OM TE SING Deur Rina Liebenberg Sy’s laat. Die kerk is reeds stampvol , gewaar Sonet vanuit die oop kerkdeur Sy tokkel met haar vingers teen haar handsak . H aar oë soek - soek deur die rye mense. Is daar dan nie ê rens ’n sit plekkie vir haar nie? Sal sy sowaar moet omdraai en t erug na haar stil woonstel toe ry ? Dan gewaar sy ’n man aan die voorpunt van die gang e tjie tussen die twee rye sitplekke. Hy wys vir haar dat daar nog ’n plek aan die kant van die derde ry van voor, oop is. Met lang treë stap sy soontoe en gaan sit Sy trek haar rooi rok reg Eerbiedig buig Sonet haar kop in gebed Wanneer s y weer opkyk groet sy die vrou langs haar met ’n kopknik . Toe merk sy dat die vroue in die ry voor haar en verder af in die sitplekke waar sy sit, almal in swart en wit geklee is. Dit moet die koorsangers wees, besluit sy. Sagte orrelmusiek vul die kerkgebou. Sonet sluit haar o ë. W eek haar in die bekende melodie wat die o r relis uit die klawers tower. ’n Trilling spoel deur haar lig g a am In haar kop neurie sy die woorde saam. As sy sou kon saam sing! Wat gebeur het, is tog reeds vergete. Net sy onthou en die wete hou haar gevange. Nee, sy wil nie daaraan dink nie! ʼn Man verduidelik hoe die program sal verloop voor hy die diens met ʼn gebed open. Daarna vol g ʼn voorlesing uit een van Elizabeth Ey bers se gedig te : ‘ Maria ’ “ ’n Engel het dit self gebring , die vreugde - boodskap – en jy het ’n lof sang tot Gods eer gesing , Maria, nooi uit Naseret ! ” ... Sonet sluk aan die knop in haar keel ‘n Groepie kinders in die banke links van haar beweeg vo rentoe en neem hulle plekke in op die tydelike opgestelde verhoog voor die gemeente. Hulle kinder stemme vul die gebou met kleintydse liedere wat Sonet onthou. Ja, kleintyd het sy met oorgawe en selfvertroue gesing, dwaal Sonet se gedagte s Kersfeestye het haar ma - hulle m et trots geluister hoe sy en haa r sibbe die kersliedere om die kersboom sing En toe sy groter was , het sy in skoolkore en by ander geleenthede solo’s gesing. Sy blaas haar asem stadig uit en vou haar hande in haar skoot. Sy moenie toelaat dat haar gedagtes die aand bederf nie. Met afwagting kyk sy na die volgende groepie mans en vroue – meestal gryskoppe - wat skuifel en met stram bene op die verhogie klim . E lkeen met ʼn liedereboek in die hand. Die koorleidster knik met haar kop en in verskillende stemtone sing hulle Koos du Pl essis se lieflike: ‘ Skenk ons ʼn helder somer Ke rsfees ’ Daarna volg ʼn mannekoor met ‘Amazing Grace’ en ʼn man uit die koorlede sing ʼn solo ‘ O my soul ’ in sy warm tenoor stem. Met geslote oë word Sonet meegevoer deur die ryp volwasse stemme. As sy net weer met oorgawe kan sing! Die melodi eë en woorde vul haar hele wese. Sy kan die klanke agter op haar tong voel vibreer Maar sy weet elke keer is dit net ʼn dowwe vals geluid wat oor haar lippe kom - soos wanneer sy gedurende kerkdienste probeer sing. Nou volg sy maar net die woorde Die Here sal verstaan. Sy wil tog nie ʼn bespotting wees nie Soms, w anneer sy t erug in haar woonstel is, sal sy ʼn CD in die speler sit, haar verbeel dat sy die sanger is. Dan pla d ie vals note wat hortend uit haar keel kom en die kombuis vul haar nie , terwyl sy vir haar tee en iets te ete maak. Sy dans wye draaie op haar hoë hakke oor die beperkte stukkie oop vloer. Sing en sing en sing tot sy later op die rusbank neersak. D ie koue tee slukkie vir slukkie drink , terwyl sy die groot begeerte in haar binneste troetel om weer net eenmaal voor ʼn gehoor te kan sing Sonet kyk op. ʼn Sug diep uit haar binneste laat die vrou langs haar met ʼn vraagteken in haar oë na haar kyk. Met ʼn skew e glimlaggie stel Sonet haar gerus en kyk na die mans wat een vir een terug na hulle sitplekke stap. Die vroue in die bank voor Sonet staan op en beweeg na die gangetjie Ook die in dieselfde ry as wat sy sit. Agter haar is ook ʼn ge skuifel. Sy staan ook op en beweeg na die gangetjie so dat die in haar ry maklik kan verbykom. Maar a g ter haar en voor haar en om haar dam die vreemde gesigte op. “Kom verby,” prewel sy , maar sy word meegesleur saam met die bewegende swart en wit geklede lywe. ʼn Drenkeling tussen skoene en bene en geure en rooi lippe en stywe kapsels. Vorentoe – vorentoe. Voor haar is die tydelike verhogie van vier rye bank i e s . “ K lim , ” sê ʼn stem agter haar. Toe onthou Sonet weer : Dit is November maand en die einde van haar Graad 11 skool jaar. En sy is verlief. Verlief op die sport onderwyser met die wilde blonde kuif en kobaltblou oë. Verlief op sy stem, sy hande, sy warm glimlag en gespierde kuite wat sy met ’n koors in haar bewonder waneer hy in sy sportklere saam met die seuns buite op die rugby veld oefen. ʼn F unksie word vir die skoolhoof wat hulle gaan verlaat in die skoolsaal gehou en die meisies moet vir hom ʼn afskeid lied sing. Van die meisies staan op bankies en vo rm ʼn halfmaan agter en tot langs die klavier Sonet staan heel aan die kant waar sy maklik sigbaar is wanneer sy di e sologedeelte van die lied moet sing. Die diregent glimlag tevrede terwyl sy die koor begelei. Toe is dit Sonet se beurt om die tweede refrein te sing. Met haar uitgestrekte arm , haar handpalm na bo na die skoolhoof g erig, sing sy met volle oorgawe. Maar haar hart en oë sing vir die man wat ook in die voor ste ry sit; die man met die blou oë en wilde kuif. Sonet verskuif die mikrofoon na haar ander hand en verloor haar balans Sy trap skuinsweg , wieg heen en weer met haar arms swaaiend soos boomtakke in die wind. Toe val sy agteroor van die bankie af ! Sy onthou. S y het lelik geval. Reg voor die hele volgepakte saal met haar bene omhoog het sy geval. Kinders in die gehoor het b egin lag. Almal kon haar dik wit dye en wit broekie sien. Veel kan sy nie verder onthou nie. Net dat d ie sport o n derwyser ; dié sportonderwyser , op die verhoog gespring het . Hy het haar opgetel en teen sy groot hart gehou. Later toe alles verby was en net gedempte stemme nog in die kleedkamer hoorbaar was, het Sonet met rukkende skouers op die vloer in die donker gang ge sit. Sy het stemme nader hoor kom. Dit was die koorafrigter en die sportonderwyser wat aan die onderkant van die gang bly st aan het. Duidelik kon sy die held van haar drome hoor sê: “Moes jy nou wragtig die vet, lomp meisie wat net boude, maag en t i e te is, ook op ʼn bankie laat staan het ? Sy het omtrent ʼn spektakel van haarself gemaak en die hele aand bederf! ” ʼn Snik het soos ʼn stuk appel in Sonet se keel vas ge steek. Om te sing, was daarna nooit weer dieselfde nie. “Klim,” beveel die stem weer agter Sone t. “Ek is nie een van julle nie,” protesteer Sonet , maar die woorde word deur die geskuifel om haar gedemp. Die smal loop vlak van die bankie is soos ʼn hang brug wat sy moet oor ... “Klim!” Sy klim. Gryp wild in die lug. Sy staan. Aan weerskante van haar, voor haar, agter, die swart en wit gekledes en haar rooi rok wat soos ʼn somerroos tussen hulle pronk. Sy, wat ni e een suiwer noot kan sing nie! Is sy dalk die nar van die aand? Met bewende vingers druk Sonet haar hand voor haar mond. Trane wel in haar oë op. Sy sluk. Nou mag sy nie histeries raak nie. D ie vrou langs haar gee haar ʼn gerf papiere aan. Verwar hulle haar dalk met iemand anders? Iemand wat by hulle moes aansluit? Iemand ... die diva van die aand. Die diva van die aand! Sy, Sonet Greyli ng? ʼn Bewing trek deur haar lyf. Met ʼn natgeswete hand probeer sy die dirigent se aandag te trek , maar hy glimlag net rustig en knik met sy kop. Toe begin die orrel met die begeleiding van die eerste lied. Die stemme rondom Sonet smelt saam. Sy ken die melodie en die woorde. Sy luister. ʼn Gevoel van vrede breek oop binne in haar, in haar hart, haar verstand. Haar hele wese word g e vul met die eeue ou lied wat wê reldwyd gesing word. Saam met die koorstemme styg haar s tem op. Die diri gent knik sy kop en knipoog vir haar Suiwer en helder sing sy: “Stille nag, heilig nag, oor die veld lief en sag klink die lied van die engele koor ...” 13/01/2020 TO SING By Rina Liebenberg Translation by Shirley Wilson She’s late. The church is packed, Sonet notices from the open church door. She fidgets with her handbag. Her eyes flit searchingly through the rows of people. Is there a seat for her somewhere? Will she really have to turn around and drive back to her quiet flat? Then she notices a man at the front edge of the aisle between two rows of seats. He indicates that there is a seat open at the end of the third row from the front. With long st rides she walks forward and sits down. She adjusts her red dress. Respectfully, Sonet bows her head in prayer. When she looks up again, she nods a greeting to the lady next to her. She notices that the ladies in the row in front of her and along the row in whic h she is sitting are all dressed in black and white. They must be the choir, she decides. Soft organ music infuses the church. Sonet closes her eyes. She soaks up the well - known melodies that the organist is magically cr e ating from the keys. A thrill suffu ses her body. She hums the lyrics softly in her head. If only she could sing along! What happened is already forgotten. Only she knows but the knowledge holds her captive. No she will not think about it! A man explains how the programme will unfold before the service opens with a prayer. An extract from the poem ‘Maria’ by Elizabeth Eybers follows: “An angel bought the joyful tidings And you, Maria, Nazareth’s maiden An anthem to God’s honour sings!” ... Sonet swallows the lump in her throat. A group of chi ldren in the rows to her left move forward and take their places on the temporary stage in fornt of the congregation. Their young voices fill the building with the songs of childhood that Sonet remembers. Yes, as a child I sang with passion and confidence; Sonet’s thoughts wander. At Christmas time her mother listened with pride as she and her siblings sang carols around the Christmas tree. When she was older, she sang in the school choir and even sang solos at functions. She slowly exhales and folds her ha nds in her lap. She must not let her thoughts spoil her evening. Expectantly, she looks at the next group of older men and ladies – mostly grey - haired – as they shuffle with stiff legs to get on to the little stage. Each one clutches a little hymnal. The choirmistress nods her head and in a variety of tones they sing Koos du Plessis’ lovely ‘Give us a clear summer Christmas’. Next up was a male choir that sang ‘Amazing Grace’ and one of the men sang a solo – ‘O my soul’ – in his warm tenor voice. From behi nd closed eyes, Sonet is carried away by the rich adult voices. If only she could sing with such passion again! The melodies and lyrics fill her whole being. She can hear the sounds vibrating on her tongue. But she knows that the only sounds that come from her lips are dull false notes – such as when she tries to sing during church services. Now she just follows the lyrics. She really does not want to be ridiculed. Sometimes when she is back in her flat, she puts a CD into the player, pretends to be a singe r. Then the false notes that flood from her throat and fill the kitchen while she prepares her tea and a snack do not matter. She dances exuberantly around the small space in her high heels. Singing and singing and singing until she flops onto the couch. S he swallows the cold tea while she fosters her great innermost desire to sing in front of an audience just once more. Sonet looks up. A deepseated sigh escapes and the lady next to her eyes her with a questioning look. With a crooked smile, Sonet assures h er all is well and watches the men returning to their seats one by one. The ladies in the row in front of Sonet stand up and move along the aisle. Also those in her row. Behind her there is also a rustling. She stands up and moves into the aisle so that th ose in her row can pass. But behind her and in front of her the strangers’ faces congregate around her. “Go past,” she mutters, but she is caught up in the moving black and white clad bodies. A victim drowning amid shoes and legs and perfumes and red lips and permed hairdos. Move – move. In front of her is the tempory stage with four rows of benches. “Step up,” says a voice from behind her. Then Sonet remembers again: It is November and the end of Grade 11. And she is in love. In love with the sports coac h with his sexy blonde quiff and cobalt blue eyes. In love with his voice, his hands, his warm smile and muscular calves that she so admires when he practises in his sports clothes with the boys on the rugby field. A function is being held in the school ha ll for the retiring principal and the girls must sing a farewell song. Some of the girls are standing on a half moon of benches behind the piano. Sonet is standing right at the end where she is visible to all when she sings the solo section of the song. Th e choirmistress smiles in satisfaction as she directs the choir. Then it is Sonet’s turn to sing the second chorus of the song. With an arm outstretched, the palm open to the principal, she sings with fervour. But her heart and eyes are singing for the man who is also sitting in the front row – the man with the blue eyes and the sexy quiff. Sonet moves the microphone to her other hand and loses her balance. She steps clumsily, totters forward and backwards with arms flaying like branches in the wind. And th en she falls backwards off the bench. She remembers. She fell frumpishly. Right in front of the packed hall with her legs in the air. Children in the audience began to laugh. Everyone could see her fat white tighs and white panties. She cannot remember mu ch more. Just that the sports coach – the sports coach! – jumped onto the stage. He picked her up and held her to his heart. Later, when everything was over and only a few muted voices could be heard in the cloakroom, Sonet sat with shuddering shoulders on the floor in the dark passageway. She heard voices approaching. It was the choirmistress and the sports coach. Clearly, she heard the hero of her dreams say: Did you have to let that great fat lump of a girl with those big buttocks, belly and boobs stand on a bench? She made a spectackle of herself and ruined the whole evening!” A sob stuck in Sonet’s throat like a piece of apple. To sing was never ever the same again. “Step up,” the voice behind Sonet urges. “I am not one of you,” protests Sonet but her w ords are muted by the shuffling. The narrow surface of the bench is like a suspension bridge that she must cross ... “Step up!” She steps up. Grabs wildly at air. She balances . Next to her, in front of her, behind, the black and white outfits and her red dre ss flaunting like a summer rose. She who cannot sing a pure note at all! Is she the clown of the evening? Sonet presses her shaking fingers over her mouth. Tears well in her eyes. She swallows. She must not become hysterical. The lady next to her hands her a sheaf of papers. Have they confused her with someone else? Someone who should have joined them? Someone ... the diva of the evening. The diva of the evening! She, Sonet Greyling? She shivers convulsively. With a sweaty hand, she tries to draw the conducto r’s attention but he smiles calmly and nods his head. Then the organ plays the overture for the first song. The voices around Sonet merge together. She knows the melody and the lyrics. She listens. A feeling of peace opens within her, in her heart and in h er mind. Her whole being is filled with the centuries old song sung the world over. Together with the choir’s voices, her voice soars. The conductor nods his head and winks at her. Pure and melodiously she sings: “Silent night, holy night, All is calm, al l is bright ...” 13/01/2020