Ek kan nie Afrikaans praat nie.

“You don’t speak Afrikaans?!” I’m meeting my grade two learners for the first time, and this little girl’s eyes are about to pop out of her head upon hearing this. She turns to her friends and they begin to exchange excitedly in Afrikaans. I can tell they’re talking about me, but I have no idea what they’re saying (this is something I will grow quite accustomed to in the weeks that lie ahead). In an attempt to make conversation, I point to an art project on the counter and ask what it is. “Koek!” they reply.
“Oh, a cake?” I reply with equal enthusiasm. They just look at me confusedly.
One little boy jumps in to save me. “Yes, a cake. In Afrikaans, koek.” He looks at me intently and smiles when I repeat the word. He then takes me by the hand and leads me through the classroom, pointing to various objects, saying the Afrikaans name and waiting for me to repeat it, smiling constantly and occasionally giving me a nod of affirmation. A small posse of girls follows behind us, giggling all the while and bursting into laughter any time I completely slaughter a word (which is frequently).
A little girl looks up and me and reaches for my necklace. I kneel down so she can get a better look, and several more learners crowd around. She pulls the charms apart, and they all get quite excited upon recognizing the cross (it’s a Christian school and faith is a way of life for these children). She looks at the medal and then to me, questioning with her eyes. I give my usual, child-friendly explanation, “It’s Saint Michael. He’s an angel and he protects me from demons.” I can tell she didn’t really understand me, but she is satisfied with the explanation and resumes her Afrikaans chatter with her friends.
I hold the chain in my hand and turn back to the little boy. “What is it, in Afrikaans?”
“Halsketting.”
“Halsketting,” I repeat and smile at him.
But this time he doesn’t smile, he just looks at the chain thoughtfully. “And in English?” His gaze shifts back to my face.
“Necklace.”
“Necklace,” he says slowly, staring at the necklace, soaking in the moment. He grabs my hand and points to my chain. “And what is it?”
“Bracelet.”
“Bracelet.” He takes the same care with this word, gently twisting the chain around my wrist.
“And in Afrkikaans?”
“Armband.”
“Armband.”
The smile starts to creep across his face again as he grabs my other hand. “And this?”
“Ring. In Afrikaans?”
“Ring!”
I will remember his beaming face when, a few weeks later, we cover clothing and accessories in my Afrikaans class back at university.

It’s my first week in Stellenbosch, and I go to Java for a burger with a few friends. The waitress approaches our table and says something in Afrikaans. We look awkwardly from her to one another. She quickly repeats herself, “Hi, can I get you something to drink?” Think she knew we were foreigners?

I’m teaching a lesson with a small group of my grade twos. They sit on the warm brick outside of the classroom with their worksheets laid before them while I peer over their shoulders, make conversation and answer questions. We are learning about poetry, and they have all picked a favourite object or person and are describing how it looks, feels, sounds, etc. One little girl raises her hand. “Teacher?”
“Yes?”
“What is it?” She points to a word on her page.
“Smell?” I look around the circle, hoping one of the other learners can translate for me (as they often do). “You know, smell.” They all stare at me blankly. I begin to act out “smell” to the best of my ability, sniffing the air aggressively and wafting my hands toward my nose.
“Ruik?” one of the boys exclaims.
“Yes, ruik!” I reply excitedly, remembering those years of German classes. Afrikaans is derived from Dutch, which has some similarities with German. “Smell” in German is “reichen.” I figured it was too close to be a mere coincidence.
The boy turns to the girl and says a couple of sentences in Afrikaans. Her eyes light up as she understands. She looks back to her worksheet and taps her pencil against her lips thoughtfully.
I kneel down next to her and glance at her page to see about what/whom she is writing. “So what does your mother smell like?” I ask. “Blomme?” Thank goodness I can remember the Afrikaans word for “flowers.”
“Ja, blomme!” she exclaims and quickly writes the word in the blank.
Little do I know that my learners, co-teachers and I will come to use this strange combination of English, Afrikaans, German and body language more and more to communicate over the next months.

It’s my first time checking out at PickNPay. As she starts to pulls my groceries toward herself, the clerk turns to me. “Sakkies?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Plastic bags?”
“Yes, please.”

I walk across the lawn during recess, grinning as I listen to the excited chatter of the learners, a beautiful blend of Afrikaans, isiXhosa, and screaming. It has become music to my ears. Several grade one learners run up, each of them hugging my legs in succession. One particularly tiny boy looks at me, grinning from ear to ear and quickly spits out a sentence in Afrikaans. I am about to give my usual reply, “Tell me in English,” when I realize I understood him.
“Your tooth is loose?!” I exclaim, kneeling down to his level. “Let me see!”
He opens his mouth slightly and wiggles one of his front bottom teeth, then says another sentence quickly.
“What did he say?” I look around the group, hoping one of them can be my translator.
“He says the mouse will come tonight!” one little girl tells me proudly (Thank goodness I had learned the meaning of this just the week before: When a child looses a tooth in South Africa, he or she does not receive a visit from the Tooth Fairy, but rather from a mouse who leaves money and takes his or her tooth. He then builds his out of all the teeth he collects. Kind of creepy? I think so too).
“Oh, you think he’ll come tonight, huh?” The little boys beams. “What is your name?” I ask him. He simply looks at me sheepishly and then runs away, his friends following after him.
Every time he sees me in the upcoming weeks, he will run up to me excitedly, say something in Afrikaans, grin widely, and wiggle his tooth for me to see.

I am talking to the grade three teacher during recess. The tiny boy with the loose tooth is sitting behind her. I’ve developed a special fondness for him, but I still don’t know his name. “What is this little boy’s name?” I ask the teacher.
She turns to him and bends down. “Wat is jou naam?”
He replies shyly before running off.
She turns back to me and tells me his name. “He is very tiny,” she says with endearment before resuming our conversation.

It is recess, and the tiny boy with the loose tooth runs up to show me his progress. That thing is just about to fall out. I congratulate him as usual and he is about to run off when I call him back to me. “Wat is jou naam?”
The child positively lights up. Finally, one of us has spoken to him in a way he can understand. Finally, he can be confident that he knows how to answer my question. His eyes glitter and his grin grows even wider as he tells me his name.
“En hoe gaan dit?” I ask.
“Goed, dankie!” he declares through his smile before running off once again.

I am walking through town when a homeless person approaches me, speaking Afrikaans. I say, “I’m sorry, I only speak English.” He struggles to explain himself in English as I tell him I don’t have anything for him. The same scene happens on a near-daily basis. Some of them speak perfect English, others stumble over broken English or persist in Afrikaans, and still others simply give up and walk away.

Tarah and I are playing with a group of children while we wait for the train. One very small boy whom we have not seen before is there. After trying to talk to him several times, it becomes apparent that he doesn’t speak English. I decide to be brave and test out my Afrikaans. “Wat is jou naam?”
He ignores my question, but one of the girls answers for him. Of course, it’s one of those names I can’t even begin to pronounce without a lot of practice. I’ve gotten pretty used to this, too. There is a short wall nearby, and one of the grade one boys is climbing on it and jumping off. I play with him a bit, catch him as he jumps a few times. The new boy sees this and runs over. He says several fast sentences in Afrikaans and gestures toward the wall, stretching his hands toward the top. I only catch one word.
“Op?” I ask.
He nods eagerly, and I pick him up and set him atop the wall. I back up a few steps and catch him when he jumps. I repeat this a few times before turning my attention to another child. Soon he is pulling on my hand. “Op, op!”
I lift and catch him a few more times, but I’m starting to get tired. “You can climb up there yourself,” I say. He just looks at me. “Klim!”
“Ek kan nie!” He whines.
I roll my eyes and lift him a few more times before trying again. “Klim!”
“Nie! Op, op!”
“Ek kan nie!” It’s my turn to whine.
He stares at me in sceptical disbelief and says something in rapid-fire Afrikaans.
I sit on the wall to rest for a bit, and he sits next to me with his backpack. I point to the character on his bag and ask, “Who is this?”
He ignores me.
I point again. “Wat is dit?”
This time he responds. “Spiderman!” We both laugh before joining the group again.
Suddenly the small boy runs to Tarah and begins to speak in a distressed tone. “I don’t understand you. I don’t speak Afrikaans,” she says, but he just continues. “Ek kan nie praat...” She looks at me and I nod. “Ek kan nie Afrikaans praat nie.”
The boy falls silent and stops jumping up and down. He glares at Tarah. The he turns around, runs to me, and resumes his bouncing and frantic chattering.
“Ek kan nie Afrikaans praat nie.” He stops for a moment, looks at me with disbelief, looks at Tarah, turns back to me and continues to speak. Eventually he gives up.
We are about to leave, and I try one last time to learn the boy’s name. He is standing on top of the wall as I walk by. “Wat is jou naam?”
“Ek is Spiderman!” he belts at the top of his lungs. Tarah and I laugh as we walk away.

It’s my billionth time checking out at PickNPay. “Sakkies?”
“Yes, please... Dankie.”

We have all of our grade two learners outside for a lesson. They are especially crazy today. I have started to pull aside learners who are being particularly naughty to address their behaviour while Liam tries to continue the lesson. I am speaking with a little boy who has Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and is one of our biggest trouble makers. He actually doesn’t start that much trouble if left alone, it’s just that if one of the other learners bumps him, whether intentionally or not, it instantly becomes a full-scale fight. I am telling him why his behaviour is not okay and asking if we can fix it together. Every time I ask a question, he simply replies, “Yes.” The bell rings and we release the students for break. I tell the little boy I love him (part of our usual discipline routine) and let him go. My eyes meet Liam’s and we both sigh heavily.
“You know, he doesn’t understand English,” Liam says, referring to the little boy.
“No, he does. He doesn’t speak it, but if you look in his eyes while you’re talking to him, you can tell he understands.” I really, really want to believe that I’m right.

After having several “I know you’re a good boy, so let’s make sure you’re acting like a good boy. I love you,” conversations with this same little boy, I’ve gotten pretty attached. I know you’re not supposed to have favourites, but...
I’m playing with several of my learners at recess and my favourite little boy climbs on to my back. “Loop!” he exclaims in my ear, “Loop, loop!”
I’ve been here long enough to know exactly what he’s saying, but I want to encourage him to learn English. “Tell me in English,” I tell him, “in Engels.”
He grows quiet. I know that he wants to tell me in English. He just doesn’t know how. I allow him to slide down to the ground and turn around to face him. “Loop,” I say.
“Loop,” he repeats.
“Walk,” I say.
He just looks at me.
“Loop. In Engels, walk.”
More staring.
“Can you say walk?”
“Walk.”
“Good! In Afrikaans, loop. In Engels?”
More staring.
“Walk. In Afrikaans, loop. In Engels, walk. In Afrikaans?”
“Loop,” we say together this time.
“En in Engels?”
“Walk,” we say together.
This goes on for about five minutes. By the end of recess, he can answer correctly when I ask “In Afrikaans?” or “In Engels?” The bell rings and he goes to line up. I feel overwhelmingly successful even though I know he’ll forget it.

It’s recess. I’m sitting in the grass with about 15 little hands tangled up in my hair and three little bodies on either side of me, pressed up against me with their little fingers grasping mine and crawling up and down my arms. I’m surrounded by multilingual chatter. Pure bliss.
My favourite little boy comes up and plops down on my lap. “Loop, walk.”
“Very good!” My mind is blown. I am overwhelmed with joy and pride and excitement.
“In Afrikaans, loop. In Engels, walk.”
“Good job!” My mind races for other words to learn. “Hardloop?” I suggest.
“Hardloop.”
“Run.”
Silence.
“Can you say run?”
“Run.”
“Good! In Afrikaans, hardloop. In Engels, run. In Afrikaans? Hardloop.”
“Hardloop,” he repeats.
“En in Engels? Run.”
“Run.”
“Very good!” This repeats a few times. “In Afrikaans?” I am full of hope as I wait for him to reply, “Hardloop.”
“Loop. Walk. Loop, walk!” he exclaims.
I laugh. Close enough, I suppose. “Very good! Baie goed!”
“Goed!” He repeats as he runs away. All I can do is smile.

I’m checking out at the office supply store. I place the pack of pens on the counter, and the clerk rings them up and asks, “Sak?”
“Nie,” I say as I place the pens in my purse.
She tells me the price, I hand her my money and receive my change. “Dankie,” she says.
“Dankie!” I call as I walk away. I’m outside of the store before I realize that I just had an entire interaction solely in Afrikaans.

I am working with the grade three teacher and three of her learners, preparing hot dogs for a school fundraiser. She is simultaneously carrying a conversation in English with me and talking to various learners in Afrikaans. I smile to myself as I listen to the language, catching a few words here and there. She makes a joke to our little helpers, and I giggle with them, mostly just from seeing their joy. She turns to me and asks, “You speak a little Afrikaans, right?”
“Well, a little. I took the class so I know a few things, but not much. I use it a lot with my grade twos, though.”
She nods in understanding.
“I don’t really use it with grown-ups like you that speak English though, because I just sound silly, but I use it with my kids because I have to.” I can’t even count how many times I’ve explained this to various people I’ve met here.
“So how much do you know? Could you have a conversation?”
“Well, maybe. Only very simple things like, ‘Wat is jou naam?’ and ‘Hoe gaan dit?’”
“Oh, dit klink goed! It sounds very good!” she encourages me.
I’m secretly afraid that she will start using Afrikaans with me now. I know that she is embarrassed about her English, even though it’s almost perfect, and would much rather speak Afrikaans. Luckily, she resumes our conversation in English.
Later, we are counting the hot dogs onto trays.“Can you count in Afrikaans?” she asks me.
“Yes, that I can do.”
“Ok, this tray needs 47, but count them out in Afrikaans so the girls can hear how you speak Afrikaans,” she says with a cute little smile.
“Ok...” I am confident in my numbers, but not speaking. I count with my learners, but they laugh and correct my pronunciation all the time.
I begin nervously, “Een, twee, drie, vier, fyf...”
“Oh, that’s very good!” she encourages me. I glance at the girls and we giggle. Soon enough the teacher is distracted with another task, and it’s just me with the girls. Every few seconds I look at them, and they are watching me intently, slight grins on their faces. I ask them if I’m doing it right. They nod and we all giggle.

Today, I realized how much this language has come to mean for me, how much I’m going to miss hearing it everywhere I go. I’m going to miss walking down the street, seeing signs and hearing conversations in at least three different languages, and not always knowing what’s going on. I’ll miss people nodding and saying, “Goeie more,” (Afrikaans for “Good morning”) and calling me “sisi” (isiXhosa for “sister,” the general greeting toward all women in black culture here). I really cannot imagine going back to a monolingual context.

People describe Afrikaans as a harsh language, and it does have many hard sounds, including the “g” from the back of the throat that I still struggle to pronounce sometimes. But to me, it is a beautiful language. It is the language of Lynedoch Primary School and of Stellenbosch, the places that have become my other home. Any time I hear its unique sound, I will always think of this place and will be at home again. It has become one of the most comforting sounds that can fall upon my ears.

peace and love