This reader’s impression was written and sent to LitNet on the writer's own initiative.
Title: Shirley, goodness and mercy: A childhood memoir
Author: Chris van Wyk
ISBN: 9780330444835
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Chris van Wyk retells the setting of his childhood, brimming with laughter and friendship, set against the backdrop of apartheid-era South Africa. From Newclare to Coronationville to Riverlea, he takes our hand as we are guided on an Odysseus-like journey through the streets of his childhood, weaving vivid recollections of food, family and foes. Told through the eyes of an innocent child narrator, his stories carry a playful, light-hearted charm in places. Yet beneath this warm setting and charming narration lies a deep-seated anguish – an emotional undercurrent that grips the reader and refuses to let go.
What I love most about Van Wyk’s writing is the seamless thread of his poetry, which enriches his narratives with a layered, multifaceted view of the world. In my opinion, there is no better immersion into words than a poet who takes to the short story form. I still remember the poem he wrote for his mother, nestled in a larger piece – long after I turned the last page – capturing her laughter with remarkable tenderness. Her presence is beautifully encapsulated in the final lines: “My mother’s laughter grows out of our house/ and people come to taste it” (122).
From the start of Shirley, goodness and mercy, we are met with his biting social commentary mixed with the excitement and innocence of his boyish years. “Prudence in Tomato Yard” begins with a brief introduction of the land for the reader: “It’s 1961 and I’m four years old. There are dramas unfolding in the country …. The Sharpeville Massacre, the banning of the ANC and the PAC” (1). In this short but emotional start, we are thrown into chaos and turmoil, and the reader can only be toppled by the image of this child growing up in the middle of it all. Yet, in good old Van Wyk fashion, the climax is afoot: “But I know nothing of any of this. My world is a slum called Tomato Yard … where life happens” (1). This magic, this sheer wonderment, caught in the setting, and the use of the climax of entering his world are spellbinding. From this point on, his open, childlike naiveté wipes the slate clean for the readers to enjoy the revels of little boys.
In his piece “Shirley, goodness and mercy”, from which the book is named, Van Wyk kneads a delightful dialogue between mother and son, while all the while the mother makes a South African delicacy, frikkadels. I can hear the sizzle behind the words. We become privy to a tender moment when Van Wyk’s younger self comes to his mother to proudly showcase his ability to memorise Psalm 23. Unbeknown to little Chris, his mother childishly withholds that he is reciting Psalm 23 incorrectly, when instead of the last words “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life”, he proclaims, “Shirley, goodness and mercy …” (31). This tender scene highlights the familiar morsels that readers can bite into. This piece, like so many of the pieces in Van Wyk’s memoir, is like coming back home. His narratives leave the reader with a profound sense of community – the sheer energy of his childhood lingering long after the final page.
Chris van Wyk lost his battle to cancer in 2014, but his stories are left behind as treasure troves for readers of all ages. While they are truly South African in their context, the magic of childhood in his works is universal. His final words for the readers leave us believing in storytelling again. His final piece, “The stories begin again”, reminds the reader to write, to document, to be present. At the very least, in our hands we have his last nuggets, “There are so many people in their eighties and nineties who have stories to tell. Stories that need to be told, stories that are a part of our history and which apartheid made us believe should never be told” (309). Chris, we will tell them and read them.
See also:
Ode aan Chris van Wyk lui nuwe era van Van Wyk-aanhangers in