Chapter 5
You stride toward Sam, grab the hem of his dark grey shirt and tug it gently to gain his attention. His hazel eyes meet yours, you stare him straight in the eye and say, “Hierdie voel soos troumateriaal!”
His face goes blank. He doesn’t speak your language. Any attempts to teach him is met with hilarity.
Afrikaans was not a language for the faint of heart. It's a hard, guttural language full of rolling “R”s and hard “G”’s.
He raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to translate.
Instead, you decide to have a little fun with him. “Is jy n Universiteit? Want jy’s anibrand!” The last line makes you burst into a fit of laughter.
Sam is not impressed. “Are you going to explain? Or am I going to have to google?”
You snigger evilly. “Sam, you couldn’t spell one word even if you tried.”
You throw him a wink before striding to the kitchen. It was your night to cook and you had decided you were going to go authentic. Boere Kos, hearty and warm, meant to put meat on your bones. The rice had been boiling merrily for fifteen minutes. Roast potatoes were currently in the frying pan. Cauliflower smothered in a cheese sauce was browning in the oven accompanied by sprouts, again covered in cheese sauce. Sweet pumpkin and carrots, and a creamy mash to finish off the meal.
Dessert consisted of of Melk tert and Jan Ellis pudding. Three sherry glasses stood next to the plates. The one bottle of Old Brown Sherry you’d managed to smuggle in was ready and waiting to be drunk.
You were raised to take care of your family. Feed them well, tend to their needs, and in return you would be cared for. Afrikaner families are a tight knit unit. Nothing is more important. The Volk is everything. Manners and Respect were a close second.
To this day you struggled to call Dean by his name. He was ten years older than you, and the need to refer to him as “Oom” would flare up in every conversation you had. You doubted he would be very impressed you had the overwhelming urge to call him Uncle every time he opened his mouth.
Your mother would be horrified if she knew you were using his given name. It would have earned you a smack to the back of the head in five seconds flat.
Your upbringing confused them. Conditioned to smile at everyone who made eye contact. Made for open veldt and the rolling plains of Africa, bred for hard work for the good of the family. Family and Country. The Afrikaner way.
They were not prepared for what they called ‘the fire’.
You took none of their bullshit. Calling them out on their self loathing and complete disregard for their own lives. The notion that a South African was meek was laughable. You were prone to blow up, regardless of culture. Strong and opinionated. There was no way you would keep your mouth shut.
It’s what the men affectionately referred to as the “pantoffel regering”. It was a joke between them. Sitting around a campfire, beer in hand, they would lovingly complain about the unfairness of their wives but would revel in the fierceness they possessed.
Happy wife, Happy life.
Sam chooses to waltz into the kitchen as you take the pressure cooker off the stove. He inhales, smacks his lips appreciatively, and rubs his stomach. “Man that smells good.”
You wink saucily. “Ek sal jou so vol wors prop jy sal soos 'n slaghuis venster lyk.”
Sam huffs in annoyance. “What am I going to do with you?” he groans.
You laugh loudly before smiling sadly at him. “If you don’t know what to do with me after all this time, Sam, then there’s no hope left.”
Sam looks momentarily startled before he plasters a grin on his face and hurriedly exits the kitchen.
************
After dinner, some more dirty flirting, and much grumbling about overeating, you bid them a goodnight.
Sam eyes you with interest as you head to your room. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet throughout dinner. It was slightly worrying. Sam wasn't one to chatter aimlessly, but he always made sure to keep the conversation flowing.
His silence was unnerving.
A knock at your door pulls you from your thoughts, and you call out a distracted, “Come in.”
Sam strides in, deathly quiet. He places his phone on the table and presses playback.
You pale. All your dirty suggestions read aloud in english. Every word perfectly translated. Every innuendo laid bare.
“Sammy, I’m so sorry!” you squeak.
He moves forward, eyeing you up and down. “Let’s get started, shall we?” he replies huskily.
Your heart soars. You match his naughty grin before flinging yourself at him. “Oh, Sam. I love it when you talk foreign!”