Читать книгу The Lyndi Tree - JA Ginn Fourie - Страница 11

I am told that I was born 8 December 1960 in my maternal grandparents’ village of Rosenkrantz in the Northern Transvaal, as Sesotho tradition requires for a firstborn. I am given the name of Ngoato; but a relative calls me Letlapa, which sticks as my official name. Ngoato remains as my salutation name, used when addressed at traditional ceremonies and rituals, or as a salutation.

At nine months old, I accompany my mother back to Manaleng; one of numerous villages in the GaMphahlele where my earliest memories are formed. Childhood memories are a patchy collage of the cold shadow of the Molongoane mountain (part of what is known as the Drakensberg range to white South Africans), over our poorly thatched rondavel huts. Pigs follow us into the bush and grunt around a person as we relieve ourselves, then gobble up the steamy lump and grunt for more. Sadly, in summer when it is scorching Molongoane hordes its shade. Then there are memories of mopane worms and a variety of grasshoppers – Lempo in this case - that make excellent additions to our porridge dishes. Lempo are big and delicious; we pluck their wings and sever their legs before roasting them over the fire.

Nothing is as joyous as seeing a truck stop in front of our home to deliver a bag of white maize meal, considered a sign of wealth; more impoverished families have to eat sorghum which is not my favourite. The pundits declare its nutritional value which is a poor consolation for its unpalatability. However, it does fill pots when pockets are empty.

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