Coming Home

“Miracles, Veronica. All my seeds are miracles. And you know why? When you plant them, they will one day turn into big, flat, white Boer Pampoens.” I thought Oupa was just being silly, you know—calling them miracles!—because that is something only Jesus can do. But not anymore. You know why? Because now I also got my own miracle. You! Once upon a time you were also just a small little seed inside Mommy and now look . . . you have turned into a big boy . . . who will one day turn into a big man.”

VERONICA: Hell . . . but I enjoyed that!

ALFRED: Me, too. But you want to know something . . . I just seen my first ghost.

VERONICA: What do you mean?

ALFRED: The young Veronica. That was her doing all the singing, you know. Maybe she is not so dead after all . . . hey?

It was terrible! All the coffins broke open . . . bones and skeletons of the dead people was lying everywhere in the veld. The jackals came and carried away half of them. We collected as many as possible and laid them out on the ground in that old garage next to the police station, but the trouble was nobody could tell what bones was belonging to what dead person. So then the arguments started […] It ended up with a big meeting where we all decided it was better to dig just one big hole and bury them all in it. I’ll take you to that, if you like.

Memories, my child. It’s all the memories. You are too young still to have any, but one day you will have your own. Some of them will make you happy, some of them will make you sad.

I tried hard there in the classroom but I could never get the big words right. And then what is the difference between a verb and a noun. No, thank you!

VERONICA (Gradually calming down): Mannetjie was born before I got it. Do you understand, Alfred? He was already three years old when I . . . oh my God! I hate myself. Every night I pray that he won’t also hate me . . . one day when he finds out about his mommy.

ALFRED: He won’t, Veronica. You are his mommy. He loves you. Children always love their mommies. Even me. I didn’t know it until she was dead. But then I cried.

Cape Town! The devil made that place, Alfred, not God. Not long afterwards I started feeling sick—you know, vomiting and all that—and when I told one of the other girls, she said it sounded like I was pregnant. She was right. Mannetjie was on the way. Those government condoms was rotten and no good.

That same night I said no to a “very nice man” and his bottle. I told him to go to hell and I sat there in that miserable little pondok with Mannetjie in my arms. The whole night . . . awake . . . just me and him and a lot of questions! What has happened to you, Veronica Jonkers? What are you going to do? Do you want to lose him? What would Oupa say if he saw you now? I won’t ever forget that night . . . But at the end of it I had a plan. I borrowed a little bit here, a little bit there, and when I had enough, Mannetjie and I were sitting on the train to P.E. I haven’t had a drink since.

And tell him stories. He likes stories. ’Specially about me and Oupa. That is a big promise you must make to him. Please don’t let him forget me! Please, Alfred . . .

MANNETJIE: How do you make a story?

VERONICA: But you make stories all the time. You are always telling me stories that you make up.

MANNETJIE: Not like that. I mean like Klonkie. In a book.

VERONICA: The same way, but instead of telling me, you write it down on paper. And then one day somebody comes and puts it in a book. Klonkie was first just a story in somebody’s head, then he wrote it down on paper. Get the story in your head first and then write it down on paper using all your nice big words.

[…] she waved good-bye to me, climbed in next to the old man, and off they went. And then . . . I don’t know . . . empty. Nothing. I haven’t got the words to tell you what it was like as I stood there and watched the dust and listened to the rattles of the old bakkie get softer and softer . . . until . . . nothing.

And now comes my big sin, why God is waiting to get his hands on me. When I am looking at the money I start to think there is enough to buy a bicycle, a brand-new red bicycle with a bell and a pump and a light . . . the bicycle Veronica made me dream about before she went to Cape Town. I also knew then that your Oupa was saving that money for her when she came back, but it didn’t help, because I just couldn’t stop seeing that red bicycle! So I took the money home with me and made another hiding place for it.

You know something, Mannetjie . . . I think we must be together for this one, face whatever is going to happen together. It’s too much for one of us alone. But together, we can help each other . . . when the time comes. Make each other strong. What do you say?

It was such a big feeling. I knew that I was going to taste Hanepoot grapes one more time, pick ertjies and tomatoes, and put a big, flat white pumpkin on the roof in February. Do you know what it is like to be planting again in warm sunshine with tortelduifies in all the trees helping you to work harder! Ha! That is happiness, my friend. Real happiness. And then do you know what it is like a few days later to see the first green little fingers pushing though the soil so that they can also drink sunshine? Watch the first little leaves open? That is when you stand in church on Sunday and try to sing louder then anybody else because you want to thank the Lord.

The last thing I remember was Alfred’s voice . . . far away . . . it was like he was very . . . very . . . far away . . . And he was calling me and laughing and saying that one little pumpkin plant was still alive . . . He was very surprised because it was green . . . it was still green and growing . . . Can you believe that? All the others dead or dying, but that little one still alive and growing . . .

MANNETJIE: These are my special words.

OUPA: But those aren’t seeds.

MANNETJIE: They are my seeds.

OUPA (A little chuckle of disbelief): So you are going to plant words?

MANNETJIE: Yes . . . they are also miracles. They will also grow.