Meneer de Kalkoen

I entered high school aged thirteen years and ten months and quickly realised that this was a very different world to that which I had enjoyed in primary school. For starters, there were “boys” in short pants that had heavy facial stubble and looked old enough to be my father. Some of them were already hard cases and when, at lunch break they enquired “What are we eating today?” you handed over your lunch without argument.

The teachers were also a motley assortment with some so old they looked as though they might drop dead in the middle of a lesson and others younger and more intimidating. It was the latter group that was more dangerous because they gave “cuts” for real or imagined transgressions. The “caning” of boys was standard disciplinary procedure in those days and generally consisted of three strokes to the behind with a light, bamboo cane for minor infractions and six stokes for more serious offences.

The headmaster of the school was a stern, red faced individual with thinning hair combed straight back. He was devoid of a sense of humour and I didn’t once see him smile in the five years I was at the school. Understandably, his nickname was “Turkey” because of his ruddy complexion but also because of his drooping jowls which resembled the wattles on a turkey. The Afrikaans word for turkey is kalkoen and this poem is accordingly titled “Meneer de Kalkoen” or Mister Turkey.

Meneer de Kalkoen

Die Hoof van ons skool was besonders gemeen

Met ʼn bloedrooi gesig en ʼn kalkoen kakebeen

Groen oe soos albasters, koud hard en rond

En nimmer ʼn glimlag op sy stywe ou mond

Langer as ses voet en reguit soos ʼn paal

Hare effe bles die blinkkleur van staal

En hande soos skopgrawe soepel en sterk

Heel geskik om oorlelle se sake te werk

Sy bynaam? Wat anders as “Meneer de Kalkoen”

Maar slegs buite gehoor word dit hardop genoem

Want sê jy dit elders en word jy gevang

Gaan jou sitvlak goed brand van rottang se gesang

Sy voorkoms en humeur het gesag afgedwing

Maar seuns bly maar seuns en die duiwel glip in

Onnoselle jeug hoekom waag jy so ʼn streek

In sy kantoor word jou astrantheid gou-gou gebreek

Regter, Jurie en Laksman drie in een is Kalkoen

Jy’s skuldig, buk vooroor, vingerpunte teen skoen

Trek boudspiere styf, beheer skreeuende brein

Hoor rottang se fluit wetend hier kom die pyn

Drie pers strepe sal kort-kort jou boude versier

Net bravade dwing jou daartoe die seer te verduur

En die folteraar kyk snags diep in ʼn bottel brandewyn

Sy gewete te sus vir sy rol as boodskapper van pyn