Since my early teens, I have come eerily close to the presence of Herman Charles Bosman.
John McIntosh, my English teacher at Boys’ Town had stirred my interest in Bosman and his writings, although I had only read the few of his stories which were available. Only later was I exposed to his complete works.
Sitting in class, and, often, from my room in the dormitory on the second floor, I would look out over the fields, into the distance, toward the Magaliesberg Mountain Range, and drift beyond the mountains, in the direction of the Groot Marico, the farming area where Bosman lived, taught and wrote some of his most beautiful stories.
Just before my 30th birthday a lady who had read my poetry mentioned that she could arrange for me to meet Lionel Abrahams, one of South Africa’s leading poets and writers. It transpired that Lionel Abrahams had been a student of Bosman’s when he was young, studying creative writing under Bosman’s mentorship. Lionel Abrahams was also the man who had, in recent years, had almost everything Bosman had ever written, published. Lionel Abrahams had invited me to spend an afternoon with him, when he would give me feedback on a collection of poems my lady friend had taken to him earlier. He spoke to me at length about Bosman. He liked my poetry too, he said, although he felt some of it was ‘unformed and raconteurish’, but he gave me excellent guidance. He paid me a huge compliment when he told me at the end of our meeting that I should persist at all costs and that … ‘You are definitely a poet’.
It was only later that I learnt of Lionel Abraham’s stature amongst the literati. I found him to be a humble man, and it was difficult conversing with him. He was wheelchair bound, grotesquely crippled and had a strong speech impediment. One moment during our meeting, the telephone, within his reach, rang and I watched him struggle, for what seemed an eternity, un-cradling the ear and mouthpiece. I was tempted to help, but somehow knew better. It was painful to watch. But he managed. I was grateful to him for taking the time – almost an entire afternoon – with me. I considered it an honour and a privilege. I still do.
Not even a year later a friend, Mike, and I took acid. LSD. It was my first ever experience. Mike had taken it a few times before. We took the acid at his home in Kensington. I had been offered acid many times before, after leaving school and in the army, but, although I experimented with every known drug at the time, I was scared of the fact that, with acid, and depending on the state you’re in when you take it, you have little control of yourself. Carla was with us, and she and Mike acted as ‘guides’, which was (and is) essential for first-timers.
Mike, who traded in books, greeting cards and other stationery, lived near Bez Valley. Rhodes Park in Bez Valley is a large, sprawling area with lots of trees, picnic spots, ponds and water features. Quite late one Friday night, in Rhodes Park, Mike pointed to a row of houses opposite where we were sitting, and said to me: ‘Did you know that Herman Charles Bosman lived in one of those houses? That’s where he killed his stepbrother. Shot him dead.’ I didn't know. I only knew that Bosman had been sentenced to death – the sentence was later commuted. I was now entranced with the thought that I had come so close to Bosman. The acid was starting to take effect. For most of the evening I was tearing the bark from trees, and upturning big water lily leaves, looking for Herman Charles Bosman. The acid became very hectic later on, and I experienced a terrifying downer. I went to heaven and hell, and Carla and Mike both had their hands full, as I was to hear later.
The Sunday after, my friend Carey Fanourakis arrived at the door with a friend, George Howard, who was in his early seventies, and whom Carey had met and befriended at an old-age home in Rosettenville. Knowing of my love for Bosman, Carey had brought George along, because George had spent many years with Bosman. He was a retired journalist, and had worked with Bosman writing anti-establishment articles that the two of them published. He had also spent a few years living with Bosman and Bosman’s then wife in London. He told me that Bosman and his wife had had a huge row one night – which turned into a screaming match – and his wife had said to him: ‘Herman, you belong in the gutter!’ To which Bosman replied: ‘The gutter is the natural habitat of poets’.
Over the next few months George stayed over at our home during weekends, bringing me closer and closer to Bosman. George told me some incredible stories about the author, and told me that, before he died, his mission was to write his own biography of Bosman. There were quite a few biographies available at the time, but George insisted that a lot was based on hearsay, written by people who had never met Bosman.
After a while, George’s visits became less frequent and we lost touch with one another.
Years later, I was about 36 and working in advertising as a copywriter for Bates Wells in Johannesburg. I was very friendly with a finish-artist who had his own office in the studio with us. One afternoon, after a late, boozy lunch, I went to pay him a visit, and found him putting the finishing touches to a portrait with his airbrush. On looking at the portrait, I went cold. ‘I know that face!’
I said to the finished artist, ‘Is that George Howard?. I know him!’
‘Yes’, he said, and added, ‘Sshhh … my freelance’. When I enquired if he knew George, he said no, he had been commissioned to do an airbrush piece, based on a photograph of George, for a book about Herman Charles Bosman that would soon be released.
I immediately went back to the pub and wrote off the afternoon.
About five years later I was working for Bates Wells in Newlands, Cape Town as a senior writer, and gave a young lady, Alida Visser her first copywriting job. On her first day she brought me a thank-you present, nicely wrapped. Inside was a doorstopper of a book: The Complete Works of Herman Charles Bosman, edited, and with a foreword, by Lionel Abrahams.