The farm gates would tell the story of a young girl opening and closing each gate with warm tears rolling down dirty cheeks. She was off to boarding school, four hundred kilometers away, with her grandparents. The warm thoughts of love and belonging turned colder as each gate closed behind her.
They would tell how she would be without the comfort of her grandfather’s dry, calloused hand holding hers as they walked on the path to count the sheep in the kraal. They would tell of her yearning for the welcoming smell of coffee brewing on the wood stove early in the morning. And how she would be deprived of the smell of sheep manure, the sound of the old cock’s crowing waking her just before dawn, and the taste of melted butter floating on warm porridge for breakfast.
The farm gates would tell the story of the same young girl, boisterously jumping out of the dusty turquoise Chevrolet bakkie with the crack in the corner of the windscreen. She was running to open the gate on the way home after four months away from the farm. They would tell how she stumbled clumsily over the rocks in her way, how her hands trembled joyfully as she strained to lift the thick wire loop over the wooden pole. The last farm gate would tell of her excited face as she anticipated the warm embrace of the blankets on her own bed. How she was running to her room with the curtains of spiraling ballerinas.
They would tell the story of Monday morning drives to the large gate on the main road after the postal bus went by to pick up the large brown canvas bag packed with surprises: sometimes letters from someone called Moekie, living in a country called Germany, who missed the young girl a lot and was apparently her mother, but whom she’d never met. She had no idea what this Moekie looked, smelled, or sounded like.
The farm gates would tell of the importance of the content of the canvas postal bag. It was always filled with a newspaper, Die Suidwester, bringing news from all over the globe. The news would be a week old but still important. The newspaper would be read by the dusk light of the paraffin lamp at night on the stoep. The postal bag would also be filled with Die Huisgenoot and Landbouweekblad. These magazines would be read from beginning to end, providing valuable information. Then they will be packed away as pride possessions: research sources for the future. These magazines would inspire the inquisitive young girl to learn to read early. Supposing they kept her grandparents busy through the evenings while they sat together on the stoep next to the paraffin lamp. In that case, there must be something magic hiding inside. She would be able to read and spell the word “telecommunication” before she went to school and be an avid reader for the rest of her life.
The farm gates would tell the story of contract workers from Ovamboland leaving behind their families to work on the farm for their contracted time. They would tell how the rookie newcomers would run behind the bakkie if Oupa unexpectedly pulled away before they managed to clamber aboard after opening and closing the gate. Sometimes because of impatience. Other times because of a wicked sense of humor. As she grew older, the young girl would find his sense of humor cruel and unkind, yet, her Oupa was not a cold and unfriendly person. This really was just his wicked sense of humor. A sort of initiation for the unsuspecting worker.
They would tell the story of inexperienced and unsuspecting workers stumbling on the back of the bakkie, holding on for dear life. The older workers would cackle at the tumbling dance on the back of the bakkie when Oupa braked unexpectedly as a springbok or guinea fowl darted into the road.
Farm gates would tell the story of the disappointed boyfriends of the young girl’s aunts, who had looked forward to a holiday on an African farm. Instead, they were utilized as cheap labor to help fulfill the many duties of farm life. At night, they would crawl into bed, burned red by the desert sun, far too tired to pursue any amorous relationships. “Prevention is better than cure,” Oupa used to say with a wise nod and wry smile.
The farm gates would tell about the excitement of a trip to town to buy new provisions. They would speak about the hardship of living on a farm in drought-stricken Namibia, moving livestock from one kraal to the next in desperation to keep the animals alive. They would tell the story of broken promises, lost loves, short-term riches, and far too often, of long-term poverty. They would tell the story of leaving the farm behind to drive to the Transvaal to bury the young girl’s uncle – the only hope for the farm’s future.
It would tell the story of a young girl leaving behind her only home. It would tell how she looked back forlornly as she said goodbye to the only place she ever knew she belonged, while her grandparents packed up their remaining meager belongings, leaving memories of hardship, poverty, and freedom behind.
Closing the farm gates one by one for the last time. Her hands tremble as she struggles to hook the wire ring over the wooden poles. Dirty tears watering the arid earth with love and belonging left behind in the postal bag at the last gate.
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