Oranje-gevaar

I remember when my English-speaking husband approached my dad to ask him for my hand in marriage. My dad looked him up and down and told him: “Soutie, only if you put on a Stormers jersey and join me at Loftus for the Currie Cup Rugby Finals – Only then I will say yes.”

My husband, a true BlueBulls supporter, looked him straight in the eye and said: “Oom, I will never put on a Stormers jersey. I am a loyal BlueBulls fan, and I stand with them no matter what. Just like I will stand with your daughter.”

My dad grinned from ear to ear, gave him a big stywe hug and said: “Welcome to the family, son.”

Now if that was not a good answer, I don’t know what is. And here we are, 16 years and 2 kids later, in a foreign country, with a few sakke sout agter ons. And my husband kept his word. They watched many a match together my dad and him, each supporting their own side passionately. Sadly, my dad passed away in 2018, but I will always remember how impressed he was with that answer. I will also remember the way my dad treated the wannabe-boyfriends that used to ring our doorbell back in the day. My parents had 3 girls close together, so 3 teenage girls and therefore liters of testosterone to scare off…Dad was exhausted by the time we finally got married.

What counted in my dad's favor (not mine though) was that he was a SAPS policeman. Quite high up in rank when we hit puberty. (I think it was all planned by the way) And oh my golly gosh, did he use that to his advantage. Yellow police van strategically parked in our driveway as soon as he realized a brand-new suspect will come knocking the Friday evening. He would also wear his blue uniform, and literally have his gun in his holster, in plain sight, pushed a bit more to the front, pointing at his balls.  If that was not enough, he had a collection of swords on display, I kid you not, as well as all his sport medals, trophies and anything that screams “DOWN BOY” Yes, our living room would definitely not have been featured in any interior magazine. And to add to our embarrassment, my dad would SALUTE the poor oukie when he rang the bell.

Looking back, how I actually got a husband, was a blerrie miracle. Dad was protective and boyfriends were left with no choice but to come in and greet the parents, watch the game with him and support the Stormers. They also had to explain their intentions, their past, their future, their 5,10 and 20 year plan, and sommer ook hul onderbroek-kleur while they’re at it. Oh, and THE TALK that was given everytime.…That was my dad.

So fast forward to our own offspring, and I can see my dad and husband had much more in common than I thought. No, Ray is not working for the Dutch police-force. (Even though he thinks he is…patrolling the house – walking with his salt-gun to shoot the flies. Apparently this qualifies him as something to be reckon with). But he is a chiropractor, which makes him believe he has some special back-breaking skills up his sleeve. And what I saw two years ago made me realized that I married a man just like my dad.

It was a very hot Saturday afternoon. My husband was watching football in ONLY his short orange pt-broekie. A special from the local grocery store…buy 6 Heinekens and stuffed deep inside the doos is an orange-Dutch-football-supporter-broekie. Which he immediately had to put on off course.

Sitting rustig, he sipped his cold Heineken, concentrating on the football match. I mean, its an important game…like all the games…and suddenly there was a ring at the door.

A bit annoyed, he got up and when he opened the door….no-one in sight.

Nou kyk nê, ‘n soutie with ginger hair who’s very important football game is being disturbed for nothing?!! You toktokkie the wrong house my friend. (In Dutch they call it ‘belletje trekken’)

He stood at the door, peering into a distance, trying to see any culprits. No one.

Now just for interest sake, I am in the kitchen, marinating the tjoppies for our braai, observing this interesting situation. Our daughters, started to giggle and blush, because they saw through the window that it was some boys in their class. My husband, clever man that he is, put 2 and 2 together.

Party time.

He said he didn’t remember much. He said it was like a mist came over his rational thoughts. He said for a moment he was Chuck Norris, he could smell sound and hear touch, and that was when he spotted them behind the hedge. ‘They gonna cry like onions’, he thought and suddenly felt the urge to get his salt-gun. But there was no time. Primitive brain took over. With only his orange-pt-broekie aan, like a bullet, barefoot, he sprinted like a cheetah trying to catch them. I have never seen a guy so fast out the blocks…not even that Jamaican dude. He was so fast out the door, the wind blew the braai-sout into my eyes. My girls and I raced to the front window, their eyes wider than our XL braaibak. And what we saw we will never unsee.

A half-naked 46-year-old man chasing 2 Dutch boys barefoot down our street passing all our Dutch neighbors, who always leave the curtains open, with only the important bits and bobs covered by this little orange broekie, running like he was still a 15-year-old sprinter in high school. Quite a sight I must say.

But these boys were fast too, and oh so clever. They decided to split up.

But my husband is cleverer...he decided to rather chase the ‘slower’  Caucasian Dutch boy, figuring that his friend who looks more Moroccan, (which means he has some African genes, therefore a faster specimen) will outrun him. The Moroccan-look-alike took a turn to the left, and Caucasian Dutch boy took a sharp turn to the right. Husband sharp-turned as well, almost snapping a calf muscle. He was shocked at the speed of these laaities, worried he made the wrong choice when he realised the Caucasion Dutch boy is faster than expected…and not worried at all about the fact that his ever-tightening hamstrings is not 15 years old anymore.

Now while the chase is happening, me and the girls are still wide-eyed peeping through the front window curtains, which we have closed,  hoping no-one else are seeing this. Praying that the neighbors didn’t phone the Dutch police to arrest the oranje-gevaar.

Anyways, suddenly my husband caught the boy after an 800m sprint up and down the street. He grabbed him, and pressed him into the neighbor’s hedge. Both very uitasem.

 “Trek jy ons belletje?!!!”  (Nederkaans I know)

“Sorry meneer, sorry meneer!”, came the answer quickly…his friend standing a very very safe distance away.

“Call your friend to come here”, my husband demanded, and Caucasian Dutch boy did as he was told.

But the friend just shook his head vigorously and started to triple on the spot.

“Next time when you ring our doorbell, and you are not standing in front of it, you know what I’ll do”?

“Sorry meneer, no meneer, ik weet dat niet meneer”

“I will trek YOUR belletje! Begrijp je mij!?”

“Yes meneer, I mean ik denk zo sir.”

 My husband put him up straight, flattened his shirt and swaaied his wysvinger one more time. The boy said sorry again, they shook hands, and off he went to join his friend that is still tripling in the distance, freaking out a few hundred meters away.

Back in the house my husband sat down slowly, move the orange pt-broekie to cover the necessities, took a sip from his not-so-cold-anymore-Heineken, and said: “I think I understand your dad now”.

I still had the braai-sout in my hand, but I had no words. What de @# just happened? Wat gaan die bure sê? But I am not just a pretty face, I am a clever wife too, you know. I decided to carry on marinating the shaait out of those tjoppies, and I said absolutely nothing. (Want netnou-netnou tackle die oranje-gevaar vir my!)

The next day my very embarrassed daughter got a hand-made card from the Caucasian Dutch boy, saying sorry again. Needless to say, that boy has never rang our bell again…In fact, I wonder if anyone ever will again after this incident. (I want grand-children you know)

But I must say, I felt save knowing my daughters have a dad just like I had.  I also am reminded every time I see that orange-broekie in the cupboard, that God is just like that...Whenever the enemy comes to knock on your door to distract you, tempt you, lie to you, guess who can't help Himself and wants to chase the enemy down the road? Yes. God. Remember, our God is a jealous God, protective and loving. We might not always understand His ways, but I sure don’t mind having Him standing guard at the door of my heart with his orange-broekie aan. 

 

Zalea (August 2023)

2Thessalonians 3:3

But the Lord is faithful. He will establish you and guard you against the evil one.