Publisher’s note: In 1987, after his anti-war play Somewhere on the Border had stirred up controversy in South Africa, playwright Anthony Akerman decided to visit home after an absence of 14 years. He was living in Amsterdam, had acquired Dutch citizenship and needed a visa. Although disappointing, it came as no surprise when his application was turned down.
Two years later, shortly before his 40th birthday, he finally traced his birth mother in Cape Town but, as he was still persona non grata, he was unable to fly out to meet her.
What follows is a lightly edited excerpt from Akerman’s memoir Lucky Bastard.
Many adoptees don’t talk to their adoptive parents about tracing their biological families because they’re afraid of hurting them or think they’d regard it as a betrayal. Mum and Dad meant it when they said they wanted to meet my mother, and I encouraged them. Had it been possible, I’d obviously have met her first, but it felt strangely appropriate that they should meet her before I did.
In October 1989, they checked into the City Lodge in Cape Town and my mother called on them. The following day she took them to Kirstenbosch, where they had tea and walked through the gardens. They spent the next day together and my new sister Jean joined them for lunch at the Constantia Nek Restaurant. “They say,” my mother wrote, “she has the same lovely smile as you.”
Six months after we’d made contact, my mother’s elation was giving way to caution and concern about what other people would think.
“To have had an illegitimate child is still regarded by many as a social disgrace,” she wrote. “I don’t mind some people knowing about it, but I also don’t want it to become public knowledge. It’s fine to tell your friends in Holland — it doesn’t affect us but here is different.”
Two months later the Berlin Wall came down. This was symbolic of a realignment in world politics that increased the preparedness of opposing parties in South Africa to negotiate and by the end of January 1990, it seemed increasingly likely that I’d be allowed back home. My mother’s excitement was tempered by concern for reputational damage.
“Remember that I do love you and that I am proud and happy that you are my son. But it’s not something (I mean my past) that I want every Tom, Dick & Harry to know. I had to give you up because it wasn’t the accepted thing and there are still people who won’t approve. For myself I don’t care who knows but I must also consider my kids. So, when you come to stay please won’t you call me Vera instead of mother?”
I hoped that, given time, she’d think differently, but I was quite happy to start calling her Vera. The next month she wrote and told me she’d confided in her friend and next-door neighbour.
“I never had any intention of telling her about you but tonight for no rhyme or reason I told her all about you. She was very understanding and supportive, but I haven’t stopped crying since then and it’s now nine o’clock and I told her at six. She is looking forward to meeting you.”
A few weeks later Nelson Mandela walked out of prison. I sat in front of the television with a beer in my hand and tears in my eyes. The next day, I called the embassy and asked them to send me a visa application form. It gave me pleasure to tell the man who took my call that I’d previously been denied a visa.
Something inside me had shifted. Although I was well integrated in Dutch society, spoke the language and understood the culture, it was never mine. I’d been a Dutch citizen for seven years, but I’d always been an outsider, and I knew I’d never truly belong.
As much as I’d hated and rejected the South Africa I grew up in, I’d come to accept I was a product of that society. I knew the South Africa I was about to return to would be different from the country I’d left, was a country in transition and might be a country I’d live in again.
The night before I left, I had a small farewell party and only got to bed at five o’clock in the morning. The airport was crowded, and a hangover combined with sleep deprivation heightened my emotional state.
I took my seat to get my connecting flight in Brussels and began crying. I had two hours to kill in Brussels and couldn’t focus on anything except the flight indicator that read: Brazzaville, Johannesburg.
I looked at the other passengers and wondered if there was another returning exile among them, but they all looked like holidaymakers. I was almost too tired, and certainly too excited, but I did manage to sleep for an hour before they announced we were about to land in Johannesburg.
I was mesmerised by the shimmering, submarine lights as we approached the runway. When we touched down, I looked at my watch: it was 10 to five and I was back on South African soil for the first time in 17 years.
It was 7°C outside as we walked towards the terminal, but I was sweating. We queued up for passport control. Leaning against a wall behind the immigration counter was a thick-set man wearing a grey suit and regulation moustache. He exuded unsmiling menace.
Then it was my turn. I worked hard on controlling my breathing and stepped up to the desk with feigned nonchalance. The impassive immigration officer studied my visa, tapped a few keys on her computer, made some marks on a punch card and then pressed a button.
I thought this was the part where I was going to be taken to a cubicle. The guard at the gate approached, countersigned something and walked away. She stamped my passport and handed it back to me. She didn’t smile, but I was home.
I walked straight through customs and into the bleak arrivals hall. […] I was dazed, taking everything in, looking for similarities and differences. I couldn’t believe I was home. I was surrounded by South Africans, and I was one of them.
On the flight to Durban […] I stared out of my window seat and caught my first glimpse of the hills of Natal. I saw at least one burnt-out hut, testimony to the political turmoil in that province.
I saw Kloof Gorge, then Fields Hill and then the Durban skyline. We circled the city, made our approach over Isipingo and I listened to the hydraulic sound of the landing gear moving into place. My eyes were swimming with tears. I could hardly see anyone as I walked into the crowded arrivals hall. Then I heard someone calling my name.
I felt bewildered as we got into Dad’s car and drove up to Hillcrest. It was like waking up in a dream. There were changes, but everything was familiar. I wondered what 17 years of exile had taught me. The first lesson, I thought at the time, was never to take all this beauty for granted.
When I got out of the car in Hillcrest, I stepped back into my past. By turn I felt choked up with emotion and then detached. It felt unreal, as if I was experiencing everything from behind armour-plated glass. For 17 years I’d lived amputated from the first 23 years of my life and I now felt a sense of becoming whole again.
A letter from Vera was waiting for me. “Well, the time has come for me to say good-bye to my darling baby, Peter. Remember at all times that I always loved you and that you were always in my thoughts.
“Now it’s time to say hello to my dearest son, Anthony. I hope that there will always be a very special bond between us, that we will love each other and care for each other and that we will be together fairly frequently in the future so that we too, will have shared memories and a shared past. Hope this holiday will make you realise that this is where you belong.”
A few days later, I caught a flight to Cape Town. As I walked into the airport building, Vera came up behind me and put her arms around me.
Lucky Bastard is published by Praxis Publishing.
