
don't remember much about my last holiday on the farm. I don't think I even knew that it was my last holiday. If I had known, I would have had a swim in the deep black pools of the Naukluft mountains just one more time.
I would have checked the cubby hole of the old truck standing on the hill. To check whether the birds have made another nest. I would have counted the eggs that were about to hatch. I would have peeked inside every day to see whether the chicks had arrived.
I would have rubbed my face against the rough leaves of the fig tree and broken off a large, ripe black fig for the last time. I would have looked at the oozing of the thick, white milk from the injury site, dripping on the ground, while I devoured the single strands of sweet flesh inside the fig. Each strand tasted of honey. Each strand represented hours of love spent watering and tending to the single fig tree in the garden.
I would have ruined my last pair of white shorts and red T-shirt by climbing high up into the mulberry tree to pick the largest dark purple mulberries warmed by the sun’s heat. I would have frantically rubbed the deep purple stains on my clothes with raw mulberries, hoping it would hide my trespass. I would have risked the scolding and possible punishment with a wet rag over the bare backs of my legs. Anything – just to savor the taste of those large overripe mulberries one last time.
I would have ripped a large, red, speckled pomegranate from the hedge. Breaking open the fruit with my hands, I would have shaken the juicy pips into my open mouth, savoring the taste of sunshine and nature one last time.
I would no doubt have built one last enormous imaginary farm under the shade of the large apricot tree. Using the hooves of slaughtered animals filled with water as my dams, the bones of these animals were my farm workers, my tractors, and my cars. Roads were built with mud and stones. Kraal walls were made of twigs packed tightly together, and a piece of bark served as farmgate.
I would have peeked inside the prefab building to check whether the mice still managed to escape our big black cat, Kambisi. I would have hugged Kambisi again and rubbed his black fur in the wrong direction to see the white coat underneath. I would have looked deep into his green eyes and told him how much I treasured him as a predator and how much I would miss him and remember him for the rest of my life.
I would have walked the few kilometers to the sheep kraal one last time. I would have bottled the desperate bleating of the newborn Karakul lambs destined for immediate slaughter. The sheep would have been counted one more time to ensure they were all there. With the warm wet smell of sheep droppings filling my nose, I would have made sure to walk into the sheep kraal one last time.
I would have driven with Pappa up the mountain to the second kraal post, trying to spot the herds of hundreds of zebras against the Naukluft mountains. We would have stopped, looking for the Kudus hiding between the camelthorn trees. My heart would have raced as the blue Chev bakkie crawled up the mountain pass – deep valleys falling away right next to me. Pappa never kept his eye on the road – his eyes roamed the veld, enjoying the beauty of barrenness instead.
I would have begged for one more serving of prickly pears harvested from the veld, carefully skinned, and then placed in the freezer, to be eaten like ice cream when the day was at its hottest.
I would have taken a flask of coffee to Pappa while he worked in the kraal, just one more time. Hiding in the ditch, unseen, to steal a sip of unconditional love from the coffee flask. Arriving with a coffee stain around my mouth, yet fervently denying that I stole a single gulp.
I would have stood under the big windpump one more time, listening to the squeak of its large blades in the slight breeze. I would have stopped at the water trough and drank the clean, cold water from the mountain.
I would have kneeled on the cement stoep one last time and listened to Pappa reading aloud from the bible one more time. I would have placed my little hand into his large, brown, calloused hand and prayed for rain one last time.
I would have sauntered through each room, lovingly decorated for each child by Mamma. My bedroom with twirling purple ballerinas and her bathroom with pink flamingos.
I would have packed my most precious toys into a cardboard box, labeled the box “Bambi” and begged for it to be sent with me to boarding school. Something to remember my childhood by.
I would have given Liesbet, my Khoisan friend of ten years, an older sister as such, one more hug. I would have laughed at her shortness – at twenty-two, as tall as I was at eleven. I would have buried myself once more in her ample body. I would have savored her embrace for just a little longer.
But instead, as we left the farm that last day when I was eleven, I realised too late that it was the very last day I would spend in paradise. I realized too late that I would not only leave behind precious memories but also precious belongings. I realized too late that the only place I knew as home would be permanently taken away from me.
Only many years later would I realize how much I lost when I left the farm that last day. My life would never be the same. The freedom of twelve thousand hectares of barren land was forever lost. So was the unburdened escape to a life without any demands or emotional roller coasters and without struggling for survival and a place to belong.
Tears dropped onto my lap as the blue Chev bakkie crawled over the gravel road, and the white farmhouse became smaller and smaller through the back window. I had a sense of immense loss. A loss I would carry through most of my life.
Behind me, I left a universe of unconditional love.



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