The stars are different in the Eastern Cape

“If you step out, the universe will step out with you – but you must step out first.”

– Loit Sōls

The stars are different in the Eastern Cape. The stars are nearer in the Eastern Cape, and the stars are the eyes of the deceased. The deceased are closer upon us here. They listen to what we say.

We spoke sometimes of serious things.

How capitalism is a snake eating its own tail. The greed of the human heart. Die dop-stelsel. The brutal frontier wars, as we were educated by the incisive and encyclopedic mind of Mphuthumi Ntabeni, the prize-winning novelist. The erasure of black voices by prominent white writers. And my favourite fact, that the doctor who was sent to poison Fidel Castro fell in love with him.

We spoke sometimes of posterity.

My mommy always asked her mother, “Mother, how do you spell Hoellie-haa?” whenever her mother exclaimed it. It was a word she used often. A word never written or spelt out, like many words in our language. It was the genre-transcending artist Loit Sōls, who gave me the spelling at last. Dankie Loit.

The thought he impressed on me was this: it will die if you don’t write it. That is how important our craft is. That is why we need conviction.
Novelist Naomi Meyer showed me the meaning of literary discipline, something I sorely lack, and need to step into. I miss my grandma now, but as Loit said, “People don’t die, bodies do”.

She is still here, as is her resounding Hoellie-haa!

We spoke sometimes of levity.

We listened to Leonard Cohen under the nearby stars, our hands warmed at the braai. The melting tones of Carol King and Tracy Chapman. We sang along to Bob Marley nommers as we drank out of crystal. Crystal that splintered and shattered sometimes, so loud was our joy. When the loadshedding was over, the candles stayed lit, the guitar carried on playing. Our chef Gilbert van Zyl said to “Slat die negative thoughts virra ses”. Those invasive thoughts that the depressive gets. And ever since, every time they come to me, I envision a batsman on the field hitting that full-speed thought far, far into the distance. Moer toe.

We spoke sometimes of danger.

“Love is poison,” the award-winning Dutch poet, Emma Crebolder said, while translating her work. “It’s lovely poison”. It was the truest sentiment on romance I had ever heard. In the forests of Somerset East, there are violin spiders causing flesh-eating abscesses: I saw seven, too close to my face. They reminded me of love. 

We spoke sometimes of healing.

I struggle to be around people. I make no secret of this. I hate being expected to talk. But I never felt that nagging compulsion simply to fill the silence in the presence of the ever-perceptive poet, Elodi Troskie: the youngest of us, deliberate about her words. Watch that space.

When it comes to words, being deliberate is important. Perhaps more so is the kind of energy that accompanies them: “As djy jou mondt oepmaak moet daā healing ytko,” sê Loit Sōls. “Soe moet os praāt. Daās krye vi alles,” sê Loit.

I leave here with palms full of aloe-seeds. Aloe for alles. The knowledge of rosemary balm made with unscented petroleum jelly in a pan: rosemary to open the mind; the magic properties of lavender – for the allergies and the respite; wynryk – for the cavities, nose and ears; geneesbossie (also known in Cradock as kopieva) – die snotterage gel for the skin; eucalyptus – to help one breathe easy.

I leave here nourished.