David Blyth

One of my personal and favorite memories. When I was a young boy in the mid-1980s, I had an encounter that left a lasting impression on me. During one of my visits to my great-grandmother, Dini de Groot, who lived in a hospice and frail-care home for the very elderly, I met an old lady who shared her accommodation. She was well into her nineties, perhaps even older, and I discovered, to my absolute fascination, that she had been alive during the Anglo-Boer War. Naturally, I bombarded her with questions. She laughed at my enthusiasm and explained that she remembered very little of the war itself, as she had grown up on a remote farm in the Kimberley district. However, she did have two particularly vivid memories, which she recounted with great amusement. The first concerned her father, a farmer who wanted absolutely nothing to do with the war. He had no interest in the Boers, no affection for the British, and even less patience for politics. He considered such matters beneath him. His interests were his sheep, goats and the running of his farm. Unfortunately, the farm happened to be in an area where control frequently changed hands. So, every morning, the old farmer had to establish who was in charge of the district that particular day. If it was the British, up went the Union Jack. If the Boers were in control, the appropriate Boer flag went up instead. It was a daily ritual: find out who was in charge, hoist the correct flag, and get on with farming. The old lady laughed as she described how her father simply wanted to be left alone to tend to his animals, regardless of whose army happened to be passing through. Her second memory, however, was the one that really made her laugh. One night, a party of British soldiers crept onto the farm and helped themselves to a considerable number of chickens from the farmer's coop. The following morning, the family and farmworkers discovered the theft. There was little doubt about who was responsible, as the British garrison was stationed only a few miles away. Her father was absolutely furious. So furious, in fact, that he stopped all farm work for the day and ordered everyone into the kitchen. His wife, the farmworkers and even his young daughter were put to work preparing enormous pots of chicken soup. There was just one small problem: there was no chicken in it. It was, in fact, vegetable soup. Once the pots were ready, the old farmer had them delivered to the local British commander, accompanied by a rather pointed message: “Here is the soup to go with the chickens your soldiers stole last night.” Apparently, the gesture caused considerable embarrassment at the British garrison. The commander, clearly recognising the humour and the farmer's indignation, responded by sending over a ten-pound note. He apologised profusely for the theft, thanked the farmer for the soup, and assured him that such behaviour would not happen again. He also remarked that the soup was a welcome morale booster for his men and offered the money as compensation for the stolen chickens. And that was the story. As a young boy, I was utterly captivated. Here was someone who had lived through the Anglo-Boer War, yet her most entertaining recollections were not of battles, generals or military campaigns. They were of a farmer who refused to take sides, hoisted whichever flag happened to be required that morning, and dealt with British chicken thieves by sending them chicken soup without the chicken. Even today, I find the story rather wonderful. It is a small, humorous glimpse into ordinary life during an extraordinary and turbulent period in South African history. The story is 100% true and mine, this image .... not so much