Ida Smith is a frequent contributor to U3A Writing. Her usual locale is what was formerly
the Western Transvaa. She writes in a style reminiscent of Pauline Smith, the South African
author, whose stories were set in the Little Karroo in the 1920’s. Ida’s delicate
understanding of the bleakness of rural life and instinctive sympathy for those
less privileged immediately sets the scene.
THE MISSING INGREDIENT
If one happens to go down to that part of the North-West Province today there may not
be anyone left who remembers the woman who had lived there many years ago and
who could perform miracle cures with the medicines she mixed, and the ingredients she
used.
But this is the story.
“Look at her!” said Max Green to himself, standing, one morning, at the door of his little
shop. Puffing out great clouds of smoke from his cigarette, he had watched old Lenie de
Lange begin her walk, way down the road from near the cemetery, as she approached
the piece of empty veld right across the road from his shop.
Standing still for a moment, she gathered her heavy long black skirt and floral apron in
one hand, bent forward to press on the slack middle strand of the wire fence with the
other and proceeded to deftly slide through to the lonely stretch of veld on the other side.
Max Green continued to watch as her short dumpy figure, almost hidden by the tall
keewk grass, wove deeper and further away, until all that could be seen of her was the
white straw hat on her head, bobbing about as she crept almost furtively deeper into this
forlorn stretch of land.
He knew what she was up to. She had told him on her last visit to the shop, some days
ago, that she was going to look for that “unbelievable”, “wonderful” plant.
“Does she think she’ll ever find it?” Max Green snorted through his bushy black
moustache. “She considers herself the Miracle Medicine Madam,” he muttered unkindly.
“But, she’s been a good customer these last few years,” he admitted grudgingly, as he
went back inside, where he turned to inspect the neat row of bright yellow and red boxes
of herbal “Dutch Medicines,” on the shelf. He always needed to keep a good stock of
these for the rural community as it was difficult for most of them to travel to the distant
village doctor when anyone took ill.
Old Lenie de Lange, or Tant Lenie, as she was generally known, was highly regarded for
her seemingly innate knowledge and ability to take just the right measure from each of
her little medicine bottles, and after mixing them together in a small bowl, concoct a
never fail remedy. Some of her medicines had weird names, like Harlemensis, Wit
Dulcis, Hoffman’s Druppels, Duiwel’s Drek and Balsem Kopiva. But, when combined in
the right doses, they seemed to work miraculously to cure or relieve all kinds of ailments.
Lately, sadly, everyone had heard how concerned Tant Lenie was regarding her
husband, Oom Willem, that quiet pious gentle little man, who sometimes read part of the
Book at the service held in the bigger classroom of the small school on Sundays.
His back pains had grievously worsened recently, in spite of the regular herbal medicine
provided by Tant Lenie. For a while now, she had been agitating to obtain an ingredient,
a plant, which she felt could cure the pains. She knew that it had been indigenous to this
particular area in the past. It was the Morea edulis, or uintjie, well known since the
Voortrekker days for its curative and therapeutic properties.
The previous night after they had prayed, she said to Willem that she was going to find
the uintjies and that he would be relieved of the gnawing pain. Her determination to find
this plant was increased after the Predikant’s visit to their home a week ago, when, on
leaving he had blessed her for caring so devotedly for her dear old husband. His kind
words had reassured her that she would succeed, but mainly that the Good Father
would spare Willem’s life and ease his pain.
As soon as Tant Lenie had entered this almost suffocating sea of grass, she fixed her
eyes on the ground. It was so hard to see anything at all. She would have to search
much more slowly.
Scattered here and there like huge orange-halves inside the tall kweek grass were many
ant-heaps, long deserted by their white, globular inhabitants. Their red, pockmarked
surfaces were hardened like rock by the hot, beating rays of the sun these many years.
Tired now, and a little out of breath, she sad down on one, her alert eyes probing the
undergrowth around her. The air was hot and sultry. But soon, she got up and pushed
her way onwards, opening up the swaying grass with her small puffy hands.
There were myriads of little plants growing there, the grovelling little insects feeding off
them. But among them, she knew would be the one she so desperately wanted. In her
mind, over and over she repeated “The Lord will help me find it for Willem’s sake.”
A soft rustling in the grass made her jump. She stood still. A meerkat, its bushy tail
almost brushing her feet, sneaked past her, fearlessly, and was gone!
Soon she reached a deep sloot, which years ago had been the original narrow little road
running through the farms. It how lay there, forgotten, eroded like a deep, abandoned
trough, its centre filled with a line of fine grass. But, what did she see! Ah! There in that
patch over there, her trained eye spotted a big clump of uintjies standing there in full
splendour, their light green leaves spread out like flat petals around them. Her precious
uintjies! At last. Thank the Lord!
Tant Lenie felt greatly elated. From her apron pocket she withdrew the little cloth bag
and kitchen knife she had brought. She dug away at the plants. Lovingly, she caressed
the smooth white bulbs, like little miniature onion roots. She tasted one and recalled how
as a child living on a farm nearby, she and her friends had dug them up and relished
them.
She realised that it was getting late. The little bag was full. She could hear the school
children from the school on the other side of the fence shouting during their playtime. It
was time to go. She hurried towards the fence and crept through it carefully holding on to
her precious bag.
A few days later Oom Willem’s medicine was ready. So sure was Tant Lenie that the
uintjies were the potent missing ingredient that she urged her poor old Willem to take
some of it whenever the pain got very bad; and while his spirit was uplifted by the
reassurance and promises that all would be well, everyone could see how sallow he
was, how thin and quiet he had become and how weak he was.
His sickness worsened. A few weeks later he could no longer get out of bed. She took to
sitting by him, waving a cloth at the bothersome flies from his pale, white face. She read
to him from the Bible and from the little journal left y the Predikant.
Then sadly, Oom Willem slipped away. Most of the neighbouring people and Max Green
came to the funeral that Saturday at the little cemetery on the corner of the road.
The Predikant made a long and kindly speech about the well-loved Oom Willem who had
been the oldest resident in the community.
But Tant Lenie understood that it had been Oom Willem’s time to go and that miracle
cures belonged only to the Almighty Father himself. And she knew in her heart that she
had tried her very best in any case.