I Dream of Pickled Fish

It’s Friday and I dream of pickled fish.

It could be hake. Or yellowtail. But only hake would be humble enough to frequent my post-midnight dreams.

That is a special time when the world is thinking, “Am I night or am I day? Hmmm. I know the sun is on its way but the moon is here.” A bit indecisive but...

It is time when my Ma Bessie, on the Khoi side of the family, would attend to me. She always had my back. Except when I offended and I would need to retreat onto Beatty Avenue with her, “Ko hiesa, jou moeskon,” giving me wings.

But when mum deployed Uncle Sam (the US GI leather belt hanging behind the bedroom door) Mama would intercede with a “Nie, Sheila, djy kannie die kind soe slaan’ie.” Clinging to her side I would wipe my grateful tears with her well-washed floral, soft cotton apron.

A Monday night, a few weeks ago, I dozed off behind the wheel and woke as my car hit the curb on the bridge crossing over the northern railway line into Woodstock. I opened my eyes to bright lights, the jolt of the vehicle rocking me forward as it veered against and onto the curb. The nearing wall between the car and the railway line below. The heavy, slow-rushing drag of angel wings. And maBessie’s voice, “Hey, leave my child, he’s the Dean of Camissa. He still has to repair the Cathedral’s roof.” And stuff like that

Then there was the silence when angels leave.

I knew I had company in the car as I drove the short distance to Fr Donny Meyer’s home at St Mary’s Rectory. I kept quiet. Enough had already been said that night.

Yellowtail, on the other hand, is such a proud, sturvy fish. It is in the sassiness of a sista, the way she announces, “Heya, I am delicious, nê?” She has an allure reserved for the candle-lit days of high feasts. The subtleties, nuanced suggestiveness. The sauce of poetry.

But as for hake, he is very accommodating. Doesn’t dominate and surrenders to the tamarind, ginger and all the necessary matterjalas. He becomes what he is in providing substance for flavour. A sacrament of delight and taste.

Perfect for Good Friday. In the days leading up to Holy Week he and his Atlantic boetatjies had already decreed, “Now is the time” and swim, devoutly, towards the nets of the boats coming out of Kalk Bay harbour.

And that little boy who provided the padkos for the feeding of the five thousand... what kind of fish do you think his mommy put in his Tupperware that morning?

There must be goema liedjies sung about our stokvis brudder. Boetas Tony Cedras and Mervyn Africa stand and deliver. Asseblief. Ek is seker Tony and Mervyn sal bykom as ek’ie wo’re skyf soes:

“Die stokvis is volop in Halt Road,

die dinge vannie Here word uit gebroat...”

I once had pickled snoek on a long-ago Good Friday. Oh my Black Jesus, now that is a vark of a fish when it comes to being pickled. Totally ungovernable. It goes all gangsta on you with a stick-my-hie’-stick-my-da’ style. It has an unfortunate, non-collaborative spirit. The matterjalas sauce just takes on the taste of the blandness of unspiced snoek. The onions just lie there, lusteloos, like Mzansi after PW Botha declared the 1985 State of Emergency. So without a taste for insurrection.

Our snoek homeboy rolls best on a braai aluminium wrapped with quartered onions. A bit of masala and other what-you-haves. He smokes well...

I only dream of fish on days like these when the week has been long. When Tuesday felt like Friday and Friday had no cool-off time.

But when I dream of fish then I know that Ma Bessie has my back covered. I am safe. For now.