Fiction by Andre’ M. Prinsloo

When I was in my Grade 8 year, a strange thing happened to me that I believe helped shape the person I am today to a large degree. I had just moved from one turbulent school to another, and I found myself struggling to manage with bullying, excessive amounts of homework, and my own difficult nature to deal with.

I had found a group of “friends” in my year to hang out with, and while perhaps not being the best of companions available they were popular in the school (by which I mean they were a large enough group not to have much trouble), and they gradually let me into their circle. It was always a matter of having to prove myself, be ridiculed and provoked, and having to prove myself again.

Now I have always been the type of person that makes fun of people, but generally not those smaller or weaker than me, more because there weren’t many of those than my own honourable nature. In my new circle of friends there were two main fun-making subjects (besides myself, naturally). One was an Indian fellow who had somewhat of an above-average sized nose, and the other was a young man who had the misfortune of being in an English-ruled group and having an Afrikaans accent and name. The Indian chap, whom we’ll call Faheem, was fairly “high up” in the group, and intelligent and vindictive. This turned him out to be a difficult one to poke fun at, but of course temptation always wins when faced up against fear. He was a big wrestling fan and fancied himself a regular John Cena, who is a gangster-type wrestler in America. He wears cutoff jeans and chains, and is always spouting ridiculous rhymes, the trademark of which is “My name is John Cena, I rule the arena!” (usually followed by a gesture of both hands in fists, thumb against thumb, and the little fingers extended outward. Faheem, apparently unaware of the femininity of such a gesture, would go around mimicking his hero all day and threatening people. He also brought chains to school, and as such you can see not many of us would insult him publicly.

But notes would be passed around in class, the funniest of which was several sheets of A4 paper stuck together at the edges to form one long piece, depicting Faheem’s face on the first page and the rest occupied by… you guessed it, his nose. In my thirteen year old immaturity I found this hilarious beyond imagination. The sheer audacity of it and the stunned look on arrogant Faheem’s face when he saw this gently passed note delivered to him by a girl (who conveniently had no connection to our group) was too much for me.

I was not the author of this particular piece of artwork, but breaking out in teary, guffawing laughter did more than enough to point the finger at myself. The next day I arrived at school to the news that I was apparently “stalking” a girl I had a crush on and everyone, of course, believed it. That quashed my meager reputation and caused me to never laugh openly at Faheem again, even though the first time was not strictly my fault. I suppose it served me right.

The other victim of childish humiliation was one Ryian Lotriet, spelled just like that, and he made the mistake of insisting his name was pronounced like Ryan. We thus called him Riaaaan at every available opportunity, and the Lotriet was pronounced by rolling the ‘r’ extravagantly and emphasizing the Afrikaans “lot”. Another chap went so far as to call him Ryian van der Lotriet as often as possible. I often wonder where the linguistic creativity of teenage boys disappears to later in life. This Ryian would always swear at us violently for our crimes against his name, and would huff and puff furiously as we rushed away cackling.

I want it understood that these were guys easily capable of defending themselves, and who had the backing of the “crew” should they choose to do so. But as we saw, Faheem had his own way of settling scores, and Ryian, who charged around like a raging bull, had yet another way that I shall get to shortly.

I rode a bicycle home from school in those days, and my route took me past some dilapidated shops and houses up an old street near my house. I was never the most energetic of people, and that particular street was the longest uphill of my travel. Thus, fairly close to the start of it I would dismount and push my bicycle up the street, being less concerned about time than the heat and discomfort of riding a bike in school uniform up a hill on a hot day.

One day as I was nearing the end of this uphill battle, three boys emerged from a shop in front of me, led by the one and only Ryian Lotriet. Already feeling a tingling of fear, I tried to ignore them and continued pushing. They were upon me in seconds, Ryian gripping me by my shoulder and the other two walking on either side of me. They began asking me if I was a “Dutchman”, and one began kicking my back wheel with a bovine regularity that was startling. I asked him to stop and the predictable reply was “Whatchu gonna do ‘bout it?

Beginning to get really frightened now, I apologized meekly to Ryian for always calling him names (and even at that time the temptation was there), but clearly that wasn’t going to be good enough. As we crossed the last street before my turnoff, one of the motley crew began demanding that I kiss his filthy old shoes. Wondering how I was going to get out of this and cursing myself for landing in this predicament, it was at that moment an elderly black man looked up from his trudge home and saw what was unfolding. He began a fast sort of shuffle towards us and shouted at the boys to stop. Beginning to fear for this Samaritan’s safety as well, I nevertheless saw a glimmer of hope in the situation.

The boys, in their defense, merely said things along the line of “but he’s a Dutchman..?”.

The old man refused to back down and chased them away with a few simple hand motions and some semi-literate shouting. My attackers decided to leave well enough alone and disappeared with threats of revenge. I thanked this man who didn’t know me from a bar of soap yet stepped in when I needed help, but he merely accepted it and got on his way again.

When I got home I told my family about what had happened, and in a fit of rage my sister’s then boyfriend, Eddy, jumped in his car with me and another friend of his, and we went off in pursuit of the ragamuffins. Now I have never been a grudge-bearing person and would rather have left the whole thing alone, but naturally I could not relate my feelings to Eddy in his vigilante state, as he was defending me after all. His anger actually seemed more directed at the boys’ use of the term “Dutchman”, as he was part Afrikaans. Again, being a peaceful person I didn’t quite share his resentment. Feeling more and more uncomfortable, I began to ponder the situation and the differing reactions of my two saviours. Eddy, whom I knew personally and respect to this day, had less interest in protecting me than his own half-reasoned pride. His instinct was to find the culprits and beat them to within an inch of their lives (he even told his friend to cover his number plate once we found them).

Yet the other man had no interest in me whatsoever, had nothing to prove, and no pride to protect. He saw that a situation was unfolding that was unfair, and stepped in to defend the underdog, posing a risk to himself with no possibility of reward. He had no intention of revenge or retaliation, he merely ensured my safety and continued on his way. I do not know what his motivation was, but to me it is irrelevant.

If I were now to choose which of the two was truly my hero, the old black man would win hands down. He chose to stand up for me that day although he had nothing to prove and nothing to gain. His humility and quiet courage shout far louder for this man’s integrity than do the brash actions of my friend Eddy. Eddy used a situation to prove his own manhood and stand up for himself while my other saviour had nothing to gain and sought not to incite punishment, but to prevent mistreatment.

He taught me a lot that day of how we should deal with “those who trespass against us”, and he did his nation a lot more justice than did Eddy. Not to say that Eddy was cowardly or narrow-minded in any way, for he was not, but I am just pointing out the subtle differences in our nature, and questioning that which makes us men. Are you a man when you are prepared to beat down anyone who dares insult your heritage, albeit indirectly, or are you a man when you are prepared to stand up for those who can not themselves? I believe it is up to the individual to decide, and both may be men, but I for one have chosen to always forgive, and to stand up for those who are in need. One day we may all stand together, or perhaps we shall destroy each other in a blind war of nationalism. Only time will tell.