He walked through a very happy time in my childhood.
As a kid, I saw him all over town as I peered over the edge of the window in the back seat of my father’s car. From Yeoville to Sandton, Parktown to Glendower, this materially poor, but spiritually rich man, walked.
He walked for years and years. I did not see him for a while during my early high-school days, but he appeared again when I was in my final year of school.
He came into the sandwich shop where I was working during a school vacation.
I was so happy to see the smiling, toothless old man with his red fez.
‘It’s the Nee Nee Man,’ I said, happily welcoming him into the store. ‘What would you like?’ I asked, smiling at the man who brought my own happy youth back to visit me through his eyes.
‘I’ll just have some water,’ he said. ‘I have no money for food.’
I gave the Nee Nee Man some water and a sandwich on the house.
He appeared again the next day.
And the day after that.
I felt compelled to give him a free sandwich each time I saw him.
‘Thank you,’ said the Nee Nee Man. ‘I will pay you back one day.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘You gave me big smiles and all that incense when I was a kid. That’s more than enough payment.’
This happened every day for about three weeks. I was finally fired for giving away the profits, not only to the Nee Nee Man, but to my brother, our friends and anyone else who looked like they couldn’t afford to pay for food.
One day, during my last week of work, the owner of the deli asked me to drop off the day’s takings at the bank on my lunch break.
I took the bank bag and was walking down Rissik Street when I noticed four shady-looking characters loitering on the sidewalk in front of me.
Something was not quite right, so I crossed the street.
So did the group of men.
Then they disappeared.
And appeared again from an alley in front of me.
They sauntered along very slowly, allowing me to catch up to them.
By now I knew that they were up to something.
My heart began beating very quickly and I got scared. They knew it. I could sense that recognition in their eyes.
It was too late to run. I braced myself for a confrontation when suddenly, the Nee Nee Man appeared out of nowhere.
The men stopped in their tracks, trying very hard to look innocent.
The Nee Nee Man looked at them for a good while and very slowly shook his head.
The men muttered among themselves and quickly melted away into the throngs of pedestrians on the pavement.
The Nee Nee Man looked at me and smiled.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said and patted me on the shoulder.
Then he turned, waved, and walked off singing, ‘Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.’
Grace Under Fire
(Soundtrack: ‘Amazing Grace’ from a poem by John Newton)
When I was in high school, I belonged to a group called Interact. Interact was the junior Rotary. We did service projects like the senior Rotarians did, but on a much smaller scale.
As part of my service, I volunteered to help primary-school kids at a church afterschool programme on the outskirts of Alexandra township in Johannesburg. My friend’s mother also helped out at that church and she drove us there and back once a week. On more than one occasion, the police, who wanted to know what we were doing in the township, stopped us. She simply told them we were working at the church and they waved us on.
I really enjoyed helping those kids, and many years later I was able to draw on those experiences on a trip to an orphanage in the Congo with the United Nations.
I was asked to share my stories and art at the Don Bosco Youth Centre in the North Kivu town of Goma.
The only person who could speak English in the group, including the teacher, was a young nineteen-year-old Congolese girl who worked as an aide at the centre. I believe her name was Grace. She had a wonderful sense of humour and made it very easy for me to share a laugh with the kids in the classroom, even though we did not understand each other.
At the end of the day, I waited at the buckled, corrugated-tin gate of the dusty centre for my lift back to the UN compound. Apparently there had been a spot of trouble in town with a roadblock and the driver who was supposed to come and fetch me did not arrive.
I sat on a wooden box at the gate and was a little worried about how I was going to get back to the compound, which was some seven miles away. As I waited, I watched the sun setting over the poverty-stricken and desolate landscape. A forlorn place devastated by a volcano and ravaged by four decades of civil war. The sun looked like a big red ball as it slowly rolled through the dust-covered sky and over the edge of the horizon.
I decided to stand on the box and peer over the fence to see if I could spot the white UN vehicle that was supposed to come and get me.
Suddenly I heard a voice behind me. It was Grace, the young lady who translated for me during the day.
I got off the box to greet her.
‘Jambo,’ I said. ‘Hello.’ The only word I had learned in Swahili.
‘Jambo, Mr Trevis, sir. I came to tell you that you shouldn’t do that,’ she said.
‘Do what?’ I replied.
‘Put all of your good ideas in the big danger like that.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, confused.
‘I saw today that you have many good ideas in your head.’
‘Yes, there is lots of stuff in my head,’ I chuckled. ‘I don’t know how much of it is any good though.’
‘You see, if you stand on the box and put your head over the fence like that, then somebody is going to shoot your head. And if they shoot good, there will be a hole in your head and all your ideas will fall out. That is not good.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said, laughing at her great sense of humour and thanking her for pointing out my mistake. Which is something I should have paid more attention to since I had passed the United Nations Security in the Field course, which mentions that one should not put one’s face into places that might draw attention – or stray bullets – from drunken ex-rebels and warlords looking for target practice.
The driver arrived almost two hours later and Grace refused to let me sit alone while I waited.
‘You cannot sit alone,’ she said. ‘It is our custom to look after our guests.’
Grace and I sat together for those two hours and had an amazing conversation about life in the Congo. She told me that three of her younger siblings and her father had been killed in the war and that bad things had happened to her. She also told me that she was hoping to go to school one day to be a nurse, but she was now the family breadwinner and it was a struggle to save money for college.
The driver finally arrived and I hugged Grace and thanked her for the great conversation. I wanted to give her something as a token of my appreciation and the only thing I had on me was a twenty-dollar bill. Which is at least two months’ salary for the average earner in the Congo.
I handed her the money and said, ‘This is for you.’
She looked at me and smiled. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘But my father always told me I must earn my money.’
‘Oh, but this is a gift to say thank you for being so kind,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling, ‘I know.’
I totally got where she was coming from.
‘I understand,’ I said, putting the money back into my pocket.
My chat with Grace was worth more than money can buy. What an honour to have been lucky enough to share time with such an inspiring and wonderful person.
I fingered the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket as we drove away from the orphanage and I thought, how many times do I have to be reminded that it’s not about the money?
Nobody
(Soundtrack: ‘The Fool on the Hill’ by The Beatles)
I’ll never fo
rget arriving at JFK Airport in New York after deciding to live in the United States to further my writing career. I had a few hundred dollars in my pocket, a little red suitcase and a heart full of memories, many of which appear in this book.
I remember my guidance teacher in high school telling me that he didn’t really think I was university material. He suggested I consider going to trade school.
‘Actually, I’m going to be a bestselling author,’ I responded, respectfully.
‘Oh really,’ he said, bemused.
I nodded.
‘Dream on,’ he chuckled.
So I did.
I struggled for years trying to reach that dream. In the early days, I was so poor I would push a trolley through the supermarket, slowly filling it up with groceries. While I was shopping, I would eat a sandwich, have some fruit, eat a packet of chips or two and then abandon the trolley and leave the shop. One time, I even had a beer.
I still feel bad about stealing food, but a few years later, I sent the shop a cheque for 200 dollars and a note explaining my actions. It was never cashed.
I’m happy to say that perseverance, being an irritant to publishers, and my refusal to take rejection letters seriously, paid off in the end.
I have written over fifty books, a number of which have become bestsellers in the children’s market. My books have been translated into more than twenty languages and I have a television series based on some of my work.
A few years ago, I was invited to appear on one of the most popular morning television shows in America.
The interview was exciting and I felt like I was the king of the world. I was pumped. I mean, how often does one get to be on national television? I was picked up by a driver and taken to the studio in Times Square. I was pampered by a make-up artist. Hoo ha! I felt oh so important.
I forgot to mention that I was on the show for four whole minutes at six in the morning, which made it five in the morning in the central time zone and three in the morning on the west coast, which meant that maybe seventeen people actually even saw the show.
Nevertheless, I left the studio feeling very important and ready to greet the throngs who now knew who I was. I walked out the building as the sun was rising. The scene in front of me looked like a movie set. It had rained most of the night and steam rose lazily from the subway grates. The streets were pretty much empty, except for a few garbage trucks and some yellow taxicabs.
There were no people around, except for three homeless guys. They may not have been homeless, but they certainly looked like it. They were sitting on a low wall surrounding a flower bed and watching the big-screen television on the side of the building. The television was showing the programme I had just been interviewed on.
One of the men got up and shuffled quickly over to me. He was scruffy and wore a long black coat. He had grey, fingerless woollen gloves.
‘Can I have your autograph?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said, signing the scrap of paper he gave me. I was proud to give my first-ever autograph in New York.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘My pleasure,’ I replied, very pleased with myself.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘who are you?’
Ah, the universe has such a wonderful way of humbling those who sometimes get a little too big for their boots.
Yours, Mine and Ours
(Soundtrack: ‘The Long and Winding Road’ by The Beatles)
When I was a little boy, I often stood on the chair behind my dad, with my arms lovingly wrapped around his neck, as he sketched or layered colours onto his pen-and-ink drawings.
I loved being with him in his studio. He never told me to go away. Not once. I would stand there for hours, draped over his shoulders, watching him as he painted. Every so often, he would put down his brush and nuzzle my neck with his face. Then he would pick up the brush and continue painting.
The beautiful, dance-like movements of his brushes mesmerised me as they moved this way and that across the paper, transforming the white surface into an amazing picture.
I loved to watch the water in the clear glass jar when he rinsed his brushes.
I am still captivated by the memory of the slow-motion swirling and twisting and turning of the colours dancing an ever-morphing ballet as his paint-laden brushes were gently dipped into the water.
Time seemed to have a different meaning as I stood there with him in his studio. It was amazing to watch a simple pencil sketch become an ink drawing and, almost like a time-lapse movie, become a finished painting.
My father loved to draw and paint and he passed that passion on to me.
The tiny seed that was planted deep inside me, when I was a little boy watching my dad paint, has blossomed into a career for me. I have written and illustrated over fifty books and have participated in a number of art shows over the years.
Although my art teacher at high school told me I wasn’t talented enough to take Art for matric, I have made it a career, which continues to this day, thanks to my dad.
My father’s big dream was to have an exhibition of his art one day. He had collected many fine pieces and told me he was editing them down for an art show he was planning.
I was living in the United States when I got the call.
It came out of the blue. It punched me in the stomach and winded my soul. It was 6 a.m. and I heard a weepy, broken little voice on the other end of the line. It was my sister. She tearfully told me that our dad had suddenly passed away a few hours before.
And just like that, my dad was gone.
In a daze, I got on a plane and rushed home to South Africa to bury my sweet dad.
A few days later, with much trepidation, I ventured into his studio upstairs. I wondered around, touching various things, like his sable hairbrushes and the pencils that were lying on the desk. I’m not sure why I touched everything. Perhaps subconsciously, I was hoping to feel his life in the objects that he had held before he died.
There were various drawings lying around the studio and his paints were there too, exactly where he had left them. His death was so sudden and unexpected that there was still a full jar of fresh water, sitting on his drawing board, waiting patiently for him to paint.
I picked up his favourite green mechanical pencil. The one he used to teach me how to draw.
I sat down on his stool, clutched the pencil to my heart, and I began to cry.
It took me a long time to find the courage to leave the safety of his studio.
A week later my mother asked me to help her go through my dad’s art. She knew I loved my dad’s work and she told me to take my favourite pieces back with me to America. Gratefully, I chose a number of pieces, which still hang in my office today.
While going through his portfolio of work, I found about seven unfinished paintings, which I also took back with me. They were going to be watercolour paintings, but only the pencil work had been completed.
A number of years later, I was invited to show my art at a wonderful little gallery in Austin, Texas.
I am thrilled to say that my dad, in all his glory, was present at the art opening. And not only in spirit.
He was there because I called the exhibition ‘Yours, Mine and Ours’. It consisted of seven of my paintings, seven of my dad’s completed paintings and seven paintings that my dad had started and I had finished.
His big dream finally came true.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Adam and Eve for figuring out how to make babies, otherwise I would not be here.
Thanks as well to Glen Miller, whose song ‘In the Mood’ apparently played a big part in my conception.
To The Beatles for holding my hand when my first love wouldn’t.
To Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, who replied to my letter when Piet Visage, David Cassidy, David Essex and Bo Derek did not.
To E.E. Cummings for making it okay to be a writer even if your grammar is kak and you can’t spell.
A
major thank-you to Herman Charles Bosman for inspiring me to write short stories. And to Pieter-Dirk Uys, who allowed me to show him my poems when I was in the army, and told me I did not have enough life experience yet. (And he was right.)
To my English teacher Paul Klingman, my mentor Ivor Abelheim, my first South African publisher Frederik de Jager, and my nurturing auntie, the late Millicent Marks.
To the wonderful Penguins at Penguin Random House who have been so amazing and supportive: Janet Bartlet, Ellen van Schalkwyk, David Simmons, Ryan Africa and the rest of the Penguin posse. And to my editor Kelly Norwood-Young.
A huge thanks to those of you who appear in this book. Space does not permit me to list you all, but you know who you are, and I will thank you each personally.
Gratitude to my mom Carmel, my brother Steve and my sister Elise; to Robyn, Rhett, Brittany, Teddi, Sydney, Jonathan, and my dear friends and other knuckleheads (you know who I’m talking about).
A special thanks to the Goose!
Please note that some names have been changed to let sleeping dogs lie, protect the innocent and save me from bodily harm.
Blind Date at a Funeral Page 11
