Mafeking Road by Herman Charles Bosman Read Free Book Online

debaters, who had not been to school much, spoke at great length.
    Afterwards the schoolmaster suggested that perhaps some of our younger members would like to debate a little, and he called on Gawie Erasmus to say a few words on behalf of the kaffirs. The schoolmaster spoke playfully.
    Koos Deventer guffawed behind his hand. Some of the women tittered. On account of his unpopularity the schoolmaster heard little of what went on in the Marico. The only news he got was
what he could glean from reading the compositions of the children in the higher classes. And we could see that the children had not yet mentioned, in their compositions, that Gawie Erasmus was supposed to be coloured.
    You know how it is with a scandalous story. The last one to hear it is always that person that the scandal is about.
    That crowd in the schoolroom realised quickly what the situation was. And there was much laughter all the time that Gawie spoke. I can still remember that half-perplexed look on his dark face, as though he had meant to make a funny speech, but had not expected quite that amount of appreciation. And I noticed that Francina’s face was very red, and that her eyes were fixed steadily on the floor.
    There was so much laughter, finally, that Gawie had to sit down, still looking slightly puzzled.
    After that Paulus Welman got up and told funny stories about so-called white people whose grandfathers had big bellies and wore copper rings in their ears. I don’t know at what stage of the debate Gawie Erasmus found out at whom these funny remarks were being directed. Or when it was that he slipped out of the schoolroom, to leave Drogevlei and the Groot Marico for ever.
    And some months later, when I again went to visit Koos Deventer, he did not once mention Gawie Erasmus to me. He seemed to have grown tired of Marico scandals. But when Francina brought in the coffee, it was as though she thought that Koos had again spoken about Gawie. For she looked at him in a
disapproving sort of way and said: “Gawie is white, father. He is as white as I am.”
    I could not at first make out what the change was that had come over Francina. She was as good-looking as ever, but in a different sort of way. I began to think that perhaps it was because she no longer wore that strange perfume that she bought in Zeerust.
    But at that moment she brought me my coffee.
    And I saw then, when she came towards me from behind the table, with the tray, why it was that Francina Deventer moved so heavily.

Mafeking Road

    When people ask me – as they often do – how it is that I can tell the best stories of anybody in the Transvaal (Oom Schalk Lourens said, modestly), then I explain to them that I just learn through observing the way that the world has with men and women. When I say this they nod their heads wisely, and say that they understand, and I nod my head wisely also, and that seems to satisfy them. But the thing I say to them is a lie, of course.
    For it is not the story that counts. What matters is the way you tell it. The important thing is to know just at what moment you must knock out your pipe on your veldskoen, and at what stage of the story you must start talking about the School Committee at Drogevlei. Another necessary thing is to know what part of the story to leave out.
    And you can never learn these things.
    Look at Floris, the last of the Van Barnevelts. There is no doubt that he had a good story, and he should have been able to
get people to listen to it. And yet nobody took any notice of him or of the things he had to say. Just because he couldn’t tell the story properly.
    Accordingly, it made me sad whenever I listened to him talk. For I could tell just where he went wrong. He never knew the moment at which to knock the ash out of his pipe. He always mentioned his opinion of the Drogevlei School Committee in the wrong place. And, what was still worse, he didn’t know what part of the story to leave out.
    And it was