Dawid Soeker

By Carl Davis

Dive into the captivating and inspiring story of Dawid Soeker, a young man who defies the limitations of his fatherless past. Driven by unwavering faith and determination, Dawid embarks on a transformative journey to carve his own destiny in the unforgiving world. Guided by the wise and dedicated mentorship of Uncle Skip, he learns about the incredible power of a strong will and an unrelenting quest for identity that transcends social boundaries. As you turn each page, you will be enchanted by his gripping tale that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Dawid's life story becomes a profound symbol for all who have been pushed aside and forgotten by society, as he fights adversity with grace and purpose. Discover the hidden depths of his search for true identity, intricately interwoven within the tapestry of his own being. "I am Dawid Soeker" is a literary masterpiece that illuminates the human spirit's capacity for growth, perseverance, and self-discovery. Prepare to be moved, inspired, and forever transformed by Dawid Soeker's extraordinary journey of self-realization.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Davis
• Release date: May 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224986200

Carl Davis

Carl Davis holds a Doctorate in Missiology based upon research of Organizational Growth in the Post Modern Society. I started my work life serving in the South African Defence Force – first at the Recruiting Division, then moving to a Medical Command where I served as a Generalist Personnel Officer. For the last two years of my service, I was tasked with the Personnel management of the Integration process, inclusive of entrance and exit strategies. After honorable discharge after more than 10 years in the South African Defence Force, I took up the post of Managing Director of a Non-Government Organization, established to uplift impoverished communities in and around Potchefstroom, while also appointed as a part-time lecturer of undergraduates (specifically on leadership). Three years later I was appointed as Rector, managing an Educational Institute with 4000 students spread over 36 African countries. While in this position I had the opportunity to lecture extensively abroad and published various articles on leadership; with specific emphasis on motivation and group dynamics. I am a strong believer in utilizing a blended and integrated approach in all of the training (including the new material which I developed) I developed which included – Leadership (within a Faith based community), andragogy, and Cultural Diversity management. I am also a graduate of the University of Stellenbosch's Facilitative Leadership Programme (BUVTON), consulting and facilitating with organizations that are "stuck" (- Alice Mann 1998- ) specifically in the process of change management.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The machines roared in the room. I later learned that I had lain there for more than four weeks.

For the first two weeks, I was more under anesthesia than conscious. As a result, only shadows from my past remained – I can't remember much of it, probably just as well.

I remember a few voices that became clear and then dull.

What is his prognosis? one of the voices asked. I remember there was a person dressed in a white coat who answered:

I believe he will live. The damage was extensive, but fortunately, he was evacuated in time. The frontline medical support made the difference.

Will he be able to walk again? asked the voice in the dark clothes.

We can only hope now that his leg will fully recover. When did this happen? What happened? When were the people who made such an impression in the mists of my pain here? The pain in my right leg began to throb again. It was as if the medication no longer helped...

CHAPTER 1

I am Dawid Soeker, from Kouebokkeveld. Depending on who you ask, they will know me as Dawid, The Rebel, and another name, which I do not want to mention now. I am the only child of Mieta Soeker.

Since I can trust my thoughts, we have lived on Baas[1] Andries' farm, Edelweiss.

The nearest central town to us is Porterville, although I must say that I cannot remember when I was last there.

For us on the farm, opportunities to go to town are rare. The Bokkeveld is a unique place. It's cold, it's remote, it's inhospitable. Yes, there are warm summer months when the mercury keeps rising, but the excess cold makes the place so inhospitable.

Not everyone can survive here. Newcomers don't stay long. Those of us who are born here mostly stay because we can't do otherwise.

Our little house is not big – just one room to sleep in, a small kitchen, and a long-drop outside, but that's all we've always needed.

From the outside, it looked like nothing. The walls had not received a coat of paint for a long time, and the roof was rusted. Ma had a few large stones brought in and placed on the roof to keep the plates on the roof during storm winds. In the cold winter months, the roof kept out the severe cold, but then, when the snow began to melt, every crack and joint on the roof was penetrated by water – to Ma's great dismay.

I remember how, in the summer months, when I played in the edges and looked down on our little house from above, I saw the heat mists play on the roof. I thought they were heat devils dancing, waiting for an opening in our ceiling to enter our little house.

Ma had planted a small garden where green beans and spinach were growing. Sometimes, a stray flower bulb found its bed in the garden – with mixed results.

My memories of the kitchen are as clear as the stream that runs past our house. Ma had a talent for making a dish fit for a king from the least – and most unpalatable ingredients.

The smells of old Cape spices regularly filled our house. In the winter months, Ma, just for the fun of it, made our evenings warmer with delicious soup and a warm cup of coffee if the income allowed it.

Our few pieces of furniture, all our earthly possessions, were gotten from everywhere. The double bed still belonged to Grandma Katie. She also inherited it from somewhere, so it's not in the best condition anymore.

The walls in the house were also starting to peel. Ma had stuck a few pictures on the walls. One of them was the one of the praying hands. Ma repeatedly made me look at the picture in our severe hard times.

See, Dawid, that's how we must join our hands. That's the way we talk to the Great Father. He always knows best.

In the living room was also a photo of Ma when she was young. The picture has already faded due to the elements, but it was her pride. It's something she still had from a forgotten time.

I asked her why there were no photos of me, especially when I was a baby. I would also like to have something to connect me to the past.

She answered that there was no money for photos or that no one on the farm could take a picture for her.

My little bed, at the foot of Ma's bed, is just a bunch of old blankets stacked on each other. It wasn't the easiest to sleep on, but it is sufficient for someone who had to live and grew up with it.

In the early years of my life, Ma made the little bed every morning, but later, as I grew up, it became my task. Ma previously worked in Baas Andries' house when his father still lived there, but now, she has struggled to make clothes for years. She couldn't afford material and instead cut up old clothes to have fabric again.

I only have a few years left at school, so I will probably have to leave the school benches and work on Baas Andries' farm like all the other workers' children.

For us, as children, there is not much hope. We don't have dreams because they will never be realized. We don't have hope because it has long since died. We don't have an identity, even though our birth certificate says who we are. What it doesn't say, however, is where we come from.

The reality is that we were born in the Bokkeveld, that our blood is mixed with the cold out there, that the water of bitterness flows through our life veins and has robbed us of all hope. It's as if the tentacles of poverty have taken root and entangled everything.

CHAPTER 2

There's another house near ours where Aunt Stien and her daughter Mabel live. Mabel has been my best friend – since we were little. Like the rest of us, she will stay behind on Baas Andries' farm, get married, and have her own children.

Mabel is gorgeous – she doesn't look like the other children at school. We both have paler skin, but it's as if her paleness is more prominent than mine. Her well-shaped nose also doesn't look like everyone else's – and her hair isn't as matted as ours. There's a blonde color that none of the rest of us have.

I've admired her for years. Her eyes are the color of the Bokkeveld sky in winter – bright blue.

Aunt Stien's house was better than ours. It was also better maintained. Baas Andries had it repaired after a storm blew the roof off. He also had the walls replastered, but the paint didn't last long.

Aunt Stien was financially somewhat better off than us. She was the community's comforter and midwife. Ma mentioned that Aunt Stien had caught almost all the babies in the area – even some farm owners' when the doctor couldn't arrive in time. Mabel and I – as far as we could – used the short summer months to swim in the farm dam. The dam wasn't visible everywhere and was surrounded by dilapidated stone kraals from the previous century.

As a child, I remember once beautiful snow proteas grew on the ridge above the dam. Still, they have, for some unexplainable reason, disappeared, taken over by invasive bush.

One day, Mabel and I went to the dam again. This time, however, it was different. She didn't want to take off her clothes in front of me anymore and said we couldn't swim naked anymore. I wanted to know why, but she wouldn't say. She mentioned that we're starting to grow up and not children anymore – whatever that meant...

So, in the conversation, she says something to me that I've never heard before –

Dawid, we are both whore's children.

Are we sickly then? I ask.

(Maybe that explains why Baas Andries chases me away from the yard when I come near, or maybe he wants to protect his family from my illness.)

The fear of death has been planted in my subconscious since I found Uncle Tas dead in his bed a few months ago. I was in his room again while Ma washed him. He was stiff and cold. On a worn-out table in the corner of the room stood a sizeable fat candle burning.)

Mabel looked at me shockingly.

No, man, we're not sick. Ma says we're whore's children because we have mothers and no father.

Then aren't all children whore's children? There are so few on the farm who have a father.

She looked at me and stared at the dam again.

We also have a father, but his name must not be mentioned. That's why we're whore's children – the others can say their father's name.

Do you know who your father is? I ask.

My Ma once mentioned our father's name... she says, looking at me strangely.

It was strange that Ma had never talked to me about my father. I tried many times, but she silenced me every time.

Who is my father? is usually first met with silence, then with a stern answer.

I didn't even try to ask where my father was. Over the years, I've made up my own stories. Maybe my father is dead, in prison, maybe famous, also perhaps unknown.

It doesn't matter what I thought because the truth came out much later from the corridors of oblivion. I haven't tried to ask for a long time, but I haven't had any hope – as in many other phases of my life.

As I got older, I wondered if she wasn't sure, but the slightest grain of faith in me, I hoped that one day I would know...

There were a few men in her life – but I don't believe any of them were my father. I also didn't ask Mabel further about who her father is. If only I had done it!

CHAPTER 3

Reverend Arries visited our house at least twice a year. Ma was very annoyed when she saw his rickety pickup turning into our path.

At first, I enjoyed having someone else in the house – but as I grew older, his visits mattered less and less.

Ma, why do I always go outside to play when Reverend Arries arrives? The other children say it's important to listen when the Reverend speaks, and he unlocks the truth of the Great Book for us.

Ma looked at me and then sighed,

He’s just here to collect the church’s money, the sin tax.

Reverend Arries was a short, fat man. His eyes were as squinty as the men in the karate films we sometimes watched at school. I don’t think he was Chinese or Japanese – I just think his eyes looked that way because he was so fat.

He always stank of sweat, slightly masked by the excess deodorant he sprayed over his clothes. His face was beaded with sweat – which he continuously tried to wipe away from his fat face with a dirty handkerchief. He tried to look dignified, even though his clothes were a size, or so, too big.

His voice was also like that of the Minister who sometimes visited Baas Andries.

He always brought me a few cheap sugar candies in the early years. Still, the last few times, he curtly told me to go outside to play because he and my Ma had to discuss adult things and church matters.

You haven’t been to church in a long time, Mieta, he greeted her.

The people in town and the church council are asking about you. I think you know it’s important to attend church. Your child is growing up and must also find the meaning of life in the church, he added, looking at me.

Ma was always very quiet after Reverend Arries’ visit. For a few days, it seemed like she was constantly crying. I asked what was wrong, but Ma never answered directly.

The ways of the Lord are hard to explain, she sighed.

A few times after his visit, Ma started to gain weight. I thought she was sick because she would start vomiting and could hardly eat anything. It was usually after that Ma began to gain weight.

When she started to gain weight, Ma went to see Aunt Stien, and they also discussed adult things. I had to go outside to play and could not return to the house until I was called.

Once, I heard Aunt Stien ask Ma, How far along are you, Mieta?

I couldn’t understand why Aunt Stien asked such a silly question since Ma hadn’t gone anywhere – and wasn’t on her way.

Aunt Stien walked away an hour or so later with a bundle of Ma’s laundry. I don’t know why, but Ma’s clothes were sometimes full of blood.

The illness must have been cured because Ma quickly lost weight again, even though she was in bed for a few days after Aunt Stien’s visit. Aunt Stien brought her soup and bread and looked after Ma for a few days.

I had to be out of the house regularly – probably so they could discuss more adult things.

CHAPTER 4

The pain woke me again. It felt like coals from the old coal stove had fallen on my legs. I tried to get up but was too weak to lift myself.

In the dimness of the room, I could make out someone. I was not alone.

Lie still, I heard a woman’s voice say.

You are not able to stand up. Not just yet.

I tried to speak but realized there was a tube in my throat. My mouth was dry and sore. I tried to open my eyes, but they could only stay at slits.

The machines sucked and blew, while others indicated some type of rhythm. I knew there was a drip in my arm – that was at least something I could know. The half-full bag, filled with some fluid, stood beside my bed.

I will give you something for the pain, the voice said again.

Once again, there was the shuffling of feet, and then she stood beside my bed. In her hand, she held a syringe, which she injected without ceremony into the tube leading to my hand.

The room quickly began to quiet down. Before it went completely dark and before I was relieved of the pain, I heard her talking to a person who had entered the room.

He will gradually be weaned off the morphine, but at this stage, the healing process must take its course...

CHAPTER 5

Uncle Skip appeared one cold winter’s day at the farm. None of the current farm people, except Ma and Aunt Stien, knew him, which was strange.

Cap in hand, he walked to Baas Andries’ house to ask for work. I don’t know what was discussed – I was still a primary school child, but Uncle Skip was appointed to look after the gardens.

Ma later mentioned that Uncle Skip had worked here on the farm in earlier years and had just disappeared one day. Before working on the farm, he apparently worked on the Chokka boats – hence the name Skip.

He refurbished the dilapidated little house next to the chicken coops and went to live there. Only he would know how he became accustomed to the smell of the many chickens – but, apparently, he was once a fisherman – so smells didn’t bother him much.

Ma ordered me not to come near the unknown man. I thought she didn’t know him and didn’t trust him.

While playing at the chicken coops, I ran into him one day.

Where to in such a hurry, young man? He glared at me, and while I was still staring at him, frightened, a smile formed around his mouth.

The more frightened I looked, the more he smiled, which later turned into a hearty laugh. I liked him – no person who could laugh so heartily could be a danger in my child’s eyes. He laughed for a long time and wiped tears from his eyes.

What also struck me was that he had no teeth in his mouth. That gave me even more reason to believe he would not harm me.

In the months to come, Uncle Skip became my source of knowledge. He told me that after he suddenly left here on the farm, he joined the Navy and then, for years, crisscrossed the oceans.

On his arms were tattoos – of boats and compasses – all depicting specific significant incidents in his career. Uncle Skip introduced me to countries, cities, and cultures I