It’s all a load of Blue Bull

“It is,” said Oom Schalk Lourens as he exhaled a cloud of white vape smoke which put the early morning mist of the Groot Marico to shame, “the best of times. And it is the worst of times.”

“What the dickens are you on about?” burst out Jasper Bledingworth-Jones, the only one of the four sitting on the stoep of the Alleenfontein general store who was wearing long trousers. Real boere, of course, don’t wear longs, except to church or court.

But then BJ, as he was sometimes crudely referred to, was a soutie, invited into the early morning coffee group in the name of community-building when he moved to the district to set up a polo estate… unsuccessfully as it turned out, but that is another story.

Kerneels harrumphed as he drew on his pipe. Not for him vapes – what was Oom Schalk thinking? – or souties. The Boer War hadn’t been that long ago, was the view of Kerneels and he was not about to “get over it”.

Oom Schalk continued: “We won the cricket so we are again the best in the world. But, alla wêreld, what happened to the Blue Bulls?”

Windpomp Labuschagne (you wouldn’t dare call him Labu-Shayne, like that Aussie) shook his head and thumped his fist on to the upturned barrel which served as the coffee table.

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“Why did he have to smile and laugh so much?” he asked in a pained, but angry, voice.

BJ interrupted: “You chaps talk in so many riddles it’s no wonder you lost the country… what are you on about?”

The three others glared at him. Once a colonial master, always a colonial master…

Kerneels put him straight: “That blerrie Err Gee Snyman thought it was such a big joke playing for the Irish against his old team…”

Just as enlightenment fell slowly over the soutie’s face, Windpom chipped in: “Sarie’s neef tells me that Ernst Roets and Kallie Kriel-hulle won’t allow that sort of thing once they get their decentralisation and self-government.

“They will charge an export tariff for any rugby player who wants to go overseas. And it will be double for Bulls players, because something has to be sacred…”

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Oom Schalk took a sip of the strong moer koffie… at least that was still the same – vaping couldn’t quite match the rum-flavoured tobacco he used in his old meerschaum pipe.

“The world,” he said, “is changing so fast I wonder what we can believe in…”

As the others nodded, he went on: “It used to be easy to define a boer in the old days – even for the Yanks. Dirt under the fingernails and that special tan we get. But today…”

Kerneels chipped in: “Ja, my son-in-law Frikkie has a R20 million tractor with computers and GPS which you need a degree to understand. For goodness’ sake… a trekker!”

Windpomp added: “And you should see my wife’s cousin’s kid. He drives a Ford Ranger Raptor. Bliksem – a bakkie which can do 120 myl per uur with leather seats! A bakkie! That’s not right!”

A contemplative silence descended.

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BJ broke it: “So the people from the National Dialogue are going to be here next week and I presume they want to hear what we think…”

“I’ve seen plenty of political foefies in my time,” said Oom Schalk, “and this is another one.

“But if they bring Siya along, that will be bakgat because I can get his autograph.”

Kerneels couldn’t hold back: “But they better not bring that verraaier Snyman. I’ll sort him out!”

“Kerneels,” Oom Schalk reminded him, “RG is a helluva lot bigger than you.”

“Oh, ja…”

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