Submarine

We shared a whole tub of ice cream one day. It was plain vanilla but we added ingredients. Chocolate sauce. Smarties. Some crunchy biscuit. 
We should invent an ice cream flavour like this, he told me.
We’d make millions, I laughed.
He licked his spoon slowly, intentionally. There was a swipe of vanilla on his chin. The sun hit his eyes and he covered the beam with an arm, smiling at me. The old green couch sat in the afternoon, intent on tanning, holding lazy bodies.
I’ll definitely buy myself a yacht. One of those fancy ones I always see on MTV, he said. He studied his reflection in his spoon.
Your chin looks lovely, I laughed.
He wiped it off, rubbing it on my leg.
I smacked him.
I think I would want something cooler than a yacht.
Like what?
Like a submarine or something. So I can go explore beneath the surface.
He lifted a bulge of vanilla on his spoon. Pink and green Smarties were washed of colour, staining the ice cream. Crumbs were sliding down the heap. He lifted it up towards my mouth and I took it, careful not to mess.
Submarines are cool, he told me.
A yellow one.
He shook his head. You can’t copy the Beatles.
I can.
Fine, there’ll have to be lots of space. Places for lots of pillows. A fridge.
For our ice cream flavour.
Exactly. He nodded, feeding me again. The Smarties were soft and cold against my teeth.
You’re going to mess.
That reminds me, he laughed, we’d have to get a maid.
I snatched the spoon from him. He gave me a teasing look.
I’ll have to get a maid if I’m living with you.
You’ll live with me in a submarine? Submerged against mounds of water with deadly sharks all around?
I picked up a heap and swirled it, letting it curl into a soft twirl with chocolate pieces. Some Smarties were white, off-pink, off-blue, off what it once was.
I’d live in a submarine with you. We’d have a water bed. A red one with daisies or something. We’d have a small stove where we’d cook greasy things and bake things we weren’t allowed to. We’d have a big stereo system. Some fancy disco lights, too. That would be pretty cool. We’d have a telescope too. Or whatever those submarine scope things are called so we know when the hot days out were. We’d come to the surface to spot some life. We could have a braai on the surface. We’d have quite a view. So yes, I’d live in a submarine with you.
He raised his thumb and wiped off vanilla on my lip. I hadn’t noticed it.
I’ll let you know how much we’ll have to save for one, he laughed.



He died in an accident two weeks later. He was not the one that was drinking. He was coming to see me because I felt like the company.
The next day I was walking around town, deaf to whatever the other people were laughing about. I went into the takeaway place that smelled like grease and creamy things.
What’ll be?
I looked around for a menu and opened it, falling on the fish, prawn and chip specials.
Some hake please. As much grease as possible.
The lady nodded and screamed the order out back then turned back and smiled at me.
What about dessert?
Dessert?
She pointed at the menu and smiled, licking her dry lips. There were chocolate cakes and jelly and donuts. Things I couldn’t stomach right now.
I smiled politely at her. Not right now, thank you.
Our ice-cream is pretty good.
Ice-cream?
Yeah. Chocolate, Strawberry, Fudge.
She pointed to a shiny glass cage that held tubs of smooth colours.
Do you have vanilla?
Yeah, right here. Want a cone? There’s some extras you can add.
And sauce?
Chocolate.
I smiled. That would be nice.
She grabbed a small bowl and scooped two heaps of vanilla ice-cream even though I hadn’t specified. She was rather large. He would have teased her, whispering close to me. She would not have fit in our submarine.
I’ll have Smarties, too.
It’s my favourite, too, the lady said, shaking Smarties on top.
Biscuit.
Excuse me?
Do you have some biscuit?
She nodded. Some chunky stuff that gets stuck in your teeth.
Perfect.
The heap had started melting in the summer heat. It made the same colours he made. The crunchy bits drowned in the sauce.
Your fish’ll be done soon.
Can I cancel my order? This’ll be fine. I’ll just need two spoons.
Two? The lady asked, looking around me as if someone was hiding behind my frame. She looked outside and then glanced back, shrugging to herself.

I stepped outside the store and looked up, finding something in the clouds from him. A circle with spots of sunlight sparkled. Disco ball. Someone walked across the street with something the Beatles played. The man was rushing to a date, a bunch of daisies in his hands. I had to look away. The lady in the store saw me look back at her and she waved. I waved back awkwardly. Then I saw the store’s brightly painted windows.
Under the Sea – Fish Takeaway Extraordinaire.
I bit into a cold Smartie and walked away, mumbling words that to lyrics that faded behind me.

As we live a life of ease
Every one of us, has all we need
Sky of blue and sea green
In our yellow submarine.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

Everyone has the right to freedom of expression, to impart information or ideas.
Today we can flaunt logos and t-shirts, watch controversial films, write a heated opinion on Julius Malema. We can protest, strike and march without the fear of handcuffs and bullets.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

Years ago, South Africa was different. If a book spewed out the realities of apartheid’s madness the government would gag the message with proclamations of ‘democracy’. The Madiba t-shirts many wear today would have been one’s life sentence or immediate exile. There was a blanket of propaganda over South Africa – one that even affected the white population. My father was stationed at the Angola border in the early 1980’s away from his new girlfriend - my mother. They would write back and forth, exchanging expressions of love and gossip as they counted the weeks until my father returned. When my father received his mail, the envelope would already be open. The personal sentiment of opening an envelope was left to stern generals who were ‘protecting’ the state’s power. For them, any soldier could be a spy. A threat could be anywhere and secret messages and political instruction could be inked in young slang and personal jokes. In other cases, words and paragraphs were scratched out, words that were deep in innocence and young love.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

As a journalism student, freedom of expression is valuable. There are no boundaries as to what we think, what we say and what we report. There are no handcuffs if we oppose our politicians and there are no military generals watching us over our shoulders. We are given a universe to report and choose what to say, what to read and what to write. Our generation is fortunate for we did not grow up in a world where everything we consumed was edited for the benefits of racists.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

The government repressed and concealed. From Playboy and Hustler to Eddie Grant’s “Gimme Hope Jo’anna”, the freedom to consume and express remained a mere vision to the many. The government’s ploy to ‘cleanse’ and co-ordinate left many to breathe propaganda.

21.3.1960. 69. 180.

It takes a lot of courage to stand up to authority. Many have challenged the status quo and many have failed but their struggles have constructed democracy thirty four years later. On the 21 March 1960, 69 protestors were killed and 180 were wounded.

Don't take your rights for granted.

Two faces of Terre Blanche

Amongst the flashes of the old flag and cameras, I walk out to the church. Tears hurry down my cheek. There is a picture of Eugene on his beloved horse, smiling at the camera. Outside, the rich-red AWB flags flurry as supporters hold up crosses. Today does not feel real. I can’t anymore, my man is dood.

In front of the lenses and on front-page headlines, he is a man without a soul. Eugene Terre Blanche was the figure for white supremacy, preaching for a land for whites and all other aspects that apartheid taught. No one can excuse what he stood for. He had a will of menace. While democracy grew, he fought against South Africa’s rainbow nation. He believed in white, nothing else. So it becomes hard to believe that the man that mimics Hitler and Nazism is a family man, a father and loving husband, someone who doted on his wife and children with an overpowering amount of responsibility and adoration. There is a side that the media do not show. When journalist Denis Beckett spoke to Terre Blanche in 1983, signs of humanity were clear. At that time he had written a poem for his daughter, read it with a love that any father owns, a promise to protect her against the world. While his right-wing views stink of racism, he holds a matter of decency in his heart – something that is not photographed and filmed. Sparks of human nature were evident in his family life and daily life in Ventersdorp. When chatting to Beckett, he revealed how he gave poor children clothes and a petrol attendant in Ventersdorp revealed how Terre Blanche was a giving and helping man. Terre Blanche’s politics overshadowed his true self some might say. His ogre front blurred his soft heart.

As the coffin creeps further down I close my eyes, not listening to Dominee’s se laaste woorde. Eugene is all over the news, the people are everywhere. Why can’t they leave us alone now? Why can’t they just leave him alone?