Eggs to Lay, Chickens to Hatch
by Chris van Wyk (Picador Africa)
Chris van Wyk has apparently not exhausted his store of reminiscences — he has followed his first memoir, Shirley, Goodness and Mercy, with a second volume, Eggs to Lay, Chickens to Hatch, which continues in the same vein and gives us a wonderful portrait of life in the coloured township of Riverlea, Johannesburg, in the 1960s and 1970s. When they moved there from Newclare, Van Wyk’s father remarked that the houses were so close together the neighbours could hear you change your mind.
A skilled raconteur, Van Wyk regales the reader with anecdotes that start at the age of four when his mother and the housekeeper conspire to get him to the vaccination clinic by telling him he is going to a party. The tone is light and Van Wyk sustains a boy’s-eye view throughout, even into his teens. This considerable accomplishment makes for very easy reading, made even more so by his skill in finding something to joke about, or some gentle irony, in most situations.
Van Wyk made up his mind pretty early that he was going to be a writer and was always a reader of note, devouring everything and anything he could lay his hands on, even if retrieved from the rubbish heap. From the beginning his aim has been to write stories that are both funny and sad (or serious), and in this memoir he achieves this often.
His mother, Shirley, emerges from the descriptions of family life as a hard-working woman, a factory worker, with a sharp sense of humour. Her affectionate teasing and willingness to enter into word games and those of the imagination made her an exceptionally loving mother.
The anecdotes cover all sorts, from the travails of their neighbour, Aunty Vera (alternating between binges and being saved), to the excitement over saving stamps for a festive Christmas (when presents were always, and only, new clothes). The kids in the street watched movies once a week in a private house, walked to visit extended family in the next suburb, played soccer in the road and indulged in gwarra sessions (insulting one another). Visits to the Riverlea swimming pool cost 2c, one for entrance and one to hire a cozzie. Lucky kids also had 1c for a Chappies bubblegum.
With their parents at work Chris and his many siblings were often at home with the housekeeper. Agnes, the Zulu woman who worked longest for them, became a friend and opened his eyes to the world beyond Riverlea. When he wants to discuss communism with her, she tells him his Aunt Sophie was a friend of Lilian Ngoyi’s. As in all his stories, Van Wyk makes his point in subtle and understated ways: When he questions Aunt Sophie she relates an anecdote about Solly Sachs, giving an oblique but thought-provoking answer and showing the genuine concern and passion of those early trade union leaders. Van Wyk’s most telling comments are those on the mind-set of the coloured people then.
From the Riverlea of dusty streets, small houses with polished stoeps, lunches of bread and jam, dogs with surnames, Van Wyk emerged top of the class in English and took his place in the South African world of letters. This affectionate memoir is never sentimental and is perfect in its focus on a long-gone corner of South Africa.