Help, help: Stories

By Nataniël

Hierdie jongste versameling van Nataniël bevat 29 stories – 5 in  Engels, 24 in Afrikaans. Verskeie van die stukke is verwerk uit Nataniël-produksies oor ’n periode van drie jaar: BUTTERFLY, LOVESICK TIM, MOSCOW, SIX IN A BOAT, DIE SMITSTRAAT SUITE, ROME ’62 en PASSI PASSIO.
 

• Language: Afrikaans
• Publisher: Human & Rousseau
• Release date: Sep 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9780798184090

Nataniël

Nataniël is op Grahamstad gebore. Hy het skool gegaan aan die Laerskool Riebeeck-Kasteel en Hoërskool De Kuilen in Kuilsrivier. Na skool studeer hy musiek aan die Universiteit Stellenbosch. Hy het aanvanklik bekendheid verwerf as kabaretster en verhoogkunstenaar, maar sedert die 1990’s is hy veral gewild as skrywer en koskenner. Nataniël was born in Grahamstown in the Eastern Cape. He studied music at Stellenbosch University and first became popular as a cabaret and stage artist, but since the 1990’s has also built a reputation as a writer, columnist and celebrity chef. 150 Stories dominated the bestseller charts for weeks on end.

Book preview

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Human & Rousseau

YELLOW

It was a Tuesday morning, I was twelve years old and we were having a geography lesson.

And what do we find in Lichtenburg? asked the teacher.

My friend Christina put up her hand and said, Bottle stores.

No, said the teacher, Mealies. Say, mealies.

Mealies, said the children in front.

Then the door opened and a woman in a yellow dress and enormous black sunglasses walked into the classroom.

This is Mrs Van As, said the teacher, She is looking for a boy who can sit really still.

But we already have parents, whispered one of the children.

She needs him for a special event, said the teacher. Then she pointed at me.

What is that? asked Mrs Van As, Did the children make it?

He is one of our star pupils, said the teacher, And he only moves when he really has to.

And when he has had sugar? asked Mrs Van As.

Lots of sugar, no movement, said the teacher.

Please ask his parents to bring him to my house, said Mrs Van As. And then she left.

That night I gave the teacher’s note to my mother.

The yellow woman wants you at her house, said my mother, I have told you many times that strangeness will attract strangeness.

What are you saying? said my father.

Last year at the Christmas concert your son introduced the whole town to a Bethlehem where one of the wise men carried a handbag, said my mother, And now the first nutcase is making contact.

What is wrong with her? asked my father.

She owns a copy of every yellow dress Jacqueline Kennedy ever wore, said my mother, She bought three pews in church because she does not like the smell of people and her husband sleeps in a storeroom because he got jaundice from their curtains. I am grateful that my faith prevents me from judging. But now she wants us to sacrifice our unusual child and possibly damage our eyes by visiting the yellow hell.

Ask Annette to take him, said my father, She needs the excitement.

Auntie Annette was a friend of my mother’s. My father said she was the only person on earth whose Bible was missing Psalm 141, she spoke without end, thought, guilt or filter. A few years earlier her husband had been abducted by a group of men who later told the police that he had paid them to do so. He was never seen again and after reading how pain made people creative, Auntie Annette took up wood carving. She produced eight garage doors – four with dolphins and four with sunflowers – and then received no more commissions. She said a medium-sized town was not a source of inspiration for an artist working on her scale, she needed new experiences.

Two days later, with hope in our hearts, Auntie Annette and I arrived at the Van As house in a street where we had never been before. We walked through a garden of contorted plants that did not know if they should grow towards the sun or towards the bright yellow house appearing in front of us.

Auntie Annette rang the doorbell and a skinny woman in a white apron and black sunglasses opened the door. She led us through a maze of bright yellows, shocking yellows, screaming yellows and burning yellows. In the centre of the yellow universe Jacqueline Kennedy-Van As was sitting on a couch. Yellow dress, yellow shoes, black sunglasses.

Look into your hands, whispered Auntie Annette.

I don’t know if you are aware of the fact that the lead singer of Above You is getting married, said the yellow woman.

Above what? asked Auntie Annette.

Above You, said the yellow woman, That’s the name of the group.

And the lead singer, what is his name? asked Auntie Annette.

Her name is Cocoon, said the yellow woman.

Is that not your daughter? said Auntie Annette.

That is correct, said the yellow woman.

Then why don’t you say so? said Auntie Annette, Who calls her own child the lead singer? And what group calls themselves Above You?

They are artists, said the yellow woman, The name was chosen when they were still planning to be trapeze artists, but now they are singers.

Who else is in this group? asked Auntie Annette.

My son, said the yellow woman.

Buckle? said Auntie Annette, I remember him, he’s weirder than this boy next to me, he wanted to become the world’s first priest in a minidress. So Cocoon and Buckle van As are now Above You. No wonder they can’t fly, no circus will employ somebody who grabs his own sister, trapeze people marry the ones they grab.

You obviously do not understand artists, said the yellow woman.

I have made eight garage doors, said Auntie Annette, How many hits have they had?

They have not sung yet, said the yellow woman.

My hands are yellow, I said, Where should I look now?

Turn them around, whispered Auntie Annette.

Cocoon is marrying an extremely dynamic man called Alfred, said the yellow woman, The wedding will not have traditional flowers or decor, it will feature a magical beehive, bigger and brighter than anything ever seen before. The boy will be inside on a little chair. He will not move, nobody will know he is there. There will be drinks and food inside to keep him alive. As the wedding proceeds, he will push out small jars of honey from underneath the hive, guests will find them and take them home and never forget the event. Honey is the symbol of success and determination. We will pay the boy one hundred rand.

I nearly fainted. One hundred rand was enough to buy handbags for all three wise men and a few shepherds.

Three weeks later, while Auntie Annette was still recovering in a dark room, I was sitting on a tiny chair inside a yellow quilted beehive constructed over the frame of a small round tent. I had a bowl of cheese curls, a bag of banana sweets, four tins of pineapple juice and three hundred jars of honey around me. Through a small hole I could see wedding guests taking pictures of the beehive, pointing at the yellow furniture, staring at the golden ceiling, borrowing sunglasses and begging waiters for eye drops.

At the main table Mr and Mrs Van As were in yellow because they were Kennedys, Cocoon and Buckle were in black because they were artists and the very pale groom, Alfred, was in purple because he was about to make trouble. He held up his hand, the band stopped playing, he got up and looked at the guests.

Ladies and gentlemen, he said, I thank you for being here, I hope you have not been disappointed by all that this completely insane and insatiable family has provided for you, the yellow food, the abundance of bad taste, the cry for attention, the need to control, the sick relationships, the snobbery and the spectacularly small minds. I will now leave this hall and start a brilliant life as a single man. All those who need to go into the free world may follow me.

Although his exact words have been in my memory for decades now, at that moment I had no idea what they meant, I just thought that I should start pushing out the honey. I lifted a small part of the beehive’s bottom edge and pushed jar after jar into the hall.

Alfred walked past my tent, his purple shoe hit a jar of honey which rolled towards a table where a woman got up from her chair and stepped on it, breaking it and cutting her foot. More and more people, following Alfred and not noticing my magical work, stepped on the jars. There was blood everywhere, there was glass and there was honey, but I kept pushing them out, I was not leaving without my hundred rand.

I never forgot that family, that wedding, that beehive or Alfred. There were many lessons to be learned and I am not sure if I learned the right ones. But I can declare that I still love getting paid for a job well done, I love honey, I love yellow, I love being an artist and I love being a single man. I am just not sure about purple.

NOG ’N VERSKRIKLIKE NAG

In my vorige boek is ’n verhaal met die titel TWEE VERSKRIKLIKE NAGTE. Dit is die verhaal van ontstellende naggeluide wat gelei het tot ’n ontnugterende ontmoeting. Twee jaar later is my nagrus weer wreed onderbreek en hierdie ervaring het gelei tot ’n nuwe verhaal, NOG ’N VERSKRIKLIKE NAG.

’n Misverstand is presies wat dit sê, jy mis verstand, dalk vir ’n enkele oomblik, dalk daagliks. Jy mis ’n verstand, jy mis verstaan, jy mis waar jy staan, jy staan waar jy mis. ’n Misverstand vind plaas tussen twee partye en kan lei tot grootskaalse woede en frustrasie, dikwels by net een van die partye. Misverstande was al die oorsaak van vele historiese konfrontasies, wreedhede, wette en wanhoop. As gevolg van evolusie en die mensdom se toenemende tekortkominge, het misverstande begin gestalte kry en in misleidende vorme begin verskyn, hulle het voete, hande, gesigte en hare ontwikkel en tussen ons begin beweeg. Misverstande leef gewoonlik voor in die alfabet en gebruik name soos Anika, Boet of Clarissa. Hulle toon eienskappe soos bereidwilligheid, belangstelling en geesdrif waarmee hulle dan gemeenskappe, besighede, kerke en families infiltreer. Soos sekere sampioene, moet hulle die regte omstandighede vind om te floreer en kan dan uiters gevaarlik word.

Op ’n dag word ek gekontak deur ’n Clarissa wat my wil bespreek vir ’n konsert in Heidelberg, sy wil fondse insamel vir ’n hondeskut. Ná heelwat meer korrespondensie as wat nodig is, word daar op ’n Donderdagaand besluit.

Heidelberg het ’n verrassende mooi stadsaal en as jy eers binne is, kan jy van die omgewing vergeet en ’n byna aangename ervaring hê.

Clarissa wag ons in en groet met die ongewone woorde, Welkom hier, ek is vier-en-veertig.

Die aantrekkamer is versier met gordyne, kussings en ’n tafeldoek uit dieselfde blomlap as haar rok, elke keer as sy instap, lyk dit of haar kop sweef, dis groot pret. Ná die vertoning kom groet sy by die motor.

Die geld word nou vasgesit, sê sy, Ek neem aan jy soek nie deel van die rente nie.

Ek sê, Wat van die hondeskut?

Hier is nie so iets in Heidelberg nie, sê sy, Ons wag maar. Gee gou vir my jou ma se nommer, ek weet jy wil ry.

My ma? sê ek.

Ek sê net af en toe hallo, sê sy.

Ek sê, My ma wil nie hallo sê vir ’n vreemde vrou nie.

Ons ken mekaar mos nou, sê sy.

Ek sê, Tensy ek moet kom getuig oor die bedrog, sien jy my nie weer nie.

Jy’s nou moeg, sê Clarissa, Ons praat later.

Ek ry huis toe. Sy bel my drie dae later.

Die niceste couple op aarde bly baie na aan jou, sê sy, Skilpad en Terry Botsma, blykbaar het jy hulle nog nie ontmoet nie. Wat dóén jy tussen shows? Hulle is dié mense as jy ooit ’n Wendy house wil opsit. Hulle dogter word nou een-en-twintig, dié is droër as ’n beskuit. Hulle wil ’n partytjie reël, iets wat die stomme wese kan elevate. Dit moet ’n storie wees wat daai girltjie uit haar dop skud, dit moet haar skop tot in die jazz.

Ek sê, Wat beteken jazz?

Dis iets waarvan jy baie hou al maak dit almal anders ongelukkig, sê Clarissa, Ek het vir hulle gesê as daar nou een mens is wat vir hulle in die regte rigting sal help, is dit jy. So waar begin ons?

Ek sê, Begin dan met Estelleen.

Ek vat mos nie inspuitings nie, sê Clarissa.

Ek sê, Estelleen is die bekende vrou wat papierkuns doen, sy maak blomme en blare en voëls en skoenlappers, haar goed is by elke tweede onthaal en in ’n klomp winkelvensters, mense raak mal. As sy ’n hele omgewing kan elevate, sal sy die kindjie ook elevate. Sy’s ’n vriendin, ek stuur haar nommer.

’n Maand later staan ek en ’n bode voor my huis.

It’s me! sê ek vir die vierde keer.

You are funny, sê hy, No really, where’s the gentleman?

Toe lui my foon en ’n vreemde stem sê, Estelleen het gevries op die leer, sy sê jy is die naaste, ons is by die klipsaal.

Ek is op pad, sê ek.

Do you want me to drop my pants? vra ek vir die bode.

Hy gee die pakkie, ek spring in my motor en jaag drie blokke tot by die Metodistekerk. Agter die kerk is ’n klipsaaltjie waar almal trou of herdenkings hou. Ek storm by die voordeur in. ’n Swerm van duisende spierwit skoenlappers fladder uit ’n lang wit blompot heel agter in die hoek. Die swerm krul teen die muur op en vorm ’n asemrowende wolk wat die helfte van die plafon bedek. Waar die wolk ophou, raak twee hande aan die plafon. Die hande is vas aan twee lang arms wat afloop tot in Estelleen se dun liggaam. Dié is agteroor gebuig soos Cupid se boog en staan heel bo op ’n verbysterende lang leer. Twee meisies met baie groot oë hou die leer vas.

Wat gebeur? skree ek.

Iets in my rug het gekliek! skree Estelleen, Ek kan nie