Blind Date at a Funeral (16 page)

‘Look,' he said, holding out his hand. ‘My wedding ring is gone. I think I dropped it here in the drain. It must be in the drain, because it's not on my finger and it's not on the ground.'

‘Nooit, oom,' said Hennie, pushing past him. ‘Mind, let me look in there.'

So Hennie got on all floors and peered through the iron grates of the small circular drain.

‘I can't see a ring, oom,' said Hennie, peering through the grate. His nose was almost touching the drain.

‘No, maar, look harder,' urged Oom Nel.

‘I'm looking as hard as my eyes can look,' said Hennie. ‘They can't look any harder.'

‘Open the drain,' said Oom Nel.

Hennie muttered under his breath and pried the cover open with his bayonet.

We huddled around the drain, watching. Hennie was about to reach down when we heard Tannie Kleintjie's voice yelling in the distance.

We all looked up.

‘Jirre!' said Oom Nel, startled. ‘What now?'

Tannie Kleintjie came storming across the lawn. She was all riled up and red in the face.

‘Oom Nel!' she barked.

Oom Nel quickly put his hands behind his back so she would not notice the missing ring on his finger.

‘Errr, ja,' he said, looking extremely guilty.

‘Are you trying to find a girlfriend?' she yelled.

‘Me?' he said, puzzled.

‘Yes, you,' she said, thrusting out her hand. ‘You left your wedding ring on the sink. You'd better put it on right now or else.'

Oom Nel took the ring.

‘Leave these boys alone with your cockamamie stories,' she added. ‘They have work to do.' She turned and headed back across the lawn. ‘And don't forget about the post, oraait?'

‘Oraait,' said Oom Nel.

He looked at the ring in his palm and then looked down at the drain.

None of us said a word.

He scratched his head thoughtfully and said, ‘Jirre.'

‘Jirre, Oom Nel,' we all concurred simultaneously.

Oom Nel shook his head, took a deep, wheezy breath, and shuffled off to get the post.

(Soundtrack: ‘Ipi Tombi' by Bertha Egnos and Gail Lakier)

I first saw the Nee Nee Man when I was a young boy.

He was a grey-haired old African man who carried a tattered, brown leather suitcase and wore a red fez on his head.

The Nee Nee Man walked the streets of Johannesburg, spreading what he called ‘God's Joy'. Even though his shoes were worn totally through, his toothless mouth always carried a genuine, infectious grin. He handed out incense to people who stopped to hear him sing his ‘Nee Nee' song.

He always chanted the same song. ‘Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.' He did this over and over again as he walked. That's why everybody called him the Nee Nee Man.

We would get so excited when we saw him walking down our street. Kids in the neighbourhood would run out of their houses when they heard him singing. He was funny and magical and seemed so joyous. He made us all feel good when we saw him.

He walked through a very happy time in my childhood.

As a kid, I saw him all over town as I peered over the edge of the window in the back seat of my father's car. From Yeoville to Sandton, Parktown to Glendower, this materially poor, but spiritually rich man, walked.

He walked for years and years. I did not see him for a while during my early high-school days, but he appeared again when I was in my final year of school.

He came into the sandwich shop where I was working during a school vacation.

I was so happy to see the smiling, toothless old man with his red fez.

‘It's the Nee Nee Man,' I said, happily welcoming him into the store. ‘What would you like?' I asked, smiling at the man who brought my own happy youth back to visit me through his eyes.

‘I'll just have some water,' he said. ‘I have no money for food.'

I gave the Nee Nee Man some water and a sandwich on the house.

He appeared again the next day.

And the day after that.

I felt compelled to give him a free sandwich each time I saw him.

‘Thank you,' said the Nee Nee Man. ‘I will pay you back one day.'

‘That's okay,' I said. ‘You gave me big smiles and all that incense when I was a kid. That's more than enough payment.'

This happened every day for about three weeks. I was finally fired for giving away the profits, not only to the Nee Nee Man, but to my brother, our friends and anyone else who looked like they couldn't afford to pay for food.

One day, during my last week of work, the owner of the deli asked me to drop off the day's takings at the bank on my lunch break.

I took the bank bag and was walking down Rissik Street when I noticed four shady-looking characters loitering on the sidewalk in front of me.

Something was not quite right, so I crossed the street.

So did the group of men.

Then they disappeared.

And appeared again from an alley in front of me.

They sauntered along very slowly, allowing me to catch up to them.

By now I knew that they were up to something.

My heart began beating very quickly and I got scared. They knew it. I could sense that recognition in their eyes.

It was too late to run. I braced myself for a confrontation when suddenly, the Nee Nee Man appeared out of nowhere.

The men stopped in their tracks, trying very hard to look innocent.

The Nee Nee Man looked at them for a good while and very slowly shook his head.

The men muttered among themselves and quickly melted away into the throngs of pedestrians on the pavement.

The Nee Nee Man looked at me and smiled.

‘Don't worry,' he said and patted me on the shoulder.

Then he turned, waved, and walked off singing, ‘Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.'

(Soundtrack: ‘Amazing Grace' from a poem by John Newton)

When I was in high school, I belonged to a group called Interact. Interact was the junior Rotary. We did service projects like the senior Rotarians did, but on a much smaller scale.

As part of my service, I volunteered to help primary-school kids at a church afterschool programme on the outskirts of Alexandra township in Johannesburg. My friend's mother also helped out at that church and she drove us there and back once a week. On more than one occasion, the police, who wanted to know what we were doing in the township, stopped us. She simply told them we were working at the church and they waved us on.

I really enjoyed helping those kids, and many years later I was able to draw on those experiences on a trip to an orphanage in the Congo with the United Nations.

I was asked to share my stories and art at the Don Bosco Youth Centre in the North Kivu town of Goma.

The only person who could speak English in the group, including the teacher, was a young nineteen-year-old Congolese girl who worked as an aide at the centre. I believe her name was Grace. She had a wonderful sense of humour and made it very easy for me to share a laugh with the kids in the classroom, even though we did not understand each other.

At the end of the day, I waited at the buckled, corrugated-tin gate of the dusty centre for my lift back to the UN compound. Apparently there had been a spot of trouble in town with a roadblock and the driver who was supposed to come and fetch me did not arrive.

I sat on a wooden box at the gate and was a little worried about how I was going to get back to the compound, which was some seven miles away. As I waited, I watched the sun setting over the poverty-stricken and desolate landscape. A forlorn place devastated by a volcano and ravaged by four decades of civil war. The sun looked like a big red ball as it slowly rolled through the dust-covered sky and over the edge of the horizon.

I decided to stand on the box and peer over the fence to see if I could spot the white UN vehicle that was supposed to come and get me.

Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. It was Grace, the young lady who translated for me during the day.

I got off the box to greet her.

‘Jambo,' I said. ‘Hello.' The only word I had learned in Swahili.

‘Jambo, Mr Trevis, sir. I came to tell you that you shouldn't do that,' she said.

‘Do what?' I replied.

‘Put all of your good ideas in the big danger like that.'

‘What do you mean?' I asked, confused.

‘I saw today that you have many good ideas in your head.'

‘Yes, there is lots of stuff in my head,' I chuckled. ‘I don't know how much of it is any good though.'

‘You see, if you stand on the box and put your head over the fence like that, then somebody is going to shoot your head. And if they shoot good, there will be a hole in your head and all your ideas will fall out. That is not good.'

‘No, it isn't,' I said, laughing at her great sense of humour and thanking her for pointing out my mistake. Which is something I should have paid more attention to since I had passed the United Nations Security in the Field course, which mentions that one should not put one's face into places that might draw attention – or stray bullets – from drunken ex-rebels and warlords looking for target practice.

The driver arrived almost two hours later and Grace refused to let me sit alone while I waited.

‘You cannot sit alone,' she said. ‘It is our custom to look after our guests.'

Grace and I sat together for those two hours and had an amazing conversation about life in the Congo. She told me that three of her younger siblings and her father had been killed in the war and that bad things had happened to her. She also told me that she was hoping to go to school one day to be a nurse, but she was now the family breadwinner and it was a struggle to save money for college.

The driver finally arrived and I hugged Grace and thanked her for the great conversation. I wanted to give her something as a token of my appreciation and the only thing I had on me was a twenty-dollar bill. Which is at least two months' salary for the average earner in the Congo.

I handed her the money and said, ‘This is for you.'

She looked at me and smiled. ‘Thank you very much,' she said. ‘But my father always told me I must earn my money.'

‘Oh, but this is a gift to say thank you for being so kind,' I said.

‘Yes,' she said, smiling, ‘I know.'

I totally got where she was coming from.

‘I understand,' I said, putting the money back into my pocket.

My chat with Grace was worth more than money can buy. What an honour to have been lucky enough to share time with such an inspiring and wonderful person.

I fingered the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket as we drove away from the orphanage and I thought, how many times do I have to be reminded that it's not about the money?

(Soundtrack: ‘The Fool on the Hill' by The Beatles)

I'll never forget arriving at JFK Airport in New York after deciding to live in the United States to further my writing career. I had a few hundred dollars in my pocket, a little red suitcase and a heart full of memories, many of which appear in this book.