“Only if it’s got gunja…”

Frik was a large, rugged Afrikaaner with a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth. He sat down on our cooler box, evidently unconcerned by the streaks of tomato sauce and boerewors juice spewed across the surface. He tore a corner from the lid of his cigarette box and, using it as a plectrum, began to play. The guitar looked more like a ukelele against his belly.

When he finished, I offered him a skottel-braaied crumpet for his efforts. His response, and in fact the entire scene, could not have been scripted better.

He coughed. Then in the same gruff voice with which he sang, replied, “Only if it’s got gunja…”.

Frik, in all his glory

Photocred: Ernst van den Akker

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