LOVING MY NEIGBOUR AS MYSELF

 

When I was three - my father bought a piece of red earth on a hill on the other side of “Broederstroom”.  My father was young and enthusiastic, and he wanted to become a peanut farmer. 

We moved into a makeshift cabin with a black woodburning stove and a double bed.  Connected to the cabin at the back lay an open sided barn, jam packed with fertilizer and tractors.  I was just three years old and my sister two years older. 

We were poor but rich at the same time.  Rich because we came from a long line of devoted Christian parents and grandparents.  My parents were decent, hardworking, honourable and clean-living folk.  No swearing or drinking or gambling, carousing and never ever a harsh word … ever!  Just the Bible, the Psalms, the songs and the church. 

Further back about a hundred yards behind the cabin lived an African family. John, Liesie and Sarah with their children.  The wives took turns to help my mother in and around the house. I always had the impression that this family was poor. I saw a kind of sadness in her eyes. I saw it when she had to leave to go home. She always lingered a little as if she was waiting for something.  I loved Liesie.

Late afternoons my father hooked up the water tank and with my sister and me sitting on either side of him … one on each of the big tractor wheels, he towed the huge tank to a little stream and filled it up with water.  I will always remember the distinct call of the “Kiewiet” and the sun setting in the late afternoon.  My father loved bathing in the cold stream. It was funny when he suddenly started yelling and screaming because the water was always colder than ice.

 “Take this container. Buy six eggs.   Do not play on the way” my mother said.

Slowly, silently, down the hill, through the ditch and up on the other side.  We walked with little feet on soft red earth.  Tant Annie was old and wrinkled.  She had no teeth.  With frail, wrinkled hands she packed some straw and then six large eggs. “Be careful” she said.

Way down below just before we climbed out on the other side of the red earth ditch - a sudden thought cleft through my brain.  With one swift move I grabbed the thing and swung it high up into the air.  Into the air flew the lid and six good eggs. With a plop and a splash six broken eggs mixed with straw, landed on the bare red earth.  

Frozen with panic we picked up the straw, we picked up the yolks and we picked up the whites, the shells and the dirt. We stuffed it into the tin container and closed the lid.

 “Here mum … the eggs".  My mother opened the tin.  She stared at the mess. She looked at us.  She looked at my sister and she looked at me. Beatings came swift and fast.  “Stop screaming” she said …” Die Stolse sal julle hoor”.

The Stolse - neighbours … people living on the other side of the ridge.  Carousers, drinkers, fighters and troublemakers. To let them know of our own suffering would be to let the side down.

What is it about loving my neighbour like myself? Maybe it could be something like breaking the eggs and letting the yellow yolk flow in and between us so that we can see we are all the same. We all want something to eat for dinner, a clean cabin, a house and a barn!