affairs. I found four foolscap pages of shorthand that was a report made by a Social Worker and had been presented to the court at the time of the divorce. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I was unable to decipher the report. I realized that I had buried many of those unhappy memories so I decided not to make a copy of the report to have it translated at a later stage. I did discover that my father had been granted custody of me at the time of the divorce hearing! An unheard of occurrence in that day and age!

I do remember my mother destroying all the toys and clothes that my father had given me. She then told me that I was to forget about him, as he was dead. In a short space of time we relocated to East London and for a long time I believed this story.

She worked as a supervisor in the kitchens of a large hotel in Oxford Street. I was seldom allowed to go out to play. Instead I used to wash our clothes of the previous day in the bath next to our bedroom and the following day I would iron them. In those days we were in school until 3 p.m. with a break for lunch. The result was that, by the time I had finished these chores, I had just enough time to do my homework, eat my supper and go to bed. My only contact with the outside world, apart from school, was the crystal set I had been given. I would spend all the time I could with the earphones on, listening to the radio.

On special occasions my mother would go with me to bioscope (the flicks) or we would go window-shopping, even though we never had the money to buy the lovely things we saw in the shop windows. I often imagined that my father was still alive and with us on these occasions and that we were one big happy family. Ah, the innocence of youth. I had no other experience to draw upon so I equated a happy family with the fact that I had had my father next to me to love and protect me to the best of his ability. I never thought that our family was, in fact, a very unhappy one.

Mother used to get annoyed with me because I would try to tell her how hurt I was because my father had died. I only realized later, once I learned the truth that she was reacting from a guilty conscience. This made me withdraw and become pensive and in the end I could not discuss any of my feelings with her, for fear of reprisal.

She and a lady friend, who also stayed in the hotel, would sit and discuss what would become of me. Mother would complain bitterly that I would be a failure and disappointment to her. It upset my mother to know that I would want to do something on my own and that I didn’t always want to include her in my plans. I would often shed hopeless tears for the father who had been snatched away from me.

One day, at the age of 10, while in town on an errand, I met one of our former neighbors from Springs. I had been friendly with her daughter Yvonne. She greeted me with the words Sylvia! Do you know that your father died while looking for you? Where have you been all this time? Why did you never contact him?

My mother had lied to me! My wonderful caring father had been alive all these years. Why had we run away from him! Being of an impressionable age I blamed myself for deserting him and in the end being the cause of his death!

These words continued to haunt me for many years. I know that one of my aunts, whom I knew as Aunt Michael, held me responsible for the hurt that my father had suffered when my mother ran away with me. She told me so many years later when, as a young woman, I tried to renew contact with her. I was so traumatized by this fact that in the end Dr. Russell, one of the psychiatrists who were treating me at Komati hospital, the mental institution in Queenstown, wrote to my aunt to find out the truth about his death. She was informed, by return mail that he had died of a heart attack, as a result of years of suffering from asthma. My aunt also mentioned the fact that he had been distraught because I had seemingly disappeared without a trace.

The result of the meeting with the neighbor was that, at the age of ten, I had to be treated by the psychiatric services in their little corrugated iron offices at the lower end of Buffalo Street. This, together with other events, started me on the road to years of mental suffering.

My mother believed that she had powers. She would hear a dog howling during the night and would predict that some unknown person in our area was to die. Sometimes these predictions came to pass and I would be terrified of her company for long periods of time. I seemed to sense strangeness about her personality when these predictions came upon her.

There was a time that she took ill and spent a number of days in bed. The doctor could find nothing physically wrong with her even though she looked simply awful with pale skin and dark rings under her eyes. She seemed to be in a trance and kept talking to unseen people, apparently paying out money to them.

During this period of illness her lady friend came to visit her. She kept her dark hair very short and looked slightly boyish. My mother seemed to think that she was the ghost of my late, elder brother Eric, who would have been about 10 years my senior, and who, she thought had come to take me with him. I spent the next few days, whilst my mother was ill, under my bed at the furthest end next to the wall. Nothing, not even a plate of food, would coax me out of my hiding place.

Then one day something snapped. One of the hotel’s maids came into our room to clean it and I attacked her. She had been acting as a mediator for one of the male residents in the hotel who kept sending me messages to go to his room. I couldn’t speak to my mother about this because she believed I was a bad person anyway, no matter what I did. I felt scared and dirty and the only solution was to get rid of this woman who brought the messages. I don’t ever recall having seen the man in question as I used to eat in the children’s dining room, and was never allowed to mix with the residents, being the daughter of one of the employees.

The Dept. of Psychiatric Services sent me to boarding school in Grahamstown. My late father, so I understand, had had a contract with the mines when he immigrated to South Africa to work for them in about 1922. All natural children born to him would have their full education paid for by the mines.

I BECOME A CHURCHIAN

On entering the boarding school premises for the first time I joined the queue of New Pots waiting to be registered. Among the questions asked was one that required us to say which church we belonged to. I panicked. At the age of 12 I didn’t even know the names of churches much less belong to one. I knew my mother attended a spiritual church where they had séances but somehow I didn’t want to admit this fact, as I felt ashamed of it. Instead I listened to the girl in front of me who said she was an Anglican. Thus I adopted the Anglican faith, whatever that was!

I grew to love the pomp and ceremony. I loved the prayers in the prayer book. Somehow they struck a chord deep within me that seemed to satisfy my needs at that time. I would always attend the early morning communion service at 6 am on Sunday, come rain or shine. Not because I was a faithful Anglican, but because I had the rest of the day free to do as I pleased. In fact, if it had not been that we had to attend services on Sunday, I probably would not have gone to church regularly. Instead it was a ritual, like eating and dressing. Something you had to do to survive. The only difference was that I felt I belonged to something larger than myself and I felt secure in the knowledge that I was part of it.

I was proud; as any youngster would be that I could recite the long prayers without opening a prayer book. I knew exactly where we were no matter which service it was. In fact, years later, as a mature woman, the prayers were shortened and I was conscious of a part of my past that had been precious to me, finally slipping away. I felt alienated from the church and eventually drifted away altogether.

There was a time that I tried to tell my mother about Jesus. She told me that she didn’t believe in Him because she was Jewish. I have, for many years, believed that I was a Jewess but my mother has recently denied ever saying that to me. Maybe I was mistaken.

My years at boarding school were fun. I never missed home, probably because I never really had one. There was a time, however, that hostel life was unpleasant. My mother commenced working as a hostel mother in the same hostel in which I was staying. Once again I found myself dominated and the usual tales about me were carried to the teachers, I never defended myself because I never thought anyone would believe me. In fact for a time no one asked my opinion and I was continuously being punished.

One day Kitty, Miss Richardson the headmistress, called me in, sat me down and questioned me. My love for Kitty knew no bounds. I admired her and respected her throughout the years I was at the school. She never gave the slightest indication that I had ever spoken to her but the punishment stopped.

In my second last year at school I found a small dog wondering on the hockey field. He was in a terrible condition and, against all school rules I smuggled the dog into the dormitory and looked after him aided by the other students in the dorm. He followed me everywhere except into the school building. Whenever a teacher was in our vicinity we both sensed danger and pretended that we did not know each other. As soon as the danger passed he would jump up licking my legs and I would cuddle him. What a joy he was to me!

In the last quarter of my matric year Kitty advised me to allow one of the teachers to adopt the dog as I would be leaving soon and would not be able to take the dog with. I was taken aback! She had known my secret all along but had turned a blind eye! With hindsight I believe that she knew I needed to pour my love out and the dog was the answer!

Not long after my discussion with Kitty about my constantly being punished my mother moved to Rhodes University where she worked for many years. She had her own flat above one of the residences but, for some reason or other, I did not spend many holidays with her. Instead the school arranged for me to go to a cottage on the Jones’ farm in Trappes Valley where two dear old sisters, Miss Cotton and Mrs. Sharp, stayed with their frail, elderly mother.

How I enjoyed those days of sunshine, good food and rest. Lonely? Yes. But then I was a lonely child. I had made friends among the schoolgirls but something hid the real me from them. I seemed to relate on the surface and join in the fun and games but the secret real me still remained locked away, hidden for fear of being hurt.

Summers melted into winters and seasons slipped by.

—Suddenly, school was over—

There was nothing left for me. My whole life had been wrapped up in the routine of school and holidays. I had been so content that I had not realized there was a life beyond the school gates. I had no plans. My mother still believed that I would be a failure, no matter what I achieved. Although I always received encouragement from one of the English teachers, Miss Slater, as well as from Kitty, I had no interest in planning my future.

Today was enough for me. I had lost interest in my music and writing, which my father had encouraged. Once we had moved away from him and were on our own my mother would continually take my pens and books away from me. She also locked the piano for, so she believed, I would blow my brains if I advanced too quickly or worked too hard.

So here I was, matriculated, with no future, no plans and not believing in myself.

Soon after I found Koko the dog, I thought that perhaps I would enjoy doing Social Welfare work. Kitty always discussed our careers with us and when I told her what I wanted to be she cautioned me by saying that I was inclined to take all other people’s problems to heart. At that time I knew that she knew about Koko and I had to accept that I did feel very deeply and sometimes cried in secret over other people’s hurts. How she knew was a mystery to me. I had always shown a happy contented face to the world. No one knew the real me, so I thought.

She suggested that I go nursing for a few years and if I could become impersonal to other people’s pains then I could consider studying Social Welfare.

Not having any other plans the only course I knew was to go nursing. I enjoyed it in the beginning. Then one day my mother arrived in East London and bought a fish shop in Queen Street, Cambridge.

My nursing friend Cathy and I moved into a flat with Mother. I don’t think we were there a month when one day my mother was screaming at me for something or other. I probably answered her back so she locked the kitchen. The result was that that my friend and I could not get hold of any of the food that we had paid for. My friend immediately moved back to the nurses’ home. I lost interest in nursing and no longer trusted my friendship with Cathy. I had had so many years of being bullied, having my clothes and food taken away from me for punishment. Or being beaten with anything at hand and being tied to the bed for days on end as a small child, that I retired into a shell and made up my mind that I would never trust myself to a deep relationship again. I moved back into the nursing home but it was never the same again for me.

A CRY FOR HELP

In those days I belonged to a group of friends who would go out together. One day we were introduced to a newcomer who had just arrived from the navy. On this particular night we were going to bioscope in two cars and the newcomer had the audacity to arrange the seating in the cars so that he ended up sitting next to me. At the bioscope he took over, bought the tickets and ever so politely ushered everyone to the places he felt they should occupy. Once again I found myself sitting next to him. I was not impressed!

Unbeknown to me the following day he told his mother that he was not going to renew his time with the navy just yet as he had met the girl he was going to marry and wanted to remain in East London until after his marriage!

At about the same time I went to see my mother at her shop. I wanted to try and reason with her and point out that I was no longer under her control. She was sleeping on a mat at the back of the shop and blamed me for the fact that she had had to give up the flat and live under these conditions. There was a fight and words flew between us. She locked the door of the shop and chased me with a massive fish knife—one of those that cut a fish in half with one sweep of the hand.

In my anguish I called out to God to deliver me. In my panic the only condition I could think of to influence God to help me was to promise that, if He did deliver me, I would give up smoking.

Before I even finished the cry for help to a God that I did not even know really existed Boet, the man I had just met the day before, climbed off the bus outside the shop and was knocking on the door. My mother was forced to open it and I was delivered.

Everything happened so quickly and naturally that I couldn’t believe that God had answered my prayers. For years I ignored my promise and carried on smoking. Whenever circumstances seemed to go wrong this promise would haunt me. Try as I might I could not give up smoking—but that is another story.

After a whirlwind courtship of approximately three months we decided to get married. I still cannot believe that I ever came to the point of trusting another person with the rest of my life. Boet, you see, was someone very special. He had decided I was the woman for him and that was that. I think that if I had said no to him he would not have heard me!

Yes he was different indeed. About two weeks after meeting him I found out that we were going to get married! Even though he had never asked me, and I had never said I would marry him. How did I find out? We had gone to meet his family and, on introducing me to his father he said Pa, ontmoet my aanstander (Father, meet my intended (fiancé!)) I was so shocked I almost stopped breathing. I battled with both anger and confusion. Anger that he could just assume that I would say yes and confusion that maybe I had said yes and couldn’t remember! Those days were such glorious days of learning to trust someone and having fun dancing, dining and swimming every time I was off duty.

My mother did all she could to stop the wedding and tried her best to cause trouble between us. We would set a date for the wedding, she would appear to be happy about the arrangement until she had manipulated the circumstances and there would be another terrible argument.

Finally we decided not to budge. Boet had to return to the navy. He had asked for extended time to which he was entitled but this could not go on forever. He had to return at the end of that month. And I wanted to get away from my domineering and manipulative mother. We were going to be married! We finally tied the knot in a civil wedding as my mother refused to have anything to do with a wedding conducted in a church.

I BELONG TO SOMEONE

We settled down in a little bachelor flat and slowly started to accumulate a few household possessions. My mother had surprised us by buying a motorcar for our wedding gift. After a few months we arranged to go to Port Elizabeth for a week’s leave and offered to take my mother with us. At the last moment she found an excuse to start a fight and refused to go. Boet packed our things into the car and said we were not canceling our holiday for anyone.

On our return we found our flat broken into and all our possessions removed. On making enquiries we found that my mother had come to town with a lorry saying we had asked her to pack up everything as we were moving.

We went to stay with Boet’s parents for the evening. There the police came to inform us that my mother had laid a charge against Boet for stealing her car. He insisted on returning the vehicle to her personally. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he was finished with my mother.

Once more we started a home. Eventually I gave birth to Doreen.

Now the hidden psychological problems surfaced and I landed in a psychiatric hospital, for many months. Unable to cope with life and feeling I didn’t want to go on any more I gave up. My mother had vanished from her known address, yet I often had a very real vision of her walking towards me, only to suddenly vanish again.

I could not cope with the house, the baby, my husband and especially with myself. The feelings of guilt and failure were terrible.

I was continuously conscious of the gnawing agony that kept surfacing from the deep recesses of my mind and which kept me from coming to terms with my situation. Day and night I would be found sleeping or withdrawn from the world around me.

Having been hospitalized in a psychiatric ward I was eventually released, but I was not well. I felt alienated from husband and child. Many times I would look into my baby daughter’s eyes and see accusation there. Poor innocent child, she was totally unaware of what had happened to me.

I cried day after day. No one knew or understood the depth of hurt and turmoil in my soul. I felt as if I was alone in a world of strangers who were not concerned with the way I was breaking up inside. My husband was completely unaware of my inner turbulence and was therefore unable to offer comfort or help. Although he had been told that I was ill, he did not understand what was wrong with me and I couldn’t find the strength to bare my soul to him.

Then one day, a few years later, I found my mother again. Against Boet’s better judgment, but because of me, we once again included her in our lives. With hindsight I think that I was subconsciously trying to get her to accept me, to prove to myself that I was not the reject of society that I had grown to believe I was.

By this time Noel was born. We seemed to be a family again. I thought I had found peace and I was now a complete person. I would bring up my children, be a good wife and look after my now ageing mother. Maybe the years had mellowed her soul.

We were transferred to another town and arranged for our goods to be stored until we had found a place to stay. Once again my mother re-acted badly. She removed our goods with the same excuse that she had used years before, and disappeared

Boet was furious! I convinced myself that he would leave me. I found myself once more spinning in a vortex of confusion. The hurt and shame of rejection drowned me and I blamed myself for all that had happened. Once again I became very ill.

We now lived in East London and those early years of our marriage found me in Komani on many occasions. I was unable to tell anyone of the fears I carried deep within my soul for I believed that I was to blame for our misfortunes. I carried my load of guilt, never allowing anyone to get to know the real me. I had created walls around myself and, unable to let go of them, I remained at a distance. Boet found it very difficult to understand me.

Once more we had to start our home from scratch. Eventually we bought our own house. Boet was adamant—no mother.

The doctors had, in fact, advised him to keep her out of my life if I was to remain active in society.

Our offspring grew into lovely caring children. Once more I tried to cope with life and I did, as long as I remained on medication. I would continuously have to go for discussions with the social workers or nurses at the psychiatric department. They would monitor my progress and, if necessary, I would have to see the doctors for a change in medication.

We had settled in East London and had bought an old house on a very large plot of ground. Once the renovations were completed we found that we owned a lovely large friendly home. I was comfortable with myself for the first time in years because I was stabilized on medication. We were extremely happy. We had become the close, united family I had always longed to belong to. We had our ups and downs but nothing we could not handle.

Eventually Boet and I decided that the house was big enough to share with others. I had a yearning to help other children who had not had a happy life and were going through trauma. I worked from 8 to 1 p.m. therefore I was able to supervise the home in the afternoons. Soon afterwards we fostered our first two children.

At first our own two objected to this but having assured them of our love they gave their permission to have the little ones live with us. We were grateful to see that Doreen and Noel were only too willing to help with the extra chores that were created as a result of our larger family.

During this period I became concerned that we were not faithful Anglicans. I longed to attend church more often. Or attend prayer meetings.

Or Something. Anything!

I needed to fill the empty vacuum that I felt somewhere deep inside. My spirit was no longer satisfied with the usual church service or the pomp and ceremony that I had at one time loved. Nothing seemed to satisfy. I started to search, read and ponder on other forms of religion. I never dared go into anything too deeply because Boet was adamant he was not going to be religious or have a fanatically religious wife.

My inability to cope with deeply stressful problems made me avoid confrontation on this subject. Enough that we were happy for the moment, anyway we seemed to be doing our bit for mankind.

I was smoking more than 30 cigarettes a day and was suffering from heavy bouts of coughing. At times I could not sit without a cigarette burning between my fingers or in an ashtray near me. I often thought of the promise I had made so many years before. Because of my health I tried many times to stop smoking but I would abandon the effort. Firstly, because I soon became a nervous wreck and secondly, I could never believe that God was interested enough in me and whether I had kept a promise that I had made. Surely He had more important things to keep Him busy? Or did He?

Soon other events made me pause and wonder—coincidence or God?

Another five children joined us. They had very few clothes and those they had were torn and ragged. With the extra mouths to feed we had to consider dismissing the gardener. This was not a good idea. The size of the property together with the fact that we were just above the Buffalo River meant that an overgrown garden would soon become infested with snakes and other ghastly creepy creatures.

One day, having returned from work I found a gallon of milk on the kitchen table. I tried unsuccessfully to find out from our faithful Xhosa maid who had delivered the milk. The next day another gallon of milk stood on the kitchen table. This time Topsy whom we called Ousi, meaning big sister, gleefully informed me that the milk was definitely for us.

The following day, a Saturday, there was a knock on the front door. There stood a gentleman with a sheep’s carcass in a box that he had brought us. It turned out that some years previously Boet had helped him out of a tight spot. He had remembered it, so he decided to bring us some milk and meat from his farm.

Having found out that we were fostering a number of children he continued delivering milk and meat for the rest of the time that the children were with us. We, on the other hand, were now able to afford to keep our gardener!

I needed to have jerseys made for the children so I bought wool and asked a neighbor to knit them on her knitting machine. In those days knitters charged 1/6d (15c) per ounce. I took 2 lb. of wool to her to knit various garments for the new children. 32 oz. at R0.15 is R4.80 in any man’s arithmetic. She charged me R10. I was very angry! Boet, who was with me when I went to fetch the garments, steered me out of the lounge before I could explode. He later pointed out that the two of us had not made any definite arrangements regarding the price to be paid. I had only assumed that she would charge me the going rate.

By the time I had reached the veranda of her house I was livid. Not knowing why, I lifted the jerseys up towards the heavens and angrily blurted out Lord, Look what she is doing to us. I was being sarcastic, trying to voice my opinion so that the lady concerned could hear, in spite of Boet grabbing my elbow and firmly guiding me out of the house.

At home we sat discussing our quandary over a cup of tea. We had 7 children to clothe. We never went anywhere with the children unless they were clean and neatly dressed. How were we to manage? We had to buy school clothes for the latest additions to the family. The English school knew about our children and helped us with clothes from their second hand shop. But these children were to attend the Afrikaans school, which had only just opened in our area at the beginning of the year and therefore had no second hand clothes.

There was a knock on the door. There stood June, our neighbor and special friend, carrying a knitting machine in a large box! She explained that she had been cleaning out her cupboards and thought she would give us the machine as she never used it. I certainly made use of it! I was so excited because our dilemma had been solved that I did not even think that maybe the Lord had heard my comment after all!

News traveled. Within hours someone else arrived with a box of children’s clothes, all in excellent condition. Now everyone had more than enough and we could afford to buy the school clothes needed for the new children.

Many times in the quiet of the night I would ponder about whether these events were not as coincidental as they appeared to be. These provisions had arrived at the right time when we faced a crisis and were exactly what we needed.

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Hard work and happy memories.

My questions remained unanswered. No one seemed to hear when I asked questions about God and whether He cared. We each seemed to be as ignorant as the next with no real satisfying answers. My idea of God was nebulous and remained so for many years.

I developed the idea that perhaps He did care sometimes but, as with some of my neighbors, He and I only met occasionally, if at all.

One day, almost a year later, the milk stopped. And the meat! I did not even have time to consider the change in our circumstances as some of the children returned to their parents. Then 2 weeks later the inebriated father of the remaining children came and caused trouble in our house threatening me with violence if we did not release the children to him. We did not have the welfare’s permission to release them and he refused to go to the Welfare to discuss the matter.

Once again the stress of the conflict made me collapse internally and the children were taken out of our home. I was admitted to Komani Psychiatric Hospital for treatment and remained there for almost six months. Boet decided, on the advice of the doctors, to sell the old house, replacing it with a brand new smaller one in a suburb that had only just been developed. He agreed with the doctors that, although I loved the children, I was not able to cope with the parents who would often cause problems for us because they saw us as a threat. They probably thought that we were trying to alienate them from their children, which was not the case.

We moved into a beautiful brand new home and our children were happy. I too became settled and happier than I had known before but in the quiet of the night I realized that I actually missed the old house bursting at the seams with children, toys, friends, animals and mountains of washing and ironing. The music of laughter, quarrels, barking dogs, yowling cats, chirping birds and mimicking crow were gone forever, a part of yesterday that had to be buried in the drawer marked happy memories.

Even Dad, our pet crow of many years, had departed to his celestial home soon after we moved.

Our days became quieter as the two children grew older and became absorbed in their own worlds of sport and school. Noel had fallen in love with his horse Pal spending most of his spare time in the saddle exploring the country and seaside.

Boet had been factory manager at a local factory for many years. For 11 of those years he had not been able to take leave for any length of time. Finally I put my foot down and we packed the caravan and spent a number of weeks away in Cape Town.

He had always worked long hours at the factory but the months that followed the holiday found him at work all hours of the day and night until, through sheer exhaustion, he was hospitalized for a week.

I was tired of having my husband work long hours almost 7 days a week for years. In fact, the last few Christmas or New Year holidays had found me stoking the boilers to try and help him get the edible oil into the waiting railway trucks ready for export. The ship was expected in the harbor soon and the laborers were all on holiday.

One day, after discussing Boet’s condition with our doctor, Dr. Le Clus, over