Free Moffie by Andre Carl van der Merwe Page B

for prey, like a great lion crouching in cover. Rise up, O Lord, confront them, bring them down; rescue me from the wicked by your sword.
    Â 
    I stop reading and turn to Psalm 23. Yes, I want comfort; I want a table prepared ‘
in the presence of my enemies
.’
    Â 

    ***
    Â 
    â€˜You see,’ he says. He is puffed up like a bullfrog, not only in attitude, but his body also seems too big for his small legs. His actions have a cultivated air that is still new and awkward. ‘You are all
rowe
. Do you wanna know what a
roof
is? It’s a fucking filthy scab on a septic cyst in a dying pig’s arse. That’s what a
roof
is and that’s what you are.’ Dispensing his dishwater-wisdom, he says, ‘Don’t worry, I was one too, hey. But now I’m an
ouman
, I’ve been here for more than a year . . . but, troops, shit you will shit!’
    Nothing they make us do seems possible. Too many people have to shower in too few facilities in too short a time. We wait in lines for food and we have too little time to eat it. We have to clean our fatty ‘pig pans’—partitioned stainless-steel plates—in drums of cold, soapless water with thousands of other troops’ uneaten food floating in it.
    Everything is designed to induce panic, and panic causes insecurity. Insecurity creates in all of us a desperate desire for survival, and this desire is dangerous and ugly.
    In the breakfast queue I look for Gerrie, whom I haven’t seen since we arrived at the camp. In front of me a corporal seems to self-destruct on discovering that a conscript doesn’t possess the skill to tie his own laces. I wish I could self-destruct, for how does one relate to, share a room with and fight next to a man of nineteen who can’t fasten his own laces?
    The huge mess looks more like a hangar, and behind the mess is the parade ground. Everything is neat but desperately ugly. Every shape and colour is purely functional. The buildings seem to stand at attention, permanently disciplined. Tiny patches of garden look like brooches on fatigue overalls.
    Â 

    ***
    Â 
    Each one receives an orange booklet. On the front it has a sun in the top right corner, with seven rays extending from it. It is called
Daily Strength
. It comes from the Bible Society of the Army, Navy and Air Force, to be read during quiet time. Inside my Gideon’s New Testament are lists of passages titled ‘Where to find help.’ I look under ‘Anxious’ and am referred to Psalm 46:
    Â 
    God is for us a refuge and a fortress; found to be a mighty help in trouble.
    Therefore we do not fear though the earth is displaced, though the mountains reel into the midst of the sea,
    Though its waters roar and foam; though the mountains shake at its swelling . . .
    Â 
    This gives me courage, because my world is displaced, reeling somewhere in space, tumbling towards some baleful abyss.
    Then I become still. I make way for Frankie’s spirit to visit and console me. He is my angel whose existence I never doubt. I curl up and I pray. With eyes shut tight, I pray from a deep place and I feel God’s listening face inside me.
    Â 

    ***
    Â 
    We’re standing at attention, not allowed to move. My feet feel as if they are not getting enough blood; I cannot feel my little toes. The instructor is shouting, insulting us. Our eyes must not follow him as he moves through the ranks.
    â€˜What the fuck are you looking at, troop? I’ll suck out your eye and spit it back so deep that you’ll look at the world through your arsehole for the rest of your life!’ he shouts in Afrikaans.
    He stands in front of me, directly in my line of sight. He is telling us how useless we are. He is not much older than I am—last year’s intake—but he has the markings of that year. His halitosis comes to me in waves; it smells like shit, as though his vulgarity has an odour. This is the smell of dirty, empty