Afrikaans is a kraal with many huts... and some village idiots

“How do you translate ‘magistraat se moer’?” actress Shaleen Surtie-Richards once asked when there was talk of Fiela se Kind being performed in English. Indeed.

She understood — in an instinctive way that many linguists and speakers of the language do not — that it is not just a word itself that conveys a concept. It is also about the emotion that goes with it, and the collective memory that lies behind it.

Think of “hulle weet nie wat ons weet nie” (they don’t know what we know) or “ons is nie almal so nie” (we’re not all like that) or “my fok, Marelize”, to name just a few examples in our recent past.

Then there is “aweh masekin” or “howzit”. And let’s not even talk about the overrounded “a” that Pretoria residents use or Malmesbury’s uvular “r” (bry).

Sometimes people only need to say one word and it is possible to determine with reasonable accuracy where they’re from, their komvandaan as we say in Afrikaans.

Shortly after the recent American election, an academic at one of their major universities contacted me. She asked me about Elon Musk’s Afrikanership and was very surprised when I informed her that he is not one because he does not speak Afrikaans.

For someone who lives in a country where only one language is recognised, it is probably difficult to understand how much of our identity is caught up in the language we speak. It can become an overbearing assumed identity. Thus, #onsisniealmalsonie hasn’t become such a popular hashtag for no reason.

Am I an Afrikaner, was her next question. No, because I am not white. Note: I am aware of the attempt to promote brown Afrikanership, but this is where I experience my own #onsisniealmalsonie moment. I am an African, born from the soil of Africa, finish en klaar.

The baas gevaar

Kraaltaal’s quilt of books