Читать книгу The Keeper of the Kumm - Sylvia Vollenhoven - Страница 10

A Bushman’s letters are inside our flesh

These letters talk

They quiver and tap

They move

They make our bodies move

A dream is that which deceives

It cheats

The !gwe6 is that which speaks truly

It is the kumm that stirs, taps and quivers

– //Kabbo, Bleek-Lloyd Archive

Those early experiences with my grandmother and my dreams opened me up to a magical world. Sometimes I tried hard to shut these doors of perception but I never quite succeeded. The insistent instincts that drew me into the archive where //Kabbo’s story was kept were honed by Ma’s way of talking up a Christian storm while surreptitiously keeping Bushman mysticism alive.

When I begin to delve into //Kabbo’s life his stories become like beacons illuminating my journey. Minute details of my life stand out clearly and I see the connection between my experiences and stories he told. Recalling my grandmother’s lessons about the world of spirit and her loving interest in my dreams, I come across a note written by 19th-century researcher Lucy Lloyd. It gives me an insight into the damaging barriers we erect between different aspects of ourselves. Separateness that my grandmother simply did not allow.

On the verso page of //Kabbo’s story about Bushman presentiments and how these feelings are like ‘letters’ that make your flesh quiver, Lloyd writes:

“This is about a curious idea that the Bushmen say that they feel in their bodies that certain things are going to happen; there is a kind of knocking, beating in their flesh which tells them things. Some of the Bushmen understand and listen to these teachings, others are stupid and do not understand their meaning; and disobey them, and get into trouble, such as being killed by a lion. The beatings tell those who understand them which way they are not to go and which arrow they had better not use and warn them when many people are coming to the house in a wagon and when they can find a person of whom they are in search and which way they shall go to seek him successfully. These beatings are the Bushmen’s ‘letters’ (!gwe) they tell me.”

There were only about 85 years between //Kabbo’s patient storytelling in a Victorian drawing room in Mowbray and my grandmother pumping me for details of my dreams in the servant’s quarters of a Plumstead house. A short spell in human history and not enough time to lose these valuable things completely. And some things are never lost. Like the message in his Becoming the Springbok’s Eyes story poem that Lloyd recorded and that I make sense of in this way:

We carry our letters, our stories in our bodies

Our stories talk, they quiver, they tap

Our letters make our bodies move

Our stories make our people silent

In the silence we feel the tapping inside

My flesh moves, my body shakes

Drums beating, wings flapping

The !gwe deep inside

A dream speaks falsely it’s a thing that deceives

The !gwe speaks truly it’s a thing that receives

It stirs the kumm for people to come

We sense the rain to find the game

We feel in this manner

We feel a sensation

I hear it whisper soft like my breath

In tune with my heart I follow the !gwe

Like a story in a book

The !gwe touches my ribs

The springbok are coming

I say to the children

The black hair of the springbok

Is here at my side

When a woman comes

I feel on my shoulders

The pull of the thong

Holding her child

Before the hunt my legs know

Springbok blood in the soft place

Behind my knee

My back knows springbok hairs

On my skin

We are wont to wait quietly

When the feeling comes

We feel in this manner

We feel a sensation

Our letters, our stories, in our bodies

My feet tell me

The springbok is running

Rustling the bushes

My head tells me

The horns are coming

On my face is the feel of a stripe

From my head to my nose

My eyes have become

The springbok’s eyes

We feel in this manner

We feel a sensation

Our letters, our stories, in our bodies

“Met ’n droom kan jy jou lelik vasloop,” my grandmother would say to Uncle Tienie who lived his life inspired by his nocturnal adventures. Then she switches to English, a rare thing for her and an indication of added respect. “You have to understand the difference between a dream and a vision. A vision is when the Holy Spirit talks to you.”

When Ma is with her family in Swellendam they love talking about magical things. These are the conversations I enjoy the most. They tell stories about Uncle David who fought in World War II, and say:

“As David se ou oorlog wond die dag hom pla kan jy jou kop op ’n blok sit iets onaardig gaan gebeur. Sê maar niks. Kyk die besigheid so aan. Weet hier kom ’n ding.”

It is useless to hide things from my grandmother. Like the time my unmarried mother is pregnant for the second time. She is afraid to tell anyone. Years later Ma tells me:

“As ’n vrou verwag kan jy dit sommer sien op haar gesig, haar hele uitkyk. Dit is nou iets wat jy nie vir my kan wegsteek nie. Toe jou ma my uiteindelik sê sy gaan trou, toe sê ek nou ja, maar jy’s mos al lankal in die ander tyd.”

When people meet my grandmother, they sometimes say it feels as if she sees right through you.