the Bid uur
There was no “tee taafel” that night because Quality bake had no koesisters or any fancies at the time we walked over to buy some. There was a slight panic because the “kerk gemeente” were coming over. At least the house smelt like pot pourri floor polish, Mr Min, and desperation to impress the prayer meeting group. It’s like they stood above everyone in church. They were like a special committee. A version of on the ground activist, more holy than righteous. Or like my mom always said “skynheilig”. We settled on tea and packaged biscuits. It was odd buying a box of choice assorted in March. That was always year-end staple that came with the hamper my mother painstakingly paid for every month.
The heightened emotions over getting everything right by turning out the house this way. It wasn’t even Easter yet but here I was with my sister washing windows with vinegar and polishing up with the Cape Times classifieds. My mom relented when we said “pack away the doilies please”. I knew she wanted to hold onto that old kak that wasn’t even white anymore. Three doilies for three ashtray that doubled up as bowls for mebos, pan peanuts and raisins, and Mrs Fortune’s clusters from the school tuck shop. People started dropping in early and I was still vaccuming dust off of cupboards and ceilings. Thinking back this was the regatta for people of the faith. It was a big deal cos pastor and the first lady was attending. It was common knowledge sister Daniels only attended a few prayer meetings a year. Naturally my family was a mess over it, fawning over this occasion. If we could have valet parking back then they would have scrambled to do it. The tea-cups were out and the cutlery we never used. Anything shiny smelled like brasso….I think I sped out of the house at one point seeing my father change perfectly fine globes in the light fixtures too.
The Vermeulens were the first to arrive. I really admired them and I still can’t pinpoint why. They were elders but not in that obnoxious way. Brother Vermeulen always wore a bombastic suit with a fedora that had a fly-fishing feather in it. Tonight he wore a yellow tartan suit from head to toe. His tan belt matched his shoes and tonight he had bright yellow handkerchief in his hands. I mean the other kids that were at home were making gat of this display but I loved it. Sister Vermeulen wragtiwaar wore a matching yellow cheesecutter hat. As they greeted I realised why I liked them. They would give these epic testimonials. It would never allude to religion if it sounded that way with literal scripture being quoted. They had this immense love between them, and truly I think they used testifying in prayer meetings to affirm their love for each other. There was always some challenge they would start off with that ended in how as a family they always came together as a unit. You never felt compelled unwillingly to praise the Lord, but they gave me hope that maybe religion is beyond a divine function. Maybe it was meant to be a human function that we got wrong all along.
It wasn’t clear what the prayer meeting was about at first. I thought we were on the roster. My mother mentioned getting my brother ready. But it felt weird because he was already dressed and playing with his toys. He was four years old already and had not spoken a word. It all made sense when the most off-key guitar player in the world said “agter die sal hy praat” as he was tuned his guitar. Instead of consulting with a pediatrician my family decided only prayer was needed.
“Os bid dit weg”vanaand, the pastor said dryly. He really sounded dry. Like he had a permanent cough from all the platitudes and verses. Even when the first hymn dropped I was more restless than my baby brother. I usually enjoyed prayer meetings. Yes, there was cake and tea but it always felt communal. This felt like a diagnosis. An uninformed one stacked between plaid jackets and pantihose. I knew my mother wasn’t in full agreement, but at the time my grandmother ruled us with an iron-fist and her King James version. There was something tepid about it all. The water for the tea even cooled down too fast. There was always an opening prayer, two hymns, then center stage for whoever was going to testify. Sister Markus got up first to tell us about her path to Christ. It was always entertaining because her “path” was always changing. Tonight it was her excessive drinking. My sister and I exchanged knowing glances. Last month at a prayer meeting we attended she said her path to Jesus came about from her gambling. There was always a plethora of paths with this one. I giggled under my breathe and got a dagger look from my mom.
A hymn was scheduled next with another off-key guitar riff. Another sister whose name I always forgot wailed along in song. This was always her moment, to sing as false as she could. I think later on I attributed it to the hypocrisy of being in a space that talked about love in every sermon, but proceeded to damn you to hell in the same breath. I saw a bottle of oil and knew an anointing was going to take place. They placed the oil on my brother’s head who was so unbothered by it all. The prayers over him were feverish. It was like freestyle rapping but with scripture. In fact the holy spirit was there but more like we were playing “glaasie glaasie”. There was an exhaustion after thirty minutes. I heard the pastor sigh even through the riff raff of the guitar. It was like they knew prayer wasn’t going to work and needed to coerce, and yet nothing. My brother just looked at them.
They relented with a final testimonial. I heard something about in God’s time and that patience is a virtue. They sat down for cake and tea like a post-match interview with pastor and the first lady talking about the battle of a hard played “match”. My brother ran around and played with cars on the floor. Making no sounds at all. He was just a gleeful little child I put to bed after everyone was leaving. We washed the good crockery and packed it away safely in the trousseau cupboard. I think alot about this night and when my brother was in high school I asked him if he remembered. He said he did and I probed some more to figure out if he knew why it happened. He had started speaking just before he started primary school. When I asked if he could speak that night, he said yes. I looked at him stunned and proud and asked why he didn’t say something.
He looked up at me pausing his grand turismo game and said, “I didn’t feel like it”.