AUDIO BOOK - TWO FEET - THE SOUND OF THE HAGGIS (PREVIEW)

TWO FEET - FREE KINDLE DOWNLOAD

An inspirational journey.

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After the abrupt disappearance of his father, young Mark finds solace in an unconventional upbringing within a close-knit South African community during the 1960s in this unique coming-of-age novella.

BRIEF SYNOPSIS;

Under the vast African sky, a young boy is forced to come to terms with a whole new reality. Abandoned by his father, his new playground is the open plains, and his new family, a deeply-rooted local community with some seemingly unorthodox ways—among them, Swazi warrior Mabuza, and stern, religious Afrikaner Meneer Gerber. But Mark soon finds that this unconventional upbringing might be exactly what he needs to fill the emptiness created by his life-altering loss. While he imagines his father fighting for his life in a distant hospital, the boy learns to find solace and hope through the wisdom and traditions of his new community—including important lessons about life, overcoming obstacles, and how to walk with bare feet.  With equal parts insight, emotion, and humour, Two Feet takes a candid look at the realities of family life, while evoking the adventure and curiosity of childhood.

The Swazi warrior Mabuza once said that if there are holes in the road you often travel, stop and fill them in, for this will help the man travelling behind you. And if anyone knows about navigating potholes, its young Mark —victim of a broken home, abruptly abandoned by his father, and struggling to deal with the loss. But under the guidance and protection of Mabuza, and others in his South African community, Mark learns to find solace and dream his way toward a brighter future—while adjusting to some unorthodox teaching methods along the way. Adventurous and inspiring, this film urges viewers to reflect on the concepts of childhood, family, and community.

AUTHOR’S BIO:

Mark was born in South Africa. He lived in Swaziland in the 1960's and returned there in the 70's. His unconventional life has led him to many parts of the world. He backpacked through Eastern Africa, the Middle East, Europe and Scandinavia ( a period that was the basis of his first screenplay and directorial début ) finally ending up in Washington D.C. working in the Australian Embassy. There he was smitten by the film bug and returned to South Africa where television production was in its heyday. Mark is now a recognised film director and lives in the United Kingdom. He is married, and has one daughter.

He is the author of The Bone Traders, a post apocalyptic story and Two Feet, a novella of his unconventional upbringing in Southern Africa in the 1960's.

YOUTUBE LINK FOR AUDIO READING OF CHAPTER ONE BY MILES ANDERSON

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emM80i4FNh4

TWO FEET IS SELF- PUBLISHED ON AMAZON BOTH AS A PAPERBACK AND AS A KINDLE DOWNLOAD. 

AUDIO BOOK - A BOY. HIS IMAGINATION. HIS REALITY.

A BOY. HIS IMAGINATION. HIS REALITY.

Can a boy, lost and floundering, use his imagination to win over the harsh reality of being abandoned by his father? And if so, what are the consequences? Does reality have the ability to rear its poisonous head like a taunted Cobra? Or will it negotiate?

This is what the readers are saying about Roper's imaginative novella, TWO FEET:

The way he describes his mother makes me bite my lip, leave the couch to take a long walk on the heath.
Between his memories, his imagination and the dust, he walks and talks with his mentor, his companion. Was he real? Actually, I don't even want to know. He's just very good to have around. So is the novella.
I am waiting for Part 2.

...the proof is in the pudding. Listen to the sample, or, read the novella.

 

Read more of Roper Books

The sound of the Haggis

Does a Haggis make a sound? Does a Haggis even have a sound? 

It does in Mark Roper's inspiring novella, TWO FEET -- it throbs and pants with agonising breaths; it curdles and farts; it resembles the guts, the insides, the organs of a dying man...Mark's father -- but, perhaps, his imagination has become too vivid?
Read and or listen for yourself as to how a young boy's vision of a departed father begins to mould into an untold landscape.
Available on +Amazon.com and +Audible

http://youtu.be/emM80i4FNh4

A free audio sample of the Haggis

TWO FEET WALKS ON SOUNDCLOUD

There's a salad on my head

THERE'S A SALAD ON MY HEAD.

READ THE AUTHOR'S NOVELLA, TWO FEET - GROWING UP IN SOUTH AFRICA IN THE 1960'S. ON AMAZON.

(As an update, have you tried buying a tube of toothpaste recently? Before I comment, let me know your thoughts -- I don't know about tooth decay, but selecting a tube of toothpaste is rapidly becoming brain decay.)

Had a quiet chuckle a few days ago. Stumbled into the local supermarket come pharmacy to purchase a bottle of shampoo. Liquid soap in a bottle it used to be known as. Pure and simple.
 Not any more -- I surveyed line upon line of misshaped bottles -- green, yellow, amber, gold, dark...upright and not upright. Bulbous and lean, some bending toward being phallic shaped; another so sculptured that it resembled an inert human hand. 
So I began reading the ingredients and that's when I scoffed out loud which probably confused the platinum blonde beside me, because he hurried away with a toss of a basil scented curl. I can only presume he reacted so because I had interrupted his blissful moment of wondering what next to anoint his scalp of dead, keratinized cells with. 
I perused the fine ingredients of some of the bottles with incremental mirth.

Avocado and passion fruit, honey and almond, wild herbs and strawberry, lemon zing with a dash of grapefruit (natural no less!), raspberry with mint and selected herbs from India, (I grow mint in the struggling veggie garden and I use it to anoint a good slab of lamb, not my scalp) rose petal and, wait for it, tea. Yes, tea - I simply don't get it. 
 Give me/us a break here -- we are talking about washing our hair, not dumping the veggie garden on our head, are we?? Mango juice with wild African honey? Not tame honey, nay, but WILD African honey -- I can see the plains of Serengeti, the intrepid shampoo maker dodging a pride of African lion, escaping the wrath of a feeding Hippopotamus as he scours the veld for the wild bee...
 I do not jest. Let me ask: Who went out there and did these experiments? Who woke up one morning and squashed a mango, sieved a few strawberries, tossed in a twig of mint and an almond as support  and  then added bee vomit and then proudly announced that he had created a shampoo? Who? 
And the coup de grace here is, we buy this shit! We believe this stuff. 

Maybe none of this surprises you. It does me -- as a farm kid I grew up with all those ingredients so imagine if I'd wandered off into the orchard, into the fields, mashed up a few strawberries, squashed an avocado or two, and dumped and massaged them into my scalp? Then rinsed with a cup of cold tea.

It would have been straight jacket time, I tell you. Or I'd be quickly associated to smoking the same green stuff the tractor driver was hourly participating in -- Back in those days, a bar of Lux or +Colgate soap did just fine even though it may have just been used to clean one of the mutts. I'm still showing a full crop of hair just in case you are wondering.

P.S. I bought the green one -- I think it is lime intoxicated with the fumes of an African swallow's fart or something or other. Not quite sure, but it seems to goad well with the bees out in the garden -- I'm a fair attraction.

Bring back them good, simple old days.

So here's an extract from TWO FEET about shopping -- hope you enjoy. Comments appreciated. 

EXTRACT FROM THE NOVELLA, TWO FEET:

This was a good road. It had a few hills and a few potholes, but pedalling was easy especially on the way to the Store. I’d park the bike outside the Store where the hulking overhead diesel drum was positioned, and then walk across the dry patch of red earth where the chickens fed, and climb the few concrete steps onto the porch of the building. Here, a Cobbler and a tailor worked. The tailor had a milky eye and his left leg would furiously pump the plate on the floor to make the sewing machine rattle. He looked as though he was riding a bicycle to nowhere. The Cobbler, who wore a white shirt and a tie, had a tiny anvil and a mouthful of little black tacks that protruded from his lips like snakes’ tongues. Beside him were heaps of shoes that I thought would never cover a person’s feet or tread on a road again. But they did.

There is always a group of people gathered on the porch. A mother feeding her baby on her bosom, her head bent low over the infant to keep away the flies, an old man leaning on his cane peering from beneath the brim of his recently purchased hat, and another woman tying up her cash in a piece of cloth that she would thrust down her blouse for safe keeping.

The business of shopping was a muted, respected affair by customers in the Store. An aisle was approached with caution, almost in awe, bare feet scuffing on the concrete floor. Canned goods were held carefully in both hands, and the picture on the label was studied with the intensity of an art scholar. A bar of wrapped, Lux soap was sniffed and smiled at, and the bulky bag of Hullett’s refined, white sugar, stroked and prodded.

At the rear of the store, alongside gardening implements and paraffin lamps, shoes for men and women, made in Taiwan, beckoned. The shoes were never tried on for size but measured against the foot, the brightness of the shoe’s plastic alluring. The appearance of high heeled shoes would cause much stifled giggling.

The weighing of maize meal, sugar or flour by the Store’s owner was a solemn affair, the customer having ordered it, not by weight, but by what he or she could afford. As the grocer’s scale shifted on its fulcrum, so would the head of the customer, as if mentally trying to balance the brass contraption by telepathy. When the scale righted itself, the customer would do likewise with his or her head. Then the maize or flour would be poured into a paper bag and fastened with cello-tape. Whatever money the customer had was offered to the store owner as payment. It was accepted that the store owner would count out what was needed, and the balance be returned. A sticky sweet or two always concluded the transaction.

TWO FEET - FREE KINDLE DOWNLOAD

The novella, TWO FEET, is available as a FREE +Kindle download on SUNDAY 11 JANUARY 2015.

FOR FREE DOWNLOAD CLICK HERE

Under the vast African sky, a young boy is forced to come to terms with a whole new reality. Abandoned by his father, his new playground is the open plains, and his new family, a deeply-rooted local community with some seemingly unorthodox ways—among them, Swazi warrior Mabuza, and stern, religious Afrikaner Meneer Gerber.

But Mark soon finds that this unconventional upbringing might be exactly what he needs to fill the emptiness created by his life-altering loss. While he imagines his father fighting for his life in a distant hospital, the boy learns to find solace and hope through the wisdom and traditions of his new community—including important lessons about life, overcoming obstacles, and how to walk with bare feet.

 With equal parts insight, emotion, and humour, Two Feet takes a candid look at the realities of family life, while evoking the adventure and curiosity of childhood.

Is God a Mechanic #2

...and then there was light! The conclusion of the short story from the novella, Two Feet, where Meneer Gerber and all see eye-to-eye. Sort of.

FEEL FREE TO COMMENT -- or better yet, read more of Mark's scribblings in his novella, TWO FEET available as a link on this site to +Amazon.com. Either as a Kindle download or in paperback.

Available at Amazon.com

****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this on?”

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this off?”

*****

If God’s vehicle was a re-vamped, super-charged, gun metal grey, 1966 F-100 Chevy, He drove it into our lives early one morning.

If God’s vehicle was a re-vamped, super-charged, gun metal grey, 1966 F-100 Chevy that was meant to raise sufficient dust to asphyxiate both bird and insect, it was doing a damn good job of that, too.

We seldom had visitors. If a car was seen or heard navigating the pot-hole ravaged road toward the house, it would draw the brood out onto the flaking, thirsty lawn. From here we would view its approach. Mabuza stood poised nearby with his garden fork. The cloud of advancing dust would be watched with some trepidation.

Mostly, the occupants of the cars were men wearing jackets and ties and carrying briefcases and brown, official type folders. They were in search of you, Father, as were we. They were men from distant cities, perspiring uncomfortably, their flesh rebelling at the sun, hunting down debt like we sometimes hunted the King’s buck.

“Vultures,” is what my older brother described them as.

“Rooineks,” is what Pisskop would have called them.

The moment these men got stiffly out of the car, my younger brother would yelp like a puppy and hurry away, probably to the dam which was his place of solitude. My elder brothers would stand mutely, ready to do battle, keeping our dogs at bay.

I stood alongside my mother, always slightly to the rear. I would find solitude in the ant-lion (Myrmeleontidea) holes in the dust, or watch Mabuza from the corner of my eye. He stood ramrod, like a warrior on a cliff awaiting an Induna’s call to battle.

My mother always said “shit” under her breath as she walked forward. Her conversations with these men would be animated, but brief. They would try, with a mix of honey and tar, to cajole the documents into her hands, but she heeded Mister Kelly’s advice, and kept her hands behind her back. Small hands, dirt engrained hands that had once boasted of diamond rings and the scent of expensive oils and nail polish.

“If you take the papers, they take everything. Do you understand, Missus? Never take the bloody papers!”

These men, often through sunglasses, would glance askew at us children as they talked with our mother. I wonder now how they perceived us; we were white children, barefoot, not in school, and our hair was long, way too long for those years. Perhaps our physical appearance was suffice for them to realise that what my mother told them, was the truth. Was there sympathy behind those sunglasses? I seriously doubt it.

There was nothing left to surrender, repossess or sell. Speak to Mister Kelly. Here is his telephone number. No. No forwarding address. Their father’s present whereabouts remains unknown.

Like disgruntled bees leaving a dying blossom, these men would return to their car, reverse, and drive away, soon obliterated in a cloud of dust that had never quite settled.

God’s vehicle pulled to a stop with the sound of an impulsive lion, sending a tremor under our waiting feet. Muffled, chrome exhausts coughed a victorious expletive as they died, sending startled pigeons flapping from the trees.

Barking dogs, momentarily, go mute.

For a change, my younger brother did not move. Instead, he stopped frowning, a gesture that had, recently, become as common on his face as a red- tick to the hide of a cow.

In the rear of the F-100, amongst the tool boxes, winches, chains and scaffolding pipe, sat four labourers. They all wore blue overalls and wellington boots. Their smiles were open and broad, eyes alert and expectant to their new environment.

The driver stepped out. He was short but muscular. He wore khaki shorts and a short sleeved shirt. His skin was tanned; a farmer’s tan, his forearms and legs bred a thick mesh of wiry hair. A veldt hat with a sweat stained band was perched on a balding head. His eyes were a light blue, his moustache neatly trimmed, his feet encased in worn but expensive veldskoens and khaki socks. In his breast pocket, he carried a packet of Springbok cigarettes and a box of lion matches.

“Good morning,” he said to all of us. “I’m here to help with the borehole?” Out came the cigarettes: A flash of a match, a puff of smoke. “Mister Kelly asked me.”

“Oh,” said my mother and stepped forward. Her hands were not behind her back. “Oh,” she repeated.

My brothers walked forward; sucked toward the glory of the F-100, whose metallic colour bounced back the sunlight like a granite boulder fends off a rifle bullet, like a blue-fly to a pile of elephant dung.

Mabuza tugged my shirt sleeve. I looked up into his face. I saw the Mabuza grin: big, white teeth and gums as pink as the fruit of a ripe pawpaw. He patted me on my shoulder and danced his skinny thong clad backside toward the F-100,leaving me standing amongst the ant-lion holes, with a butterfly fluttering somewhere in my young, vegetable starved stomach.

*****

Dear Meneer Gerber,

How are you? I am fine.

I am sorry to be writing this letter to you in pencil, but I have no ink or pen.

I am writing this letter to you to tell you that the borehole pump is fixed.

He came to fix the pump driving a very special super truck that shone in the sun like the silver of that box you have for your pipe tobacco. It made the sound of thunder too. Like the sound we hear in the late afternoon when the vultures are high in the sky and the kopje is standing alone against an army of black clouds, Meneer.

He is from the same valley that I can see from our garden. In the valley, pineapples, oranges and avocados grow. There is always water in the valley, Meneer. There are small canals there, and it is always green even when it is so hot the dogs don’t want to walk and the bees are angry. I think the water is called irrigation, Meneer.

He fixed the pump quickly. He had four labourers working with him, and they sang a song as they made the winch system and pulled the broken pump from deep out of the ground. He is not like Mister Ford from Ford Farm who just sits and watches his labourers work and says rude things to them. He worked all the time with the chains and tackle, and it was good to see the mud and the water at the end, Meneer. It was thick mud from deep under. He said it was a good sign because it meant that there was still a lot of water down there.

He is very strong, and from his truck he took out a brand new pump. My mother did not know what to say, so she went to make us all some tea, even for the labourers. She did not have any cake, so he said he will bring some next time. My mother looked shy, and when she laughed she sounded like a little girl.

Now we do not have to carry Mister Kelly’s jerry cans up the hill anymore, Meneer. My mother thinks the radish plants and maybe the carrots will survive, but the cabbages are no good. I am sad for the cabbages.

I am sorry I cannot attend class. The men took the red Mini-Imp, so we only have the bicycle.

 Yours Sincerely

M.

*****

 Dear M

I am happy to hear that the borehole is fixed.

I am also very sorry.

Yours Sincerely

Meneer Gerber

*****

 Dear Meneer Gerber

Thank you for your letter dated....................

I do not understand why you are sorry.

Can I do my History test from home?

Yours Sincerely

M.

*****

Dear M

I am rwitting with the typwriteer at hte in the office.

God moves in a mydsterious way
His wonders to pergform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upoon the strorm.

Deep in unfathoimable mines
Of nevbyer failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.

Did He ring the caske? Cake? Did he bring the cake for your mother?

Cphter 4 of the history book. Write an esay. Essay.

God Bless you.

 Meneer  Gerber.

Is God a Mechanic?

To read more of Mark Roper's writing, please read the novella, TWO FEET, available on this site with its link to +Amazon.com. For a mere pittance it is available as a +Kindle Fire download or as a paperback.

Feel free to comment and support this Blog. Your purchase will enable me to sharpen the pencil, or, at least, buy another! 

IS GOD A MECHANIC?

Meneer Gerber once said we were all marching forward on God’s road.

God was our engine driving us on.

God was our petrol fuelling us around the bends and up the hills and down the hills.

God was a powerful motor vehicle and we were his passengers.

I wanted to put my hand up and ask if God wore a crash helmet, as the racing car drivers do that I had seen pictures of. But I did not.

I wanted to put my hand up and ask if God’s car, as it zoomed along, also left behind clouds of red dust that asphyxiated bird and insect as it travelled. But I did not.

I wanted to put up my hand and ask if God’s car had any gears, especially a reverse gear. I was thinking that a reverse gear would be a good idea for God’s car because if there were any mistakes to be fixed, God could just reverse over the mistakes and then drive forward again. This way He could repair the mistakes and make certain they never occurred again. But I did not ask.

I wanted to put my hand up and ask if God’s engine ever broke down. But I did not.

But I should.

Was a submersible borehole-pump not a part of God’s engine?

I won't ask.

But if God was in control of an engine, any engine, then He would know how to repair it?

But I should ask.

A borehole was an engine. It had an engine, a pump. It was buried deep down in the shaft after the drilling machine – Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! -- had driven away leaving mounds of red clay and diesel and black oil stains on the grass. Yes, a pump engine that sucked the water from down there where it was quiet and still and dark. Immersed in the bowels of the earth, where the sun didn't shine and where the water was sweet.

I won't ask.

I will.

Will not.

Will.

I raised my hand.

“Meneer?”

Meneer Gerber had his feet up on the desk. He twisted his feet and separated them so he could get a view of me. He remained lounging back in the wooden chair that often creaked with the sound of a timid fart. He looked at me between his polished shoes.

“I did not ask a question, boy.”

“No, Meneer.”

“Then what the bloody Hell do you want?”

“You are in deep kak (shit), Rooinek!”That was Pisskop’s whispering voice. He sat at the rear of the class, but his words were like rifle shots in my burning ears.

Stand up, Feet. Make me stand. Please!

I stood on shaking knees trying to focus on Meneer Gerber’s shoes that partly hid his face. I was deeply flushed. I felt as if I was rolling in a field of stinging nettles. The soles of Meneer Gerber’s shoes were worn thin, and there was a patch on the left shoe. I spoke to the patch.

“Dust, Meneer. There is only dust now because the borehole engine has broken. In the vegetable garden where my mother is growing radishes, beetroot, cabbage and carrots so we can sell them at the road shop. (Breathe, chest in and out) Mister Kelly, he says the pump is old and worn, and he showed us the remains of some rusty pieces (cheeks hot, so hot)...so... so now there is no water, Meneer because of the pump so we...we are carrying water now from the dam in Mister Kelly’s jerry cans. (Bare-feet now sweating on the wooden floorboards and toes curling) We use a pole, Meneer, so we can carry the water on our shoulders, you see? But the grass on the hill is dry Meneer, and we are often falling and (hearing a dry chuckle from Pisskop)...and Mabuza is helping with some rope to pull the jerry cans up the hill, and my mother, she is really trying to show the water the way to find the vegetables. (No breath anymore. Sucking in air) Meneer, but it is not enough water without the borehole engine so...so...I...the plants are dying in the dust so I...so I...was thinking that maybe God because he knows engines, Meneer, can fix the submersible pump?”

Meneer Gerber abruptly swings his feet off the desk. He sits slowly upright in the wooden chair that makes a farting sound. He does not lose focus of me.

I remained standing. Sweaty, naked feet glued to wooden floorboards. A strong smell of chalk suddenly, a waft of Pisskop’s sour body odour. I sense movement from Max, the baker’s son, seated behind his desk. It is more of a nervous squirm, like someone waiting for a film to be projected.

“You are in deep, deep kak (shit), Rooinek,” whispers Pisskop from out there amongst the blurred faces.

Think:  mother on hands and knees in dust whispering to rivulet of tepid water. Solution: God repairs pump. Result: mother not necessary to be on hands and knees in dust whispering to tepid water.

“Are you...”His voice is shrill with pain, like the sound a rugby player makes when he is kicked between the legs. He coughs then again speaks.

“Are you are asking me if God is bloody mechanic, boy?”

I am I suppose, so I nod, and my head feels heavy, and I know the gesture makes me look like a dumb child with his bare feet glued to a wooden floor.

I am soon bent over with my head in the corner. Above my head, just a few inches away, is a small book shelf. It carries two heavy books – the A-Z of African Wildlife and Fauna and the A-Z of Places of the World. There is a layer of chalk dust on the books. They are not a part of the curriculum so are never read and are left to gather chalk dust.

When a child is bent over in a corner of a room, and he is given a caning, his first reaction is to recoil, is to lift up his head. That is what the bookshelf is for. When you recoil, you slam your head into the bookshelf. This way Meneer Gerber gets you twice with one blow. This way the A-Z of African Wildlife and Fauna and the A-Z of Places in the World also have some use.

I look down at my two, bare feet as Meneer Gerber lands the first of six strokes. He will land the second stroke half an inch above the first, and then the third will strike where the first landed. He is a master of his craft.

I wonder if God will try the reverse gear for me.

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this on?”

*****

A question I never asked:

“Daddy, how do I switch this off?”

TO READ THE CONCLUSION OF THIS STORY, CHECK UNDER POPULAR POSTS ON THE LEFT!!!

Tea for Two - a short story

TEA FOR TWO

The Eastern Cape Government School is situated alongside the Eastern Cape Government Lunatic Asylum.

I have only just realised this because, now that I walk with bare feet, I am left alone to enjoy my break-time. I am, momentarily, ignored by the over-aged for their class farm boys.

The smell of the long-drop will no longer bring tears to my eyes and my under-teenage backside will no longer be booted, and I will not be forced to travel in the spinning innards of a garbage can.

I walk the earth as they do.

I am a fledgling member of the barefoot club.

I now walk with bare feet upon the same, drought stricken Kikuyu grass that the over-age for his class farm boy they call Pisskop does. I can see Pisskop now on the playing field as he selects a team to play touch rugby with. Pisskop is fourteen and is the hairiest bastard in the school. Pisskop has shown everyone his pubic hairs. That is why he is called Pisskop. He also owns a .22 rifle, and they say he can shoot a hovering Kestrel out of the sky three-times-out-of-three. That’s a lot of hovering Kestrels to die in one day I wanted to say, but I did not for fear of having my head forced into the long drop.

Pisskop’s feet are ingrained with the colour of the earth; red. He does not wash. When he gets on the school bus every morning, he is always scratching his groin or picking at his feet. I look out of the window of the bus trying not to look at Pisskop because he gets angry if I look at him.

But I am happy to walk the same earth as Pisskop because I am left alone to my own devices.

Around me the game of touch rugby is being played. Dust is being raised off the barren field by the players' naked feet and there is a lot of shouting and the occasional sound of a wet thump as the leather clad ball is kicked high up and over.

On the other side of the high, wire fence that separates the school, is the lunatic asylum. This, it seems, is common knowledge. I can see an inmate sitting on a fallen, blue gum branch. Behind him is the shape of the Government built asylum. It has a corrugated tin roof that is painted red and has a long veranda. There are iron bars across the windows behind which I can see the faint glimmer of mosquito mesh. I can see other pyjama clad inmates roaming about on the veranda. Some are not roaming at all. They are simply standing as if they are waiting for something or somebody.

There is a bed on the veranda but no-one lies on its black striped, piss stained mattress.

There is a smell of boiled cabbage and human shit wafting in the breeze; a smell that not even the scent of the nearby blue gum trees can defeat.

The inmate sitting on the fallen branch is pretending to be a tea-pot.

The game of touch rugby has turned into a brawl, and I watch Meneer Gerber, who teaches Judo, Hygiene, Mathematics, English, Geography, Science and Divinity, weigh in with his cane and the boys, including Pisskop, scatter leaving the main culprit at the mercy of Meneer Gerber. The Culprit tries to get to his feet. Already his nose is bloody. Meneer Gerber gives the Culprit two quick strokes with his cane across the back of his legs and the third somewhere across his spine because he’s trying to turn away and run.

“Are you blerry stupid, man, or what!?” Meneer Gerber shouts at the bloody nosed, now goose-stepping Culprit. “Answer me! Hey!?”

“Nee, Meneer!” (No, Sir)

“You are blerry stupid!”

“Ja, Meneer!” (Yes, Sir)

Meneer Gerber walks away, already reaching for his pipe that he always carries in the pocket of his khaki coloured safari-suit along with a copy of a Superman comic that he reads to himself when he’s meant to be teaching us.

The Culprit wipes his bloody nose and stands alone on the barren playing field. He is rubbing his legs and wincing against the pain of Meneer Gerber’s bamboo cane. Pisskop and the other children have wandered away.

“What the blerry Hell you looking at, Rooinek!?”The Culprit shouts at me.

I look away.

I am a Rooinek, a red neck, because I speak English and during the Boer War all the English were called Rooineks. This is because the African sun burnt their pale skin which was from England, where there is not much sun at all, a rose red.

The inmate has his arms pointed over his head. Slowly he bends from the waist, dips, and pours. In a semi-circle, one cup, then two, then a third and a fourth. Then back to the first cup.

I wonder what blend of tea he thinks he is pouring.

Meneer Gerber is the only teacher that speaks English. That is why he teaches only the Rooineks of which I am one. I think there are less than thirty in the school. The Rooinek class consists of students of all ages: eight to twelve years old. Most are the children of farmers whose forefathers came on the ships in the 1820’s, but I think Max’s parents own the cafe where you can buy bread already sliced, so he is not the son of a farmer. Meneer Gerber is a knowledgeable teacher. During every lesson he makes us read a chapter from a textbook whilst he smokes his pipe and reads a Marvel Comic book which is usually a story about Superman.

I wonder if the inmate at the Eastern Cape Lunatic Asylum also serves sugar and milk with the tea that he is pouring.

Near the end of the class, Meneer Gerber will occasionally ask us questions on the chapter we have just read. There are usually twenty questions, sometimes less. If we get less than sixty-percent right, Meneer Gerber calls you to the front of the class, and he canes you. Usually it is three or four strokes across the backside, or he gestures for you to put out your hands, palms up and touching, and canes you there. This is the most painful. Especially if you need to continue writing with your pencil a few minutes later.

I wonder for whom the inmate is pouring tea.

Meneer Gerber does not allow any questions to be asked about any subject, especially Divinity. This is the only subject we do not have a text book about because Meneer Gerber can pretty much recite anything he wants from memory when it comes to stories about Jesus and God and Mary and Joseph and Moses. That is why I wrote earlier that he was a clever teacher.

I wonder why the inmate smiles the way he does as he pours his tea. It is a slight smile, almost soft as if he is being tickled by a feather. It is the smile I think, of a sleeping child. It is the same smile the Herd boy wears on his face when he is smoking that tobacco that has a seriously sweet smell.

Meneer Gerber has told us eight to thirteen year old Rooineks that we are all no better than Judas because of what we did to the Boer children and women during the Boer war. Meneer Gerber says it was we Rooineks that tied the women and children to the front of the trains so the brave Boers would not use dynamite to blow up the train line. Meneer Gerber says it was we Rooineks who built the first concentration camp and not the Germans. He insists that we Rooineks will always walk with guilty souls under the eyes of God and that because it is God’s Will, most of us will be cast out to sea before we become men and that we will spend eternity questioning our guilt.

I wish I can, but I am afraid to, ask Meneer Gerber the question about who created God and who was God’s father, but we are not allowed to ask questions, especially in Divinity class.

The inmate has stopped pouring his tea as I hear the school bell ring. He now sits with his hands folded in his lap. He looks calm. As if he is waiting for something or somebody.

Or maybe he is simply waiting for the kettle to boil.

 I wonder, dying father, as you rest on that thin bed with the rusty springs, listening to the creaking of the tin roof above and the distant cry of a child, if you would have had the answers to my questions.

I wonder how you would have answered those questions.

Would you have sat me on your lap and smiled as I asked my question?

Would you have felt proud even if my question was a stupid one?

Would you have been impatient with my youthful curiosity?

I wonder what questions you ask yourself now as you await the afternoon visit from the Indian doctor from Calcutta and the nurse from Abuja, Nigeria.

I think, as the flickering flame of the paraffin lamp beside your bed attracts a disorientated moth, you are asking the same question that I feared to ask Meneer Gerber.

Read the novella, TWO FEET at +Amazon.com  for more.