8

 

Bronwyn is a good girl, you know, Peet,’ uncle Dirk says with deliberation. ‘She’s going to make some man a good wife; such a well-adjusted child.’ My father returns the compliment, paus­ing between sentences, which seems to add sincerity to what he says.

Then uncle Dirk says something that will stay with me for the rest of my life. ‘Such a pity Niklaas is such a flop.’

With a ringing of amplified emotion in my brain, I look at my father. I’m sitting right here next to you. How can you let him talk about me like this? I ask wordlessly.

My father avoids my stare and busies himself with stoking the fire. The wood releases sparks that rise in a twirl and light my father’s face, revealing a frown; but there is no protest.

Flop, structureless, nothing forgiving about it. Flop, flop, flop, soft and spineless like jelly, tormenting me, over and over, each time hating him more, and my father for not defending me. I can’t tell my mother, I’m too embarrassed. I start obsessing that there is something really wrong with me.

The Afrikaans pronunciation of my name—Niklaas—is inten­tional, to stress his dislike of me. He emphasises the last part—Klaas—which is what Afrikaners call a slave. Then he drops the first syllable and calls me Klaas.