Gifts the Ancestors Gave Me

By S.Y. Stander

Gifts the Ancestors Gave Me takes you through the highs and lows of an unwavering perseverance. It's my story of grit, determination, loss, heartbreak and buoyant moments.

I was raised by a phenomenal group of men and women. My ancestors provided a stable foundation that aligned with a staunch purpose and destiny

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.Y. Stander
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805410539

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Humble beginnings

As I looked across the coral-rich water of Algoa Bay flowing to the Indian Ocean, I could hear my elder calling my name.

‘It is time to come inside. The streetlamps are switched on,’ came a firm voice.

‘I am coming in a minute,’ I replied, trying to make the last hop of the double Dutch skipping rope.

That is a fond memory of my childhood, living with my maternal grandmother near the seaside. As the matriarch of our family, she was a phenomenal woman, a force to be reckoned with for her generation. She was firm but fair; her old-school regimen left a distinct scar on my right leg. For a young girl growing up in the segregated society of South Africa in the 1980s, strict discipline and focusing on academic achievements were the norm. There was a deep hunger for education in our community. Our elders took pride in instilling those strong values in us all. ‘Education is the key that will transform your world,’ I was told repeatedly. I would answer politely with a smile whilst thinking of ways to get extra play time outside.

Miss Nellie, as she was known in the community, was the proud owner of a fruit and vegetable shop, a sweets arcade, and an allotment in her back garden. In her heyday, she worked at the local jam factory whilst supporting her immediate family. She possessed a distinct entrepreneurial flair that had been handed down from her mother, Sarah Stoffels. They were both well respected amongst their peers. My grandmother raised six children single-handedly after my grandfather, Papa Henry, died unexpectedly. She had a meticulous Saturday morning rise-and-shine regimen, getting everyone in line to sell as much fresh produce as possible on the day.

She did not hold with the ramblings of my older cousins, who always planned a sneaky trip to the disco scene at their favourite beach spot. The consequences of their not fulfilling household chores were harsh. That was my ‘Ouma’, which translates as elderly mother.

At the time, my mum thought it would be best for my siblings and me to grow up at my grandmother’s house. She was the bedrock of strictness and had the best intentions for us all. Her essence was captivating, her wisdom unparalleled. She was a pillar of strength to everyone who crossed her path, including her siblings, who all stayed in the same area.

‘You, my favourite granddaughter, will manage the potato stand today,’ she said while fixing the ribbons in my hair. ‘Charge one Rand per pack and count the money diligently.’ Her voice echoed through the room.

‘Ja, Ouma,’ I replied, beaming with pride. At the end of the day, I would count the takings and hand the money over with an assured sense of fulfilment. The banknotes would go straight into her handkerchief and be meticulously tucked into her bosom; the coins were placed in the old-fashioned biscuit tin, and everything was accounted for at the end of the day.

Unbeknown to me, the seeds of interdependence and entrepreneurship were being sown into my life. Looking back over my shoulder at those early learning experiences, I realise they formed the bedrock of the woman I was destined to become. Ma Nellie had the gift of foresight; she could see where I was headed and felt compelled to set me on course.

I watched my maternal ancestor hand out fresh produce to certain families in desperate need of a meal. It was her way of her giving back. Her heart was overflowing with love, and her patience continued to shine through the adversity in our community.

I remember the stories she told my cousins and me about the segregation laws, especially pertaining to us not going to the Whites Only beach and certain affluent parts of the city. My child’s mind could not comprehend why we could not enjoy the marvellous work of the Creator.

‘But why, Ouma, can’t we go to the Whites Only beach? It doesn’t seem fair!’ I said in a trembling voice.

‘Do as you are told,’ came her final warning. Many years later, it would all make sense to me as I learnt about the brutal partitioning laws that were imposed on us as people of mixed heritage.

As a seaside camping tradition, Oom Boet Stoffels, my grandmother’s only brother, used to place the watermelon on his head to test whether it was ripe. We laughed at his humour and funny faces. He was an honourable man in our community, the only one in Couldridge Road who had a telephone line. Everyone used his phone during emergencies. He was the mayor of the street and a God-fearing man with a strong sense of discipline running though his veins. He and his sisters were a rock-solid team.

Ma Nellie would purchase stamps for the Riviera food hampers, a tradition that dated back many years. She was old-school and believed one must live within one’s means. The plastic containers of the hampers were used as storage for bits and bobs. She would start in advance with her annual preparation for Christmas festivities, including homemade canned peaches that were preserved in mason jars for several months, mouth-watering fig jam, special Christmas ginger beer and jam tarts. Her recipe book with its scribbled handwriting was a tattered hand-­me-down from her mother. All the recipes were taught to us younger generation.

As young children, we all had a taste of the dreaded castor oil regime, normally before the Christmas festivities began. The thought of that horrid liquid moving down my throat still gives me shivers.

‘Children, the medicine is good for your stomach,’ my grandmother said with a grin on her face while bribing us with liquorice sweets.

Ma Nellie would reprimand us if we played games with a deck of cards or a pair of dice. ‘It’s from the devil!’ she shouted. Oh my word, the thought of going to hell for playing cards left me quaking in my shoes. A couple of my older cousins went into the vegetable shed without being seen and burst out laughing. They mocked the wide-eyed expression on my face after listening to my elder’s fire-and-brimstone sermon. Looking back on those conversations reminds me once again of the strong influence our ancestors had on shaping my mind-set.

My uncle Lionel was a rock and roll fanatic. With his hips shaking and head bobbing, he would move the kitchen table out of the way. That was the sign for ‘Let’s move to the rhythm of the music.’ I stood on his feet and he would lead me in the steps. At times, he would mix in some jitterbug dance moves with an underarm turn. That was my first encounter with the world of dancing that set me on course to become a ballroom dancer later on in my life.

Our weekdays consisted of household chores after school, followed by homework, before playing outside. It was a strict regimen and operated like clockwork. Each one of us was very familiar with the house rules. We dared not backchat or give any attitude; quick-fire discipline would follow without hesitation. Ma Nellie’s unerring ways were sometimes misunderstood, but I knew deep inside that she meant well, and it always came from a place of love.

During the news bulletin she would speak directly to the television while greeting the news presenter, as if she was part of the crew.

‘Goeienaand, Riaan,’ she would reply. The direct translation is ‘Good evening’. As her granddaughter, I always smiled at her witty banter.

Our Sunday afternoons were very easy and comprised of family lunch followed by the elders playing games of dominoes under the fig tree in the back garden. The children were not allowed to participate in adult conversation unless their name was specifically called. I would not dare chime in or speak out of turn. Just one look and I knew that a nip on my ear would follow swiftly. Uncle Lionel, who was the eldest son-in-law, strummed his guitar and sang, off-key as usual. The laughter used to ripple across the backyard. Those memories always brighten my day when I listen to guitar music on my playlist.

Life lesson: From humble beginnings come great things. A meaningful life is being able to share ourselves and touch the lives of others.

My first birthday party with Aunt Rose and Uncle Melville

My first day at primary school

CHAPTER 2

Seed time