The Purge
A creative nonfiction tale of catching fish.
When cancer took Ouma, we lost more than a grandmother.
Reeling from the loss, the tears not dried on their faces, her four sons decided, the farm had to go. Her two daughters’ voices, bitter in its opposition, didn’t carry enough weight to swing the jury’s decision. But they didn’t surrender without a skirmish.
“Matthias, you can’t do this to us.”
‘Father is too old to keep farming.”
“He’s only eighty-three.”
“Sis, you know none of us are farmers.”
“Then let’s rent out the fields, the land — we can keep the homestead . . .”
“The farm has to go.”
“One of the grandsons can — ”
“They’re too young and inexperienced.”
“Then teach them.”
“’Tis too late — we have an offer on the table.”
“At what price? It’s a steal!”
“Sorry Sis, but the farm is going.”
Oupa, silent in his sorrow, signed the stipulated documents, allowing his six children to whisk him away — he’d go stay with each one on a rotational basis until the dust “had settled” and clear thinking was more likely.
