18-07-2025
The power of Klippies and Coke
Ever since the news of the49 Afrikaners landing in the US, I noticed I know precious little about Afrikaner culture and the Afrikaans language. This is despite my passing it in school and being a resident of Boksburg.
To right this, I have borrowed from the out-of-favour red beret cum MK Party alleged usurper Floyd Shivambu and have embarked on a lis tening assignment to better understand the deep connections I share with my Afrikaaner broederen. Recently I was at a rugby game and spent the afternoon chewing on biltong, gyrating to Bernice West's Komma Nader and calling random people china. It was great.
I have also been reliably informed that Klippies and Coke is a national treasure. One toppie went as far as telling me he could forgo water and food the entire day, but would be right as rain with this beverage in hand. His missus nodded in agreement, so it was hard for me to counter with half-cooked facts about alcohol poisoning and the dangers of being in the grandstands while under the influence. Falling to his death was the least of his worries.
Seems my chinas just love having fun. They organise impromptu braais in the parking lot, they have all agreed the Toyota Hilux is God's gift to motoring, and will do almost anything for you when you mention Nelson Mandela.
One thing I am battling with, however, are the very short shorts and high socks. We are in the middle of winter and though everyone and their dog is walking around in thick jackets and boots, I spotted a few chinas bare chested in khaki shorts traversing the isles of the stadium barefoot. The Springboks were thrashing the Italians so I figured they were high on Bokke fever.
That night I had the strangest of dreams though. I woke up in a sweat and wondered if I should consult those people who read cards or decipher dreams. Ever notice how real dreams feel when you're sleeping, but when you wake up they are the height of nonsense? This was the case with mine.
In the dream I had just woken up and was making a cup of coffee when I heard the gate open. I expected the alarm to go off and when it didn't, I raced to the keypad, saw it had been tampered with and pressed the panic button. Shortly after, Gert, a burly Afrikaans man, sped in and jumped out of his Renault Kwid, gun in hand. I peeped through the window and gestured in the direction of the criminals who were about to make off with my pot plants and garden sheers.
That is when the dream took the strangest of turns. I love those plants, and I was itching to see Gert mete out some Bruce Lee style kicking and jumping, but he stopped abruptly, holstered the gun and calmy spoke in Afrikaans, urging the guys to stop what they were doing and leave at once.
I was furious, but I don't know a word of Afrikaans. Yes, I could hear what he was saying, but speaking was another story. Dreams are like that. I peered through the door and yelled: 'Skiet hom, Gert, skiet hom.' That's when Gert looked at me, broke out in song and started dancing to Komma Nader. Soon we were all jorling and having a great time passing around Klippies and Coke.
While I won't be wearing shorts in this weather anytime soon, I look forward to hosting a braai this summer. So don't be surprised when you hear me call you china, munch biltong relentlessly and forgo water for some Klippies.
